The workmen came on monday and began to dig a hole. In the best traditions of workmen, they are still digging it, standing in it, discussing it, arguing over it, admiring it, and on occasion continuing to dig it. There must be something in the psychie. As a child I remember our gang digging its own hole at the bottom of the garden. We covered it with an old bedspring base and then put grass sods on top, which grew and gave us an underground foxhole. We called ourselves the “Hole Gang”, and had codebooks, passwords, punishments, the whole lot. When we left the house an old lady moved in. My dad did not fill in the hole. I wonder what happened to Mrs Spencer?

So there they were, a digging this hole, a hole in the ground sort of big and sort of round it was….but oh no! While digging this hole, they found another hole, where a hole didn’t aught to be, a bigger hole, so off they went to “look at the plans”, which could not be found. Still, they continue to dig hole number one. Let’s hope they don’t find Mayan ruins, they would have to dig up the whole street….

The right hole

and

wrong hole