Roaring Forties?
Has this isle, set in a silver sea, silently slid into the roaring forties whilst no-one was looking?
Last night the wood burning stove was giving a fair impression of Challenger taking off and wood was being consumed at a truly staggering rate.
I shut all the doors, waggled all the thingys and pushed in the whatsit and in theory converted it into a close copy of the charcoal burners' mounds on the hills above Swallow Dale.
To no avail, it continued to roar unabated. Charcoal was definitely not on the agenda. Log consumption was at a peak.
Defeated I retired to the bedroom where the wind was moaning round the windows, calling up images of Cathy on the high moors. The bathroom door thudded in a gently persistent way and the walnut tree branches scraped at the sky light in a non rhythmical slightly frenzied manner.
Next day, to add insult to injury, the bird table lying glumly on its side was the first thing to greet me as I reached for the kettle with bleary eyes. The peanut cage was flattened and the fat holder smashed, thus suet was lying in delectable blobs, just waiting to be greedily consumed by my ravening dogs.
Venturing out a squelshy "lawn" revealed that the pond was overflowing and the water within it was the colour and consistency of milky tea.
Turning on the kitchen tap, the murky nature of the water confirmed that the all singing, all dancing, massively expensive filter was failing to cope with the clay run off from the land drains and thus my drinking water would not pass any conceivable health and safety directive ré drinking water standards. I gulped a large glass of it just to show that we British still know how to cope in adversity!
Last night the wood burning stove was giving a fair impression of Challenger taking off and wood was being consumed at a truly staggering rate.
I shut all the doors, waggled all the thingys and pushed in the whatsit and in theory converted it into a close copy of the charcoal burners' mounds on the hills above Swallow Dale.
To no avail, it continued to roar unabated. Charcoal was definitely not on the agenda. Log consumption was at a peak.
Defeated I retired to the bedroom where the wind was moaning round the windows, calling up images of Cathy on the high moors. The bathroom door thudded in a gently persistent way and the walnut tree branches scraped at the sky light in a non rhythmical slightly frenzied manner.
Next day, to add insult to injury, the bird table lying glumly on its side was the first thing to greet me as I reached for the kettle with bleary eyes. The peanut cage was flattened and the fat holder smashed, thus suet was lying in delectable blobs, just waiting to be greedily consumed by my ravening dogs.
Venturing out a squelshy "lawn" revealed that the pond was overflowing and the water within it was the colour and consistency of milky tea.
Turning on the kitchen tap, the murky nature of the water confirmed that the all singing, all dancing, massively expensive filter was failing to cope with the clay run off from the land drains and thus my drinking water would not pass any conceivable health and safety directive ré drinking water standards. I gulped a large glass of it just to show that we British still know how to cope in adversity!
posted by Diary Cow at 12:43 am
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