Mr Grigg is in the bath as I write, while we settle down for an evening in. If Number One Daughter is reading this, just because it is a Friday night does not mean it is steak and sex night. We are having steak but who knows what else is on the menu? Yesterday I heard an American woman (who just so happens to be promoting a book) on the Jeremy Vine show telling how, for her husband's 40th birthday, she promised the lucky man sex every night for a year. I made the mistake of relaying this to Mr Grigg, who, although approaching 50 but in the wrong direction, is getting very excited as his birthday gets closer. If I had to choose between sex and a cup of tea, I can already hear the kettle whistling.
But I shall move on, before I am told off for giving too much information. There are lots of things happening in the village at the moment, but I am allowed only to reveal some of them at this time.
Venice: the land of romance and love-ins
Mr St John, as I have said, has returned from the ancient theme park known as Venice. He splashed out on a launch from the airport to the hotel but was delighted to discover a free bus for the return trip. He let slip that he was thrown out of the ridiculously expensive and very overrated Harry's Bar for wearing shorts.
Mr Loggins was spotted a few days ago wandering lonely as a cloud up on The Hill, wearing dark glasses on a misty day. He has been lost ever since the log gathering season came to an end.
Princess Peach and her lovely daughter (who I would so much like Number One Son to meet) were out playing crazy golf at Lyme Regis while Super Mario plotted cricket tactics.
There is disquiet over the cutting of the churchyard grass. After months of it looking a disgrace, all in the name of 'wildlife conservation' (I ask you, we live in the middle of the countryside), a group of us attacked it with gusto. People were able to visit the graves of their loved ones without getting lost in the undergrowth. We were mentioned in dispatches in the parish magazine. Since then, Mr Prayer has taken it upon himself to keep it looking trim and tidy with the lawnmower rather than resorting to using sheep as they do in the next village. He has done a wonderful job and should be applauded. However, there are mutterings from those who like the wild look and don't have anyone buried in the churchyard that we should revert back to nature to preserve the 'rare' ox-eye daisies. If we lived in the middle of the inner city then fair enough. But we are surrounded by fields, National Trust land and a common where orchids and ox-eye daisies are in abundance.
Clogs or dwarves' urinals? You choose.
Tonight, Mr Grigg and Mr Sheepwash, in blue suede clogs, struggled down the road with the communal barbecue in preparation for the prodigal return of the Sheepwash tribe. The smell of curry wafted from Packman Bellows' house, through the new windows that have caused a bit of a stir. For those who have known the house for a few years, it was a bit like seeing your granny with plucked eyebrows. But people will get used to it.
One of the categories for this year's photographic competition in the annual show is 'grumpy old men'. I'm not saying Mr Grigg is a grumpy old man but on his way to the Sheepwash abode, he tapped loudly on Tuppence's window to get her to turn her music down.
He has now just served up the steak and issued a health warning about the fiery sauce. Will 'afters' be on the menu? Probably not.
That's about it
Love Maddie x