|Mr Grigg is tied to the mast|
In the pub, the landlord sits behind the bar, wedged into a small stepladder, his face level with the pumps. He is listening to the talk in Compost Corner, which turns to Nobby Odd-Job and his miraculous recovery after his heart stopped for forty minutes on the operating table.
He was instantly put on ice and was woken four days later. He squeezed his partner's hand but didn't register her presence. The next day, though, Posh Totty poked her head around the door and Nobby woke up like Sleeping Beauty and gazed lovingly into those piercing blue eyes. The village ladies are furious. It should have been them.
However, we are pleased he is making good progress. Especially when the church flag was flying at half-mast because the tower keeper got it stuck in the pole.
There is a new addition to Compost Corner. MDF man, considered by us girls to be the local eye candy, has joined the ranks.
There is a hearty discussion about trees and what wood makes the best swannee whistles (sycamore, apparently) and an idea forms in my head that these craftsmen could host a workshop with the village children sometime next year.
'It's at its best in May,' says one of them. 'That's when the sap is rising.'
There are sniggers all round.
And today, in the rain, there is nothing to do. Except 'foldyurkin'. Cue Benny Hill-type sniggers from Mr Grigg and a resounding: 'Ya!'
Love Maddie x