"I will keep these for the summer, when it is dry" she told me. I really couldn't see the point in this, but considering the look of discomfort etched across her face, I merely nodded in enthusiastic agreement. Then the hose wouldn't unfreeze so the bucket was unearthed and filled - albeit rather slowly - and trudged across the yard to refill the aforesaid swimming pool. (Fortunately one of minor proportions otherwise I dread to think how long this might have taken.) It was half way through this procedure that Mum had spotted the hole. Sadly (for us) this prompted a rousing chorus of 'There's a Hole in my Bucket, dear Gordon, dear Gordon.' It seemed to keep Mum warm and inspired and she worked quicker and quicker trying to beat the leak.
"There they are!" Dad had triumphantly pulled his shabby rubber gloves from the innards of his coat. Looking like rabbit's entrails they appeared from the very bottom of the lining bit by bit through a hole in his pocket.