The Day We Finally Arrived
A passer by knocked at our door earlier this week; I was about to embark on a “welcome, weary traveller, please warm yourself in front of the fire” routine to convince him we were genuine country folk, but he wasn’t stopping. He wanted to let us know that he ran a construction company and that our scaffolding was unsafe. He painted various lurid pictures of what might happen if a passing lorry struck it a glancing blow. I reassured him that it was being taken down that very day. I’m not sure why I was feeling so confident about this. This was, after all, the third day on which it was due to be cleared. On the first day two horny-handed sons of toil had arrived and said they could only take half of it because it wouldn’t all fit on the van. The following day someone else turned up with a slightly smaller van and said he could only take half of what was left. I envisage a day four weeks in the future, when the solitary remaining pole is cut in half so it’ll fit in a Fiat 500. The scaff