The stress is beginning to show as the village fete gets closer. I am still no nearer to coming up with an idea for a scarecrow for Saturday. As you can see from these pictures, the standard is extremely high and every time I say 'it's the taking part that counts', the always competitive Mr Grigg rolls his eyes. If winning means that much to him, he should make the bloody thing.
I am meant to be working at home tomorrow but still have to buy, sort out and label prizes for the tombola; dust down the village organisation shields for the parade; lay my hands on the roll-a-penny board; assist Mr Grigg in preparing for Saturday's Big Breakfast in the village hall; remove any pots of importance in the garden before Number One Daughter's two dogs arrive for a weekend visit while she swans off somewhere courtesy of free coupons in The Sun; make two beds up for Number One Son and Number One Stepson and then come up with some wording to introduce the official opener, Cerrie from CBeebies.
Oh, and I also have to make a scarecrow.
Oh how I wish I was the jolly allotment holder I heard last night singing All the ducks are swimming the water and then cheerfully whistling The Sound of Music as he chugged away with his rotavator across the valley.
Perhaps the plants that grew univited on our postage stamp last year and looked like this
have spread to his allotment.
And to top it all, Mr Grigg is suffering from flatulence. Last night, as we walked with Nobby Odd-Job from a hearty barbecue to celebrate the joint birthday of Manual and a local farmer, a rasping noise popped out from Mr Grigg's nether regions.
'What's that?' I said, moving upwind. 'Did you just drop one?'
'No, it's just my bottom speaking,' Mr Grigg said.
Nobby Odd-Job beat me to it with his response.
'Well, you always did talk out of your arse.'
That's about it
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