Hazards to hens and thatched cottages

Our friends Rae and Malcolm came round for coffee. Ed is the Post-Grad Representative at his University, and told us about a faculty meeting he'd just attended where one agenda item was to discuss a severe fall between the number of post-grad applications and the number taking up offers of 50%, compared to the previous year of 2%. Underneath was a rider saying, "please discard this item. It was based on a wrong column in Excel."

They told us of their daughter's hens, of which there was now only one left.  It had been attached by a fox, and then some visitors came with a Spinone Italiano - a huge hairy Italian hunting dog. They next saw the dog walking round the garden with the hen hanging out of its mouth. Its intestines had come out, but they pushed them back in, the hen recovered and is still walking round the garden.

Then over mince pies and sherry they mentioned that the mobile barber was in Hundon. I had not seen their van for some years, but I used to go to Mike the Barber, so I toddled off to get the toupee trimmed. I knocked and opened the rear door of the van, but it was not Michael the barber, but Michelle the Hair Stylist. The van was empty, but she said she was chocka, and it was appointment only.

Then to Clare, where I walked the dogs and waited in the Swan while Ann did same late Christmas shopping, and booked me a cancellation with our regular hair dressers. At the bar, one of the men said his occupation was fitting sprinkler systems. One of his companions asked what he would do with a thatched cottage. "Sell it and move out!" he said, "they're total fire traps." He then told how he'd been driving to a job when diverted to a column of smoke he could see. It was a thatch fire, with the elderly couple in the garden by a bonfire, the sparks of which had started the fire. He dashed in to pull out all he could save in the way of photographs and clothes, for he knew there'd shortly be nothing left. The fire engine then arrived, but had no water, so ran a hose to the pond in the garden. They refused to help rescue anything though, because they said any furniture would be a three-man lift. Then reinforcements arrived: because they would be there for some time, a catering truck drew up, complete with tables and chairs for the firemen. Sometime later, the couple saw the man in the pub and said how grateful they were, and they wished there was some way they could repay him. He said, "well there's a bar over there. You can at least buy me a f***ing drink."

A real meal

Taking of fires, this evening I made the meal for us all. This was a big event for one shameful reason - I so rarely do anything more than toast, and even then I always need a knife at the ready to scrape the black away. The last time I prepared a meal, potatoes still had to be bought by the pound, scrubbed and peeled. Edwin still remembers the few times I tried to cook a pizza when Ann was away, and I inevitably pulled them out as a flaming burnt offering. On the only two occasions I barbecued sausages, everyone was severely ill for several days.  But this time I was shamed into it by Edwin, who arm-twisted me into it.

In fairness, he did pull all the ingredients from the freezer, and stood over me to make sure nothing was burnt. Between us, and mostly due to Edwin showing me what to do with frozen mash and measuring out the gravy granules, I created (vegetarian) sausage and mash with baked beans. Amazing. At this rate, we'll be opening a Johnie's Bangers and Mash Parlour for Ravenous Wayfarers.