A couple of nights ago I was woken by our neighbours having a domestic. Their bedroom is just the other side of our bedroom wall, but it still requires some volume to be heard. This, they provided.

I never ******* touched her!

You *******liar!

You’re *******mad!

You *******, you ******* ****** her!

This brought back fond memories of some neighbours when I was growing up. They were very amorous, so much so that among my small group of friends the man of the house was known as “Oh Steve”. I think his wife’s loyalties were divided though, as she seemed to be a fan of Marti Pellow; I’m not sure what else she could have meant when she shouted out “Wet, Wet, Wet!” one night.

I spent two hours yesterday clearing a blocked drain outside our house. This involved ramming it with a copper tube to get gravel, scum and bits of who-knows-what out of it, using said tube to suck the water out, then reaching my arm in up to the shoulder to find the compacted mass of stone and soap (which it appears turns into concrete in drains) that had blocked it and pull it out. And it’s still not fully clear, but unless I work out how to evolve another joint between my wrist and elbow this is as good as it gets. Fortunately my father-in-law is a plumber, and so can hook me up with some sulphuric acid to clear the rest away.

Interestingly in the 2 days he’s been visiting to fit some new radiators for us we’ve had the blocked drain, a gutter spring holes, and an outside tap start dripping. I suspect he’s forgotten that we’re family, and is going round vandalizing things to generate more business.

We went to the beach yesterday, and while my kids were playing with some friends they made, I found myself in a game of football with a little girl who wandered by. She was maybe two years old, with blue eyes so pure they made Paul Newman look like a rheumy old man (well yes, of course he is now, I mean in his heyday.)

She spoke very fast, and after a while of not understanding a word I decided that she was probably speaking French. And the thing is that she was so sweet, and her eyes so very hypnotic, that I got embarrassed for not understanding. Eighteen times older than her and she could stare me down without effort. I dread to think what she’ll do to guys when she’s nine times as old as she is now.

Sorry for no post yesterday, but spare time was spent reading up on gerbils. Following pressure from the two short people who live with Claire and I we have caved, and now have alienly sentient beings in our home. We adopted from the RSPCA (another source of pressure, but now we’ve proven that Claire does like animals) and picked up three this morning. We’re currently working on names – I favour Dave, Steve and Jeff, but that’s been quashed already. Given that they all look the same and run around a lot, I think we’ll end up calling them all Bob.

PS. Unexpected stress from working for RSPCA: You have to agonize for ages over whether you’re treating them humanely – the normal gerbil tanks aren’t really big enough, so we had to buy a fish tank. That means I spent last night whittling a shelf for them, and Claire’s already talking about building an attic extension for them. With that it would cease to be a repurposed fish tank, and become a full-blown gerbilarium (my word of the week, btw).

PPS. I’m aware that it’s Friday, but that doesn’t mean that this should be considered Friday gerbil blogging.

I’m doing a little family research, and have discovered that I have an ancestor called Critchlow Brocklehurst (or Brockleyhurst), as well as another ancestor who was married in a place called Perranzabuloe, in Cornwall England. There’s no point to this post really, I just wanted you to be able to savour those names like I am.

Oh Perranzabuloe! Land of my forebears. May the gentle flow of the A3075 never erode thy proud hedgerows.