You get to a certain age when the man in your life stops looking at younger women and gazes longingly at fallen trees. 'If I had a chainsaw, I'd be in there right now,' he says, as you ask him to keep his bloody eyes on the road to prevent him driving into a ditch. He becomes obsessed with wood, even though you don't yet have a fire to burn it on. 'Do you know how much a load of logs cost?' he says. As if you care. And then it begins. Talks with the listed building officer, planning applications, work on a new chimney for the old fireplace, you can't use old bricks as they're not fire proof... On and on and on until the fire is built and your man gets a hernia lifting a second-hand wood burning stove into the back of his car. And then the badgering begins. 'I'd really like a chainsaw,' he says, pressuring and persuading you. But you're not convinced, having read stories of people slitting their own throats through the careless use of a chainsaw. And then his mate gets one. 'Why can't you share it?' you ask. But no, he has to have his own, his very own. And then you cave in, on the condition he will get trained up and wear proper safety gear (this is the man that climbs up ladders at home in slip-on slippers, after all). The thought of getting kitted out in all that proper gear excites him even more and he pores over the chainsaw catalogue, looking at Huskarvanas and Boschs or whatever they're called, and telling you he'll look very fetching in a special set of red overalls, boots with steel toecaps, a safety visor and gloves. By which time the fire has gone out and it's almost spring. Sad isn't it?
There have been a series of burglaries in the village, as thieves target houses while people are asleep, getting in through garages, stealing personal belongings and cars.
The Post Office is now closed and Post Office Ltd procrastinate about replacing it, probably stalling until June 2008 when they won't have to.
Our new street lights are a disgrace - they are so bright the long road resembles a greyhound racing track.
Scooter Boy is getting later and later. The sack beckons.
The signpost in the square is broken - an arm has been pulled off, maybe by someone swinging on it.
The woman next to me in yoga, the one with the rather attractive grey jogging bottoms, farted as she uncurled. I, fearing others might think it was me, made exaggerated gestures in her direction so everyone would know where it came from.
That's about it,
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