Attila the Hen, someone who holds high office in this village, is struggling with new technology. The laptop she is using in her home office - a first floor bedroom - is beyond her. Whatever she seems to do, it won't turn off. She was advised to put it somewhere out of harm's way. So she wrapped it in a plastic bag, lowered it from the window on a rope and left it in the garden over the weekend. In sub-zero temperatures. Now that's what people mean when they say the internet keeps freezing on them.
Mr Grigg has been licking logs again. As he was unloading the latest batch, someone from The Other End of the Village asked where they came from. 'Not being funny but...' usually means someone is, but it appears they had a load of wood stacked in a gateway until the cords suddenly disappeared. Valuable stuff, cut wood. Serves them right for leaving it lying about. Can't trust anyone these days.
Preparations are being made for an old English Christmas in the hall, with the local mummers supported by a folk band put together by a record producer who lives in the village. Years ago, most rural villages had their own mummers, who performed traditional, ancient plays to mark the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. I am always baffled when I see these plays, which usually feature Father Christmas, Saint George, the doctor and a pony and lots of clashing of wooden swords and fighting. I'm not sure the mummers themselves know the true meaning either, but they have great fun. Tickets are selling fast - I have 12 left - so Mr Grigg and Mr Loggins, who is a mummer, have gone up the hall to see if we can get any more in.
Our own front hall looks like Santa's grotto and the World from my Window looks on to a shimmering show of white lights, with Christmas trees dotted all around. Sadly, our lights won't stay on static and are currently on random play. Very disconcerting.
That's about it,
love Maddie x
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That's about it. Love Maddie x