Hello dear reader, I hope I find you well in this merry month of May. Spring is well and truly springing all over the place and the birds and bees are doing - well, what birds and bees do - finding mates and nesting, especially in the trees in our garden, in spite of all Spouse's activities out there.
It has been a very busy week at Chez Comb. The builders have finally departed having completed their work on the new summer sitting room and we have enjoyed a few days peace and quiet. We now await the electrician, the 'blind' man and the 'carpet' man next week and then hope to move in. Meanwhile as Spring has sprung, whilst I have been having a bit of a spring clean indoors, Spouse has been outdoors.
I don't know if you recall dear reader, but I decided to dispense with the old washing line and metal posts as although practical, they do not enhance the view or add to the ambience of our little patch of England. Also, as Spouse had had a rather unhappy encounter with said washing line he had come around to my way of thinking and whilst the line had been dismantled, the metal posts supporting it still remained. Spouse went to his wondrous new shed and emerged with a long electric lead and grinder.
Spouse - electricity - powerful grinder ... need I say more. No, I'm sure I don't need to, but I will anyway. I think the motor in the grinder overheated trying to cut through the two metal posts and I heard the yelps of pain as I wielded my duster in the house. I'm sorry to confess dear reader, but I rolled my eyes and reached for the First Aid box, thinking 'now what?' Apparently the grinder had got so hot, smoke issued from it and then flames shot up his arm. Thankfully he dropped it and only needed minor burns bathing and dressing.
So that was that. Washing poles 1, grinder 0. Not the best outcome ever. A new grinder would have to be purchased. Now as you know dear reader, Spouse is a Yorkshireman and expenditure of any kind is not undertaken lightly, but in this instance expenditure there must be, as I was not going to stare out at a metal post standing like a totem pole in the middle of the garden. It was Spouse's turn to roll his eyes, but having done this, he shook the moths out of his wallet and took himself off to the DIY store.
The next day I'm happy to say the second metal pole was down and the new grinder has survived the experience, also Spouse. However, the week was not yet over and all the while the sun was shining and more importantly, the grass was a-growing. Off to his mega-shed trotted Spouse and came out with the lawn mower and all was well, two thirds of the lawn was given a haircut, but the lawn beyond the hedges must have been sown with a different variety of grass, as it was almost knee high and needed the strimmer on it before the lawnmower could go over it.
Spouse - a strimmer - and a nearby bonfire ... well, there you are. I don't really need to write any more do I dear reader? Yes, you've got it in one. There was Spouse happily strimming away, knocking down the grass like a good 'un, not a care in the world and then bingo! How does he do it? Smoke and flames issued forth from the strimmer, right next to my lovely dry bonfire material. My, my, it could have been November 5th - pity we didn't have Guy Fawkes on top, the lot went up in flames in moments.
I had my lovely new rotary washing pole up with loads of laundry on it which soon got covered in black smuts and smelled like - well, smelled of the bonfire. It would all have to be done again. I was not exactly the happiest Easter bunny there ever was at this prospect. Not only that, but now we had no strimmer and a very doleful Spouse had to take himself off to the DIY store again. Twice in one week! Dear reader, he is almost a broken man and so are the poor old moths that have been made homeless from his wallet.
If it wasn't for the fact that it is a Bank Holiday weekend and the Tour de Yorkshire cycle race is coming through the village, I would go outside and do a rain dance. Now that would give the neighbours something to talk about. However, I will resist the temptation as I have no wish to spoil the weekend's revelries for everyone. I will have to try and keep Spouse out of the garden for a day or two somehow. A burnt arm, a lump the size of an turtle's egg on his head and an empty wallet is enough for one man in a week, isn't it?
Have a good weekend dear reader and with luck I'll be with you next week, unless one of us is electrocuted, burnt or blown up. Who knows ... least of all me.