How can one possibly persuade our dignified layers that no one will laugh if they decide to paddle? Their feathers are ruffled, and with competition for perching places ruthless, there are those whose feet are decidedly muddy. They lift their legs high and squawk indignantly at the prospect of wetting their feet further, but in the drought-stricken Somerset countryside there is little alternative.
We are adhering to the threatened hosepipe ban with remarkable ease and feel, a little piously, that our H2O uptake is remarkably low for a household containing quite so many inhabitants. This has been aided by the continuous state of flood alert in which we have placed ourselves and our septic system; meaning that facilities at school/friends houses/workplaces are highly recommended and an 'only if you must' system operates on home territory. Sheets remain unwashed and speed showers are the norm. So far, friends continue to visit and no one has moved too many seats away in the cinema or at the school gate, diplomatic one and all.
Up to chapter thirteen of the 1st re-write and unsure how many more to go - this is a re-write after all. Deadline coming up with remarkable speed and I try to chop,change, re-instate and change again all the time wondering whether this is a marketable story. On with Ch:14!
Yours with wet feet...
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