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Melting and Murder

“You have a refrigeration problem,” said the fridge repair man.

Hence the overwhelming lack of chill, hmm?

The madly-gurgling contraption was barely two years old. We are not pleased. Certainly we will not be purchasing that brand again. The repair man said he could try re-gassing it but the likelihood of this lasting more than a day or so was slim to anorexic.

Fortunately the modest freezer section wasn’t full to capacity. There were several tubs of home-made soups and Bolognese sauces which are now on the compost heap. And there was one lone samosa lurking in a corner. Last night’s meal was a bacon feast. We’ll be having roast chicken tonight, and again tomorrow night. Well, these things can’t be refrozen….

And the kitchen bin is filled with ice-cream (sugary poison anyway) and a spectacularly vile apple strudel whose twin was mostly fed to the dogs at New Year. Emily buried her share in the garden. To the best of my knowledge she’s yet to dig it up again.

Our new fridge-freezer, (should that be new new fridge-freezer?), arrives “sometime on Monday afternoon.” Here’s hoping. As you all already know, this probably means the hapless householder will find themselves waiting all afternoon for delivery which could manifest anytime between the crack-of-dawn and midnight, and not necessarily on the arranged day.

Speaking of melting, an old school friend and I enjoyed a rather sunny walk out to Little Eye earlier in the week. Sylvia brought along her dog Bess, who had a whale of a time chasing after a lump of drift wood she’d found. She chased it all the way to Little Eye, all the way through our sit down, and all the way back again. If we stopped throwing it for her, she threw it at us. Clearly she’s a pooch who knows her own mind.

Later that evening I discovered patches of sunburn on my arm and neck. It’s fine now, already.

Oh, and Emily’s just killed a rat! Just as I was typing this, there was uproar from the garden - barking, squealing, pworking… So I hurried to the open French doors to find Ygraine in a state of excitement and the hens having hysterics because Emily had cornered a grey rat. She grabbed it by the neck and shook it, probably snapping its spine. Ugh! Gross. But she is a Jack Russell Terrier, and they were specifically bred to kill rats, so she’s only doing her job really.

Guess who had to dispose of the corpse. Uber-gross.

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