The smell of sausage casserole is wafting up the stairs as I type. Mr Grigg is preparing food for the 5,000 for the quiz tomorrow night and the aroma is making me feel hungry. Oh, how at home he looks in a pinny.
The damp decaying leaves were squidgy underfoot as I took time out from computer work this afternoon for a walk on The Hill with Pelly and the dogs. The ford was overflowing and we found half a corn cob in the middle of nowhere. Celebrity Farmer, his brother and father were all in a row in the second-from-top field, hedging and fencing. It looked like some kind of rural line-dancing ritual. From the shelter of the trees in their warm coats of green velvet moss, we emerged to look out on to the vale and across the hummocks to the grey sea beyond. By the time we came down from The Hill, there was a sliver of a moon in the sky and the clouds in the west were turning pink.
It's been a strange old week. On Tuesday I saw the driver of a car in My Kind of Town with a long white balloon on the end of his nose. Later, I sat in the Thai restaurant on a table next to the most loud and boring young man who did nothing but complain about his food and then pontificate on methane being the fault of farmers domesticating animals for the last 2,000 years.
This morning, Mr Grigg and I came downstairs to find the cats had been locked in and one of them had poohed in the sink.
My head has not been straight since taking part in Subtlemob in Bristol last Friday. If you are at all interested, take a look at this YouTube link. Bit of a soundtrack to a life, I think. If you can spot the bemused bag lady, that's me. Wouldn't have missed it for the world.
That's about it
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