The Week’s End

Er, yes, it’s only taken a week and the euphoria of living in a ‘van has worn off. It’s positively wet in the not so sunny Fens. And, although the ‘van hasn’t quite washed itself into our dyke and taken me out to sea, it does give new meaning to the phrase ‘houseboat’. The attempt to start the washing machine was another total failure – small leak from the inlet pipe left a large leak on the floor. Whoops.

I spent most of the night needing a wee, no thanks to the water pouring onto our roof all night and was terrified that every amplified drop was actually falling on the inside, rather than the out.  Typically, Richard is enjoying some swanky hotel somewhere near Geneva. I’m really beginning to wonder if we’ve done the right thing…

Nah, just kidding. And there you were, you smug gits, thinking ‘I knew it would end in tears.’ It has been utterly tipping down and, although it’s not quiet, it certainly beats Clutch Rider Gay and Old Woman Sidney (our old neighbours, there’s a bridge burned) simultaneously hanging onto both clutch and accelerator outside the house. The ‘van gets better in the rain. It sounds like we’re in the middle of a hail storm, or driving very quickly through a swarm of giant bees and, to be honest, it’s hard to differentiate between anything outside and in but hey ho, if I don’t look very hard, I probably won’t find any worrying wet patches. And anyway, the faux fire – two electric bars and an orange light behind the logs (how come they’re so much hotter than normal heaters?) keeps the whole place positively toasty.

I spent yesterday pondering how to tackle the forest of weeds. There’s about an acre of ten foot high greenery around the house that’ll need clearing before anything happens. I’ve got the nuclear-strength weedkiller (add diesel to kill the sycamore shooters growing in the house, that’s very green!) and a knapsack with boom on order from the agricultural merchants (more expensive than t’interweb but great personal service). The actual height of the weeds was proving to be a rather difficult hurdle to climb. However, I have a solution. I reckon if I climb as high as I can on my trusty stepladder, armed with ‘sack and boom, and do a sweep round of the area within reach, I’ll have far less walking/hacking through jungle than is probably necessary. And then, if the weeds dry off, I’ll nuke them with one of those flame gun things. Alternatively, having googled the weed varieties just to see whether we have anything really nasty, there’s something that’s been spreading worse than gonorrhea at a posh boarding school – and apparently it costs £2.30 a pop at garden centres as a mole repellent. I may get  Mr Meaden potting up at the weekend and flogging them at the end of the drive. Perhaps I should spam some golf courses and see if there’s a market…

It may still be chucking it down today, but a little ray of sunshine just turned up in the form of a suitably delicious 991 Carrera. I thought it was a little present from the errant Hubster (who returned earlier, sans toiletries, had toast and started snoring on the wrap-around sofas) but alas, it’s just a temporary thing.  Quite exciting though, to have the first test car delivered to the ‘Billy – at least we won’t have to put signs on them telling the school kids what they are!


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