So Wilson and I are into screeding. Troweling away I spot what I think is a twig sticking out of the mix, reach down to grab it and the ‘twig’ twitches. That took me aback.
Turned out to be the back leg of a not quite dead yet frog, who’d just been on one hell of a final journey.
Dreaming away in a pile of moist sand, then you’re inside an Irbal 125 for ten minutes before some Brit permanently entombs you in his front step. -Well it would have been a waste of mix and he’d had his chips anyway.
Wilson says he’s glad he’s tried one but he’s probably not going to have another.
Next was a call from next door, all puffed up with French indignation. ‘I’ve just come back from Paris’ he says ‘to find your stink pipe fouling my fenetre on the other side of this mur.’
You might have a fenetre on the other side of the wall pal but I’ve got five on this side and they’re all four times bigger than yours, so while we’re on the subject of who’s nose is bigger than who’s and you’re complaining about a 10cm diameter pipe ‘looming’ over the wall at you, can I bring to your attention a whacking great pointy stone tower that could out loom the mills of Bradford..
But I didn’t say that of course. I smiled and said ‘pas de probleme monsieur’ in the name of l'entente cordiale. I wouldn’t mind but no one has had so much as a wee in it yet.
Speaking of which; the mad cat woman, who's house backs on to us, went to the Mayor to tell him we we're tunneling under the house in order to spy on her.
Seriously, as though I’ve got time for that!