Hello dear reader and welcome to another week at Chez Comb. I should be continuing to write Chapter 18 of 'Aunt Mildred's Millions' today, but what with lockdown blues and 'Storm Christoph' turning our garden into a very large puddle, somehow the inspiration does not flow. The only thing that does flow and in copious quantities is the rain. The window in my den looks out on to the garden and I have been watching some very bedraggled birds huddling up in the tres, their feathers sodden by the unrelenting downpours. Note to self - next time I feel a pang of envy as I watch the birds swooping effortlessly across the skies, just remember today - it aint all beer and skittles for our feathered friends.
Canny old spouse has been keeping an eye on the weather forecasts and with rain imminent has spent the last few days working outside in the garden, chopping up wood for the fire and bringing it in to the garage in crates to keep it dry. The process involves large electric saws, chainsaws and large axes. Dear reader, you know spouse's track record. All I can say is I say my prayers and hope for the best.
We have a wood burning stove and at this time of year it is lit in the late afternon, keeping the house cosy and warm. But it is a voracious beast and finding fuel to feed it is an ongoing task in our lives. Spouse is a Yorkshireman and true blue Yorkshiremen do not pay good British pound coins for firewood. Well, mine doesn't and come to think of it neither do any of my neighbours. We are all skip rats and scavengers. Wherever we walk or ride I am instructed to keep my eyes open for building works, skips or wooden pallets. Where there's a builder there might be a crate or a pallet and where there's a skip there will always be wood, or so spouse's mantra goes.
This week, as we were driving home from a food shopping trip, spouse spied a house with building work going on and there were wooden crates and pallets a-plenty in the driveway. Naturally he stopped at the roadside and bounded out of the car like a Thomson gazelle. (Quite appropriate really, as he comes from a long line of Thomsons). He asked the Site Manager if he could have the wood. Mr Manager was happy to have it so easily disposed of and offered to deliver it to us. Better and better. Spouse gave our address and directions and was back in the car in a jiffy, beaming like the ray of sunshine he is.
At home he eagerly awaited the delivery of the wood. Nothing came that day, or the next day, or the next. Spouse decided to investigate and went back to the building site. Mr Manager was not there but his deputy said the wood had been delivered!!! Had it, by jove? Well it hadn't been delivered to us.
Spouse returned home and proceeded to search the neighbouring driveways and gardens. Our crates and pallets were not to be found. We have a Facebook group for the village, so he put out a very polite request for information, i.e. had anyone had a delivery of wood they weren't expecting, because he was expecting one and hadn't had it.
To date, dear reader, there was been zilch response. So, who has got our wood? I have no idea and no-one is saying. I am under orders again to keep my eyes peeled for builders and skips when I am out for my walk around the village. We are still under lockdown regulations and I prowl the village daily as we are instructed to 'stay local'. I think we are so locked down, no-one around here is contemplating any renovations at present, not a skip or a builder in sight. If it's a long winter and we run out of free wood and we had to buy some ... No, let's not even contemplate that one, that is never going to happen. Spouse will surely come up with some free fuel before then - won't he?
My very best wishes to you. Stay warm and stay safe.