In deep and solemn Mourning

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. Today we lay to rest the mortal remains of Dad's trusty Canon EOS 350D which fell in action aboard the good ship Northumberland, was mortally wounded and died of its wounds soon after returning to these shores. It had had a long and illustrious career, being Dad's first and only so far digital camera, taking 12,362 pictures across 5 years. May you rest in peace. Dad is now in negotiations with the Chancellor of the Exchequer in order to expedite a replacement.

Blimey it's hot. Dad found his serious gardening gloves and headed for the allotment early to pull stinging nettles from among a huge ex-garden red hot poker which he has at the top of his plot, and nettles and bindweed growing up through the gooseberry bushes. That plot is going to be so tidy when he hands it back, the next tenant will be delighted. Since then we've not really done much except sit around avoiding the heat (and occasional nips to shops to suss cameras).

Talking of 'next tenant', the amount of chicken noise was increasing as heard from our garden and we were wondering why. The Angel B and Jim had been joking with us about the fact that with us up for sale, and the 'librarian' couple on the other side of him doing a moonlight flit, everyone would think it was them upsetting the neighbours, and also mildly worried who might move in. Well, hopefully we are all now sorted.

Our buyers seem to be a nice young couple and on the far side the girl who has moved in, Jim has known since she was a babe in arms. Jim and the Angel used to keep pubs, and the babe's Dad was one of his best known and popular customers. Anyway, they've turned up with chickens in a modern hi-tech kind of coop which sounds like it might be an 'Egloo' but I'm not sure - we've not seen it yet. Yesterday, the Angel B was round there and was handed an egg so fresh from one of the chooks it was still blood-heat to the touch!

Dad still remembers when he was first milking cows, you just naturally expect milk to be cold. In the farm's bulk tank, after all, it is take-your-breath-away cold. So when another dairyman or lady directs a hand-milked stream of milk straight from the cow's teat down your leg when you're not expecting it, you think you've been peed on. Your whole reaction screams that milk cannot be at blood temperature, but of course it is!

Deefs