We spent a really fun weekend massively shattering the innate quietness which we’ve grown accustomed to with our friends. We’ve new neighbours too now and so feel as though all the eyes of the close, numbers 6 through to 15 are upon us. The twittering of the birds only broken by loud music, whooping and a hollering, some of it awful blue as we got the fire pit blazing really hot. Its hard to tell where the sound goes when we’re up here as it travels fairly well out the front and up the close, funnelled upwards towards the main road by the surrounding houses either side of the thoroughfare, but I suspect out the back is another thing entirely, the guts of the sounds and music are ripped of their pizzazz and scattered mainly westwards down the valley to the drainage ditch where they fall and remerge the following year as wood anemones. And everyone knows, that after the Wooden enemies, come the bluebells, although maybe not here, the climate may be too inclement for them. Thats your dubious fact of the day wether you believe it or not, as it matters not to me.

In developer news, where the battle between the occupiers and the piecemeal fixings of the various trades continues; “yes I’ll do your gate tomorrow” again and again and again, the joke is now thin as to being threadbare, like the socks of a vagrant, fit to be jettisoned, unfit to be tied together for the dog. The roofers are utterly appalling, with not idea how to fix roof type stuff, which you’d assume they could, but they’ve made a really blatant bodge of a repair across the close, a bodge that looks awful and a bodge that can not be unseen by yours truly unfortunately. But the gradual ditch out the front, freeing up the damp course, setting it free has been done, not fully completed but nearly. I’ll snag the gate man tomorrow, I wish I was counting so I could give you an idea of how long its taken, but I cant, I reckon its nearly 2 months, there abouts, so watch this space but don’t try to hold in the piss because you’ll only end up wetting yourself in the process.

Up the Bally Foxes