Listening to: The Complete Stone Roses
Drought update: A little rain forecast for tomorrow
The curse of the cock's egg seems to have passed, but not before giving us a last metaphorical custard pie or two in the face.
The pump finally arrived on Saturday afternoon and our good friend Mr D gave up a good chunk of his Sunday to guide me through the fitting of it. It was a straightforward job up to a point, that point being the one where we flipped the switch and all the sockets in the house stopped working.
Mr D is, fortunately, a patient soul so we unplugged everything, restored the trip switch to the favoured position and plugged all appliances back in. It seemed to work. In the last three days I have had five baths. I smell really nice.
I had also decided that it was time to move the trailer next to Eric and Ernie's paddock in the hope they will get used to it in time for their final journey in a few days time.
I backed the Land Rover up, attached the trailer and set off - or tried to. There was a scraping sound. The wheels weren't going round. Sure enough, the brakes had seized. Totally my fault for leaving it there in all weathers for the best part of three months. Should've jacked it up and left it on blocks with the brake off. Ho hum.
My stepson Pat has done a couple of years studying to be a motor mechanic (three terms mechanics, two terms welding, one term sharp intakes of breath, tutting and saying 'I can't touch it until Tuesday week'). He explained what had happened in extreme technical detail. He might as well have been speaking Bulgarian, so I asked 'what are we going to do'.
'Take the wheel off and fix it'. Great. I made the token effort of handing him a spanner or two, while Mr D offered more useful suggestions - for example 'don't lie under there, it might fall off the jack onto you' (a piece of sound advice, I thought).
Shortly afterwards the trailer was fixed and I was in the kitchen mixing Yorkshire Pudding batter. The cock's egg was still sitting in the salt pig (a kind of ceramic jar). I suggested we go to Noup Head and throw the thing into the sea.
"You don't believe all that bad luck crap do you," said Mrs Sort-of Pig Farmer, who tends to come over all no-nonsense and Wolverhampton when the subjects of superstition, religion and Russell Grant come up. Tip: never ask her what her star sign is, the answer will take a lot longer than you expect.
She's right. It'd probably land on a fishing boat below, get jammed in the engine and sink it with all hands.
I'll stick to keeping my fingers crossed.