Found hydrangea flower heads that survived the autumn pruning frenzy.
Dobermann. Golf course. Yards of barbed wire fence. Rabbit.
Dobermann sees rabbit, belts through tiniest hole in the fence with no pause to reflect the consequences – dobermanns aren’t great on consequences. Blood, shouting, etc. Only the rabbit seems to think it’s funny, he’s laughing his tits off in a bunker.
Word on the street (of St Marychurch) is that the fence is there to stop the kids getting in and ripping up the greens. The truth is, the kids are too busy getting pissed and beating the crap out of each other in Newton Abbot and it’s the badgers, partying on, as badgers do. There’s not a fence yet built that can stand between a badger and its breakfast and besides, I can step over the damn fence at any point without fear of fatherhood. So what’s the point.
Hence shouty, screamy phone call to golf club where, after I’ve calmed down and the club secretary has come back out from behind his filing cabinet, we’ve agreed that unless they take their fucking barbed wire fence down I’ll take the fucking thing down myself. The fucking fuckers.
That was three weeks ago. I’m planning the dawn raid over a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.
Foggy morning view over the Teign Estuary from the Coombe Cellars slipway.
George Monbiot blogs today in the Guardian on the subject supermarkets and power run out of control (Here). He can be annoyingly smug at times but here he really does have a point.
Carmel, John and Jonothan
The 31st December, 2009; the great and mostly quite good gathered in a house somewhere in St Marychurch for a New Year hootenanny. Drink was drunk, pies and trifle were ate, lessons in the correct use of a wooden spoon as a karaoke microphone were given and a good time was had by all.
At midnight Auld Lang Syne rang tunelessly through the living room and we all watched fireworks from a small display in Torquay fart above the horizon.
And then we went home.
Ralph and Natalie
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