Slurry, slurry, rush and scurry

122 pages typed up yesterday in a marathon session that involved a break to go shopping for the weekly rations and a late lunch - about 16:30 when I got back from the supermarket. Which meant that, after cooking and eating tea with She Who Must Be Fed Before Bedtime, Or She Gets Cranky and the cat who’s been on a grump all day, it was probably another 12-hour day.

Why is Grendelon a grump? After the farmer was finished making rat tartar in the back field – which took not just Friday, but all day Saturday too – the crows descended. Murders and murders of them, krawing loudly at each other while the gulls screeched overhead, trying to get a bit of the action. Like something out of Westside Story it was, only without the dancing and no one got knifed. And probably no inter-crow-seagull romance. And I think the crows have been picking on Little Miss: she’s not been asking to go out anywhere near as much since Farmer Chuckles stopped mooshing field mice and other assorted rodents. Instead she’s taken to sulking in the conservatory until it’s evening and the crows bugger off to hang about in bars and get rowdy with the local drunks. They cheat at pool, you know (the crows, not the drunks). And then yesterday, when the crows were finally beginning to lose interest in hanging around our gaff all day, our local agricultural technicians decided to spray the field with seven million tons of slurry. Mmm, pig poo...

Don’t know about you, but the smell of fermented animal faeces somehow just doesn’t make my day. It’s the one thing about living in the country that I just can’t embrace. And neither can Madame La Peep – she hates it, and so it was back to the sulking for her.

Anyway, I’ve got another 150 pages to type up – I’m hoping it’ll be done today, but as I was up doing the self same thing until half-past midnight last night, I’m betting it’s not going to happen. No matter how good my intentions, I’m probably going to end up falling asllllllllllnnnnnnnnnnnnn///////////,,,