INT. HOME - DAY
FRONT DOOR OPENS AND CLARE ENTERS.
SHE: Do you want the good news or the bad news?
ME: The bad news.
SHE: I've stabbed myself with a screwdriver and I'll probably be out of action for a couple of weeks.
ME: And the good news?
SHE: We need to move Pepito immediately. The lower half of his field is flooded. Actually, it's more like a river.
ME: (GLAD I DIDN'T ASK FOR THE GOOD NEWS FIRST) Lunch is ready in ten minutes.
After looking up some new vocab (thumb muscle, screwdriver, stab, tetanus), and a relatively quick trip to "Urgences" in Bergerac, the river in Pepito's field has subsided and slowed and we are both looking forward to different types of single-handed work over the next couple of weeks.
Starting with... more fencing.
2 comments:
So, is it correct to assume that you are not so deliriously happy about the amount of water you have managed to acquire in *this* blog entry?!
Oh dear - poor Clare . . . . .
I think we may have overplayed the water collection request to the universe on this occasion. Either that or Pepito went into competition with us... and won.
The rain stopped two days ago and there is still a WATERFALL from the bottom of Pepito's field into a hollow where we suspect Boris the Boar lives. We're 40 metres above the river, which is 300 yards away.
We're still saying things like: "How...?" and "Wh...?" And wanting to speak to a water person.
Clare's fine. The screwdriver only went in a little way.
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