Except that he wasn't. He came back, before I had even shut the door.
|Bold as brass|
And no matter how I chased him, the camera flashing all the while, he came back, and back, and back ...
|Skulking behind the astilbes.|
|Rooting for something in the London Pride.|
He spent some time trying to get into my compost bin, without luck. There's a heavy board on top. (I'm not inclined to share my compost fixings.)
And then he came back to the original pot. I don't know what interested him there; it holds a couple of stems of some unknown ground cover and a new volunteer lobelia. And a watering frog, which he dumped on the ground.
|Maybe he's trying to make out the design on the pot.|
I chased him again, out onto the lawn and over to the neighbour's garden. And this time, he left for good. I think.