Day Ten: Ten Lords a-Leaping

By Saturday, Stephen was running out of plausible lies.

To the neighbours, the swans were part of “an ecological morale initiative.”

To the postman, the dairy interns were “shooting a grant-funded awareness video.”

To himself, he insisted that each day held a meaningful lesson hidden beneath feathers, footprints, and frayed nerves.

But when the knock came at nine a.m., even he felt the familiar sting of cosmic inevitability.

Jane was still asleep in their bungalow, cocooned beneath the duvet with the soft-glow serenity of someone who’d finally had a good day.

The previous night she’d returned from an Indie Illustrator Network Dinner, where she’d shared portfolio pieces, swapped stories with fellow self-publishers, and—most importantly—been treated like a peer rather than a curiosity. She’d come home quietly radiant: the warm confidence of someone who felt seen by her own community.

Stephen had allowed himself to believe she might enjoy an entirely normal morning.

He padded to the front door, hopeful.

He opened it.

He got ten stuntmen.

They stood on the path in matching tracksuits, vibrating with competitive athleticism. One had a chest-mounted GoPro. Another held a clipboard titled PARKOUR SOCIETY OF SOUTHWEST LONDON — RESIDENTIAL ROUTE PLAN.

“Stephen Stanley?” the leader asked.

“…Yes?”

“Ten Lords a-Leaping! Premium festive routine. Three hours. Demos, participation set, finale flips. Preferred terrain?”

“Terrain?” Stephen echoed, exhausted already.

“Indoors, garden, hybrid—whatever suits the vibe. Also says here: ‘Impress wife.’ We love a clear objective.”

Behind him, someone called, “Look at that shed roof—perfect height!”

Stephen’s hopes collapsed like an unbraced shelf. “My wife is asleep.”

“We’re extremely quiet,” the leader said.

They were not.

Minutes later, the bungalow resembled a small-scale action film rehearsal.

Two lords bounded off the hallway walls like caffeinated geometry.

One sprinted along the back of the sofa, leaving the cushions traumatised.

Another used the bannister as a gymnastics bar.

Someone attempted a flip so close to the lampshade it swung in horrified protest.

The partridge shrieked and joined the aerial circuit.

The French hens retreated beneath the sofa, muttering in elegant contempt.

A pigeon peeked from the bathroom, witnessed a double somersault, and closed the door with the slow resignation of someone who had survived previous installments.

Roo had assumed her usual station: flat on her back, Chief of Tummy Tickles and general morale, blissfully untroubled by airborne humans.

Then came a crash.

From the bedroom, Jane’s voice emerged—dry, unimpressed, fully awake:

“Stephen… why does it sound like someone is applauding in my kitchen?”

“Exercise!” he called back. “Festive… movement?”

“Stephen.”

That calm, courteous warning of a woman setting down boundaries with surgical precision.

“Are there athletic men in my bungalow?”

He hesitated. “Yes.”

She appeared moments later wearing his jumper, one eyebrow raised to strategic height.

“What,” she asked, “have you done to my Saturday?”

“Ten Lords a-Leaping,” he whispered, as though accuracy might soothe something.

A lord executed a crisp backflip beside her. “Morning!”

Jane regarded him with the polite curiosity of a museum-goer encountering an unexplained exhibit.

Stephen discretely moved a mug out of her potential throwing radius.

“They’re insured,” he said.

A metallic crash followed.

He amended, “They’re insured… flexibly.”

By mid-morning, the chaos had migrated outdoors.

Stephen followed the lords into the garden, unsure whether he was meant to supervise or merely survive.

One sprinted the length of the flowerbeds.

Another vaulted the wheelie bins with athletic flair.

A trio balanced along the washing-line pole, discussing core engagement like philosophers.

A particularly enthusiastic lord climbed the pear tree, tested a branch, and declared, “Bit dodgy, but absolutely thrilling.”

Roo raced after them, then flopped belly-up on the lawn—a furry solar commissioner.

Jane appeared at the patio door, coffee in hand, sketchbook tucked beneath her arm. She looked, not upset, but like a naturalist cataloguing a newly discovered and deeply inconvenient species.

“My dinner last night involved adults talking seriously about picture books,” she said. “I’d like to maintain that illusion by not arriving tonight looking like ten acrobats rehearsed footwork on my hydrangeas.”

At that moment, a lord launched himself off the patio railing, catching a mid-air pose so dramatic it practically begged for a character sheet.

Jane narrowed her eyes.

“That,” she said, “is an exquisite silhouette.”

She opened her sketchbook with surgical purpose.

Another lord cartwheeled; she switched to her softer pencil.

“Don’t encourage them,” Stephen pleaded.

“I’m not,” she said, sketching briskly. “But if any of them hold still for more than two seconds, I could do an entire anatomy spread.”

Inside, a lord misjudged a landing and collided with the coffee table, sending her promo documents fluttering like startled birds.

A pigeon swooped out, attempted to help by catching a sheet mid-air, panicked at the weight of responsibility, and retreated with indignant cooing.

Jane sighed.

“Well,” she said dryly, “at least this chaos has good lines.”

At eleven, during a hydration break, Jane retreated to her studio.

Not angry.

Not overwhelmed.

Just practicing emotional efficiency.

“I need,” she said, “a day where nothing unexpected goes airborne.”

She closed the door gently—the soft sound of boundaries, not defeat.

The leader approached Stephen moments later.

“Mate. Interactive group routine. You in?”

Stephen stared at him, mindful of:

• the geese

• the interns

• the glitter still hiding in the radiator

• and Jane’s bone-dry patience drifting toward critical levels

He exhaled. “Fine.”

The lords cheered.

His first jump resembled a startled forklift.

His second nearly took out a lampshade.

His third—astonishingly—landed with competence.

Roo barked encouragement.

The hens peeked, judged him in triplicate, and withdrew.

The partridge made a noise that could be interpreted as applause—or indigestion.

For a surprising moment, the bungalow felt energised rather than cursed.

Then a planter abandoned structural integrity altogether, collapsing in a plume of offended soil.

Then a mug cracked.

Then something sentimental gave a soft, tragic twang.

By noon, the lords were packing up, leaving behind:

• muddy footprints

• a slightly diagonal lampshade

• two unsolicited flyers for adult parkour

• and an earnest amount of “complimentary glitter”

The leader clapped Stephen’s shoulder.

“You’ve got spark, mate. Ever thought about joining a session?”

Stephen sighed. “I think I’ve been in one for ten days.”

Silence drifted gently back into the bungalow.

Jane emerged cautiously.

“You jumped.”

“I did.”

“And you’re… unharmed?”

“Emotionally, it was interpretive.”

Her smile was small but unmistakably real.

“Well,” she said, brushing dust from his jumper, “that’s going in the Christmas letter.”

Evening softened everything.

Jane sorted her notes for tonight’s illustrator gathering.

Stephen attempted lamp repair with tape and optimism.

Roo snored between them, radiant and belly-up.

The partridge dozed in the pear tree like a feathered overseer judging the renovations.

For a fragile, beautiful moment, the bungalow felt whole.

Then Stephen’s phone buzzed.

Delivery Confirmed: Eleven Pipers Piping — 7:00 a.m.

He froze.

Outside—faint, wavering, uncertain—a thin whistle drifted across the garden.

Roo’s ears shot upward.

Jane looked slowly toward the window.

“That had better be a highly ambitious bird.”

Stephen turned the phone face-down.

“It’s… atmospheric.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If tomorrow involves bagpipes, I’m relocating to Scotland just to complain about it properly.”

He nodded. “Completely fair.”

Roo thumped her tail once—the bungalow’s official omen of incoming trouble.

For tonight, they allowed themselves the fragile luxury of calm.

Tomorrow would take it away.

But for this small, warm slice of evening—they held it anyway.