Saga of a woman old enough to know better who lets her life be governed by the ridiculous hobby of breeding and showing dogs, musing on life, the twenty first century, Cameron and his mini-me, and the occasional sheep.

Sunday, April 30, 2006


I am plagued by the existence of the burned ruined cottage next door. It constantly threatens to fall on some innocent passer-by (most likely Postman Pat in his beat-up red van with the 500db silencer hole), and is a magnet for kids.

Postman Pat survives - it`s the kids that are causing the problem at the moment. They come down across the fields, climb all over the crumbling walls and charred rafters, and investigate the enormous wealth of scrap metal lying about.

The other day I set off up the road to discover a roadblock. It was composed of:
Ten oil drums (empty)
Five calor gas containers (empty)
Several iron bars of varying size
A harrow
One garden roller
One old trailer
One much older cultivator
4 rafters
One cast-iron bath (with feet)
Assorted tractor parts and sections of bodywork
One ancient rusted Renault estate

No Postman Pat, no refuse collection.

I got in to it. I could move everything - except the car. (Yes I moved the bath - there`s a trick to it which for a small consideration I will reveal to similarly afflicted citizens...) I had a good go at the car, but it was such a rusted mess there was no leverage, even with the iron bars.

I sought out my Good Neighbour. He took a look at the prehistoric Renault.

"I can`t shift it - I`ve been ill."

(What is it with men that their first thought is that they have to do everything manually?) I looked suitably distressed and eventually he went and got the tractor, bless him, and shifted the wreck in an enormous fountain of rust.

Then I had to deal with the cause. I made sure I looked really respectable (and if possible frail and really vulnerable) and headed for the Police Station. The desk sergeant was really impressed by my deep concern for the safety of the little dears climbing about among the charred rafters and unsteady chimneys. He promised that a close watch would be kept, and consideration be given to pulling the ruin down, if it was so unssafe.

Well pleased that I had fixed the evil little buggers, I went home to discover a group of men gazing happily at the bath, tractor parts, rusted Renault, etc - my Good Neighbour had called the local scrap boys in.

"This is great" they enthused.

To each his own.

And my Very Good Neighbour Indeed tells me that there is a possiblility that the ruin really in Scots law is a part of his property. His solicitor is Working On It.

And very good luck to him, say I.
Bwhahahahaahaaa! "Respectable and quite possibly frail" lady who shifted a great lot of scrap metal on her own!! You are a renaissance woman! And totally hilarious - thanks for the giggles.
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