Moused

We are counting down now towards a real mile-stone on this blog, my 1000th post. This one is number 995. We had better think of something special to do to celebrate. Fizz may be in order...... what d'you reckon, Mum?

When it all goes a bit quiet in the snug tonight, here's a good word to drop into conversation subtly, "mousing". It's an old sailoring and barging word where by if a big hook needed to stay securely hooked to something, an amount of lacing was wound across the hook's opening to effectively close the loop and stop the thing detaching. This was particularly important in situations where the wind might be variable so that the tension on the hook fluctuated between huge and zero. The hook here is that on the bottom of the main sheet block on good ol' Cambria and Dad has secured Boris's lead to the hook and then amused himself by mousing it to stop him escaping.

It's a bit of a day for catching up loose threads after the Irish mission, contacting the garage about getting the car door finally undented, contacting an assortment of gardens locally where Dad must go and assess their wildlife potential as part of the Gardens-for-Wildlife competition, contacting the estate agent about getting back into the Plan B property so Mum can get a look, and also tentatively feeling out possible 'professionals' to cast their more experienced gaze over it. We also make greengage jam from the fruit from the garden.

Deefs