Children of the Oats

I woke suddenly with Nancy shaking me, “Have you put out the recycling bin?”, she exclaimed. Initially disoriented, I took a few seconds to focus, but eventually reassured her that just before my third glass of Primitivo last night I had disappeared up the hill in my baffies, pushing the wheely bin to the allotted place in the street. Crisis averted my day had begun.

Bang-on 10am, the carpet fitters arrived and efficiently laid the bedroom carpet we ordered. I was relieved to note that it matched the very expensive wall paint. I’ll have to live with this combination until I’m at the dribbling memory loss stage so it’s just as well I can look at it with pleasure.

Some house project admin, a bit of leftovers lunch and then out for a walk in the semi-sunshine. We headed over to Dryburgh Abbey, the last resting place of Lord Haig…he of the nickname ‘Butcher of the Somme’.
Walter Scott is next door and he is guilty of inflicting badly fitting hire kilts on Scottish wedding photos in the 20th and 21st centuries. Bastard.

It’s BBQ weather now, no doubt it will start to rain as soon as I fire-up the Gas Monster.