Mutze und Besen
It is the season of safety-vest-clad leaf-blower men, filling the air with their monotonous drone like the crashing middle-aged bore at a Rotary Club reunion.
But not here. I'm not getting to listen to the Alphorn player practise, unfortunately, but I hear a strange switssh, switssh, switssh noise and look out of my window past the autumn-fulvous lime-tree to see an old guy sweeping the path, with exactly the broom and exactly the brisk restrained motion that a hook-nosed witch might use to shoo her cat out of the door.
Hmm.
But not here. I'm not getting to listen to the Alphorn player practise, unfortunately, but I hear a strange switssh, switssh, switssh noise and look out of my window past the autumn-fulvous lime-tree to see an old guy sweeping the path, with exactly the broom and exactly the brisk restrained motion that a hook-nosed witch might use to shoo her cat out of the door.
Hmm.