On the back rise of the draw we look out upon there’s a line of trees some forty feet high where the larger birds roost. When the limbs twist and turn in the wind, they bear an uncanny resemblance to the tripods from War of the Worlds. A great story by Wells, one I’d always associated with the 1953 film: until, that is, the short scientologist who used to fly F-14s turned up on the scene. And talking of aeroplanes… I was chastised by Mrs G. yesterday for falling down on my promise to relocate to a homestead outside of recognised flight paths. Having assured her that none of the aircraft overhead were flying below 42,000ft, two Harrier jets arrived on the scene, passing within inches of the thatch whilst travelling at warp factor six. My subsequent entreaties with regards to supporting the training efforts of our boys in blue seemed to fall on deaf ears, having to spend the rest of the afternoon picking up straw from the garden.
I am becoming increasingly hacked off at all of this carbon emissions guff. I know it’s the fashionable issue of today and that this time next year it will all be forgotten, but it’s still a pain, having to listen to a succession of plonkers spouting dubious science for what is, in reality, our dream come true: good old Blighty with a Mediterranean climate. No need to sell up and move to some breeze block pastiche in Torremolinos. Listening to José Manuel Durão Barroso’s speech this afternoon I could only shake my head… Liberalise European energy markets! Dream on. This is just another ruse to extort or steal more of our hard earned cash. Must rush, Big Al’s Country’s about to start. Guess what, he’s playing Dolly bloody Parton again.