Like my hair, the grass in the garden has been growing increasingly long. Due to self-isolating, it would be impossible to safely have my haircut at the moment.
My dad was able to drop by to mow the lawn – all while abiding to the two meter social distancing rule. In fact, he remained outdoors for his entire visit, while Claire and I stayed in the house, eating sweets and cooing over Roman.
As you can see from the photo, the grass had become very long!
The lawn has now been cut. It should remain short until tomorrow, when the three-day weekend promises a mix of hot sun and rain. Perfect conditions for grass to thrive – I may as well pour a gallon of Miracle Grow over it!
Frustratingly, while our lawn is neat and tidy (for now), my hair is becoming long and messy. I can’t ask my hairdresser to drop by, and Claire has (sensibly) refused to go anywhere near my mop.
There is a third option in case my hair grows really long. It involves my dad and the lawnmower…
I feel extremely lucky that Claire and I own our own home. Not only because it is a place we can call our own, but the fact our wages are used to pay off the mortgage on our lovely house, and not the mortgage of some landlord living over a hundred miles away in the Midlands.
Our home is very special to us. Had we designed the interior, I am sure that we would have picked many of the features which are already present.
One aspect that my wife and I are both delighted with is the location. True, we both work around the corner from the house; but it is what’s surrounding our home which is one of my favourite aspects of where we live.
Ever since I was a child, I wanted to live somewhere next to… the sea, a train line, or the countryside.
There is no way I can make a claim that the 1995 Blur classic, Country House, was written about me. For one thing, it is 25 years old.
Another more significant factor is that, unlike the man in the song, I don’t live in the country – even the most devious of estate agents would struggle to convince anyone otherwise.
Our back garden is situated in front of Penn Hill Road. This road immediately backs onto fields. These fields connect to the countryside. I’m practically Worzel Gummidge.
What these seven or eight paragraphs are really building up to are the beautiful, warm and clear evenings the nation are enjoying, during our never-ending lockdown.
Like Claire, I am sure many of you were dragged away from your Sky HD boxes, in order to test your knowledge of astrology.
For the past few evenings, Twitter has been promising fascinating sights in the night sky – satellites, meteorites and even shooting stars – were all reported by users of social media and filmed very badly on camera phones…
NOTE TO PATRICK MOORE ENTHUSIASTS: THE iPHONE 8 CAMERA pDOES NOT MAKE A GOOD TELESCOPE!
Claire was pleased to have spotted some of the sightings in the night sky. I think I saw a shooting star, but I was indoors at the time. I still made a wish, but I can’t tell you what it was, otherwise it won’t come true. All I will say is that it didn’t involve Leeds United!
We were equally, if not more, impressed with some of the sights and sounds closer to home – literally!
During her time looking out of the window and standing in the garden, hoping to see some space phenomenon, Claire saw an abundance of wildlife – most notably a fox, an owl and a bat – the latter still guffawing at all the stupid humans for eating his brother.
The owl has been making its beautiful hoots and calls for the last few days. I had trouble sleeping last night, but any frustrations at my insomnia were kept to a minimum, as the wise old bird ‘twit-twooed’ for what seemed like hours.
I think the only person in our household that did not appreciate the owl song was Roman. Given how rabbit is the natural prey of owls – especially a juicy, well-fed house bunny – I’ll let him off for being a bit upset.
Indeed, as I write this blog post, I can hear her calling out across the fields. I’m assuming that this owl is a lady, purely based upon the fact the owl in the cartoon series Animals of Farthing Wood was female.
Incidentally, the owl in the original novel, on which the series is based, was male. Perhaps the one on the kids’ cartoon was hatched as a boy, but now identifies as a hen. Never say that a day every goes by, where I fail to teach you a fascinating fact…
Before you all panic and rush out to buy me a Get Well Soon card, there is no need – although you may wish to send me a gift voucher for IKEA…
The front room table was the unfortunate one to suffer a broken limb. Sadly, while both my fractured legs were repaired by some very clever surgeons, there is less hope for the poor table.
Still, it’s not the first table to have been injured…
Alas, it looks like our table will suffer the same fate as a racehorse, when it breaks a leg. Although, we won’t be erecting a white tent around it’s stricken body and unlocking the shotgun cabinet.
The table will, however, be killed and disposed of – most likely at the local recycling centre. For anyone born before the year 2012, this is more commonly known as ‘the tip’.
Some builders have even been known to confuse the place with a layby on the A36 – a mistake anyone could make, at least according to their lawyers.
Anyway, our table is buggered, useless, kaput. The leg has been dodgy for months, but finally gave up on Saturday evening, when Claire was moving the table.
Her scream of shock, along with the huge crash, as the table and what it was once holding, came tumbling to the floor, caused me to immediately fear that she had been badly hurt.
Luckily, besides being shaken by the ordeal, Claire was fine. Considering that either one of us could have suffered a nasty injury – or even tragedy, had Roman been out of his run and nearby – I count ourselves lucky.
Even my archaic laptop, which was one of the things to crash to the floor, survived. There is an argument for this being a bad thing, considering that I’m looking for an excuse to buy a new one. It lives to anger me another day.
What remains of the table, will have to do for now – considering it’s going to be difficult to find a new one for sale at the moment; yet alone get it delivered and somebody to help us build the thing!
There are no photos of our damaged furniture, because they would look rather pathetic. Instead, here are some pictures of some properly messed up tables!
We are showing our support for all NHS staff and key workers…
Unfortunately, on the days where Claire has to work, I must remain out of trouble in the bedroom.
I can now get downstairs on my own, but still believe that it is only safe to do so while my wife is nearby. This is in case I do something stupid, like standing up on the stair lift while it is in motion, or trying to go somewhere in the house which is unsafe – the loft has always seemed interesting.
To keep me nourished, Claire prepares me a bag of food and drink, for my enjoyment while she is out of the house.
One of the items she made me on Friday, was a bottle of Coke. Claire had to use an old water bottle, which she filled with Coca Cola from a larger bottle. How boring – you don’t want to be reading that. I hope you haven’t fallen asleep!
Anyway, at some point during the afternoon, I was becoming rather thirsty. Thinking a refreshing drink of Coke would help, I opened the bottle…
Bloody hell! It was if a bomb had gone off! The bang generated by the escaping CO2 was so loud and unexpected, it was lucky I didn’t release any gas of my own.
I am pleased to report that despite the thunderous noise and trauma to my central nervous system, no mess was generated – neither from the bottle or my bottom.
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
