Today a man came and fished things out of my chimney… and no…they did not include Mr S. I’m grumpy not evil. But they did include several birds’ nests, about a ton of tar, some more birds’ nests and a weird metal hook thing that was apparently used to smoke meat in ye olde days. Our chimney had begun to leak water – it’s a vast inglenook fireplace about 350 years old – and we finally decided to get it fixed. It’ll be rather cosy come winter, which, by the looks of things, will arrive next week.
And I’ve now finished ‘Miss Buncle’s Books’. You must read this novel right now. To go with Miss Buncle’s remarks on writing versus keeping hens, here is Dorcas, Barbara Buncle’s long suffering maid on living with an author:
‘I believe hens would have been less bother after all, Dorcas thought, as she prepared a tray with the poached egg, a cup of cocoa, and tow pieces of brown toast set out upon it in appetising array – Authors! said Dorcas to herself with scornful emphasis – Authors indeed! – Well, I’ll never read a book again but what I’ll think of the people as has had to put up with the author…–Authors–poof! said Dorcas to herself – but I never could abide hens neither.’