The Farmer and I are working on drainage just now so set off with the children, the big trailer and some sandwiches to pick up some pipe.
We got about a mile down the road as the car began to fill with a blue smoke and acrid smell. Burst exhaust.
"How long has this been burst?" I asked The Farmer.
"A while".
We are in his (battered) pick up. The one where the bumper has been bumped and is held on with bailer twine. The one where the rat chewed through the gear stick cover and ate the crumbs from the child seat and half the child seat. And a Twix.
The pick up which looks and smells like it belongs to a farmer and half the farm.
The Farmer has been knocked sideways with the heart medicines he has been taking since April and I worried that they were making him confused.
A burst exhaust and fumes pouring into his cab would not be helping.
We reversed (badly) and returned to the farm with our heads out of the windows like PieDog does.
Pick up has been booked in to be fixed and The Farmer (rather huffily) has taken to getting about with the tractor to the extent of going to the Co-op for bread and milk in it.
Transport issues aside, we now have to try and dry out the farmhouse which is a tricky one given that a large chunk of roof is missing. I empathise with Prometheus and his liver problem but have a new wide brush to sweep the water outside. Each sweep is powered by mutterings of Anglo Saxon aimed at the landowner and his shirking of repairing the fabric of the building.
I will note your envy at our wonderful kitchen ceiling - Sistine Chapel it is not.
The good part is the emergence of arms like a farmhouse cured ham. I make a mental note to take up arm wrestling after all this.
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