It's been another quiet week in our street.
The men with the dynamite didn't turn up on Tuesday to blow the old bridge up after all...
I've made contact, after many years of estrangement, with Himself's youngest son...and I say youngest...he's fifty-two. FaceAche has it's good points sometimes...hoping the contact will strengthen as times goes on.
My poor Pansies are practically drowned from all the rain...the bright orange Marigolds are disintegrating...and the slugs and snails are growing bigger and fatter by the day. But the roses are positively spectacular...hundreds of blooms round the old pig-sty and the cheap rambler I bought to go on the garden fence has surpassed itself...
The son who lives in Northern Sweden has been out in the forests gathering mushrooms...wonky brown ones and tiny orangey coloured ones and everything in between...this is the same son who lived on fish fingers and Dairylea cheese when he was a child and recoiled in horror at the thought of anything else on his plate. Now he eats Moose, served one hundred different ways and odd shaped fungi.
Our local paper announced there were 72 public houses in the town in the 40's and 50's...now there are only 8. It's a seriously tiny town...little more than a village really...72 'pubs seems somewhat excessive. I'm not going to mention the Irish penchant for drink...
The new owners of the bed and breakfast on the corner of our street still haven't opened the blinds...or cleaned the windows actually...their dog is quite nice though.
Jack went missing the other afternoon...Wendy wasn't in the slightest bit bothered but all the neighbours organised a search for him...he was deep in the forestry making himself a camp in the way small boys do. Blissfully unaware that everyone...except for his Mum...were really worried.
And we went to choose a kitten and came back with Murphy...he's an absolute dote. Uses his litter tray...eats up all his food with great relish...and keeps us endlessly distracted and entertained...