pumpkinstrokemarrow

Sailed up the Exe valley cycle path (does not appear to be known to google maps, in the sense of it displaying a map with the path marked, but Mr G. does quite a presentable job of finding it otherwise), gentle adverse wind and went pass a thirtysomething couple going slightly slower than me. So far so good. Then I dismount at the quay to walk up the, what is to me fairly steep, bank up onto South Street. Said couple gently ring the bells on their mountain bikes and sail past me up the slope, in saddle. OK, so the lady of the pair struggled a bit but they did make it to the top without stopping. Somewhat peeved, but whether I am peeved enough to try it myself tomorrow remains to be seen.

Two visits by the gas man since the last post; an afternoon one and a breakfast one. At the first visit we established that the radio receiver in the boiler was on the blink and that the small tank of water in the boiler was empty. Thus causing the boiler to overheat every time it cut in and so promptly cutting out. Hence the sinusoidal hot water supply. This last was fixed by a procedure not unlike that of bleeding a radiator, using a natty little white plastic tool strapped onto the boiler somewhere just in case. Might even have a go myself one day, the symptom being zero pressure on the pressure guage on the boiler control panel. Gas man goes away, promising to come back the next morning with a new receiver. It seems this particular model goes wrong often enough for them to be kept in stock. Now they tell us. That notwithstanding, we thought splendid. We can all have a bath and wash away the day's odours. But no. After a little while the green light started flashing again and back with sinusoidal and a near cold bath.

At the breakfast visit, the new receiver is fitted and we agree that the hot water problem was probably caused by the communications breakdown interfering with the controls. We run a bath this time, just to be on the safe side. All seems well. Then we ask the gas man what he has at home. Turns out to be something called a Valor rather than a Worcester, a rather more expensive item, although he does have a radio control. Maybe being German makes all the differance. He claims that after the Valor, the Worcester is a splendid bit of kit, much better than the sort of junk you can pick up in certain home supply supermarkets. Anyway, we will see if all is still well when I get back downriver.

In between the two visits, took the air in the village, to discover that one of the two pubs has lost its roof, down to and including the first floor ceilings, with the whole covered by a tin lid. Lady neighbouring explains that this was the result of two fires, one of which seemed to coincide with some irregularity with the VAT returns. But undismayed, or at least unable to move onto flats (which one might have thought would make them more money as we pull out of the recession), the brewery are about to start rebuilding with a view to being up and running again by July.

So down to inspect the 'Swans' Nest', an establishment which invented the concept of the food pub, at least in this region, back in the early seventies. They were doing ploughmens' lunches on slices of tree daintily ornamented with cress and crisps while the rest of us were still eating pies. Decor seemed much the same as I remember from those days, with quite old but repro Jacobean furniture scattered about. Various interesting ornaments. One in particular caught the eye. Start with what looked like a 12 inch diameter copper tub. Add lamp. Add two small plant pot holders. Add three trays to form a simple water cascade onto a small (rotating) water wheel. The whole, apart from the lamp shade and the plants being made of copper (hope the thing had a good earth). Standing maybe eighteen inches high. Rather quaint, and I would of thought rather expensive to make, although not very arty. Two warm beers, of which I went for the red otter. Only six country style wines of the sloe variety. In the good old days they must have had a lot more of the things: parsnip, swede, dandelion, you name it they had it. But it seems they did not sell now that you can get real wine in pubs, and so had a cull.

Woke to be informed by the DT that not only is it a felony to smack a child, it will soon be a felony (on the parent) when the child does something bad as a result of failure to smack. So the nannies have got us both ways. When they move onto a more sensible discipline model? Also that the PM has very bad handwriting and appears to use a felt tip pen when he feels constrained to write - if not compose - a letter in his own fair hand. I expect he was taught handwriting as a child, so maybe he should have practised for a bit to get a better result. But worse, in the unlikely event of my acquiring a jet to take me about my business, the nannies will get into a grump if I insist on having an attractive stewardess to go with my attractive new toy. What is the point of such a thing if I have to lumber it with cabin staff I don't like? Whose plane is it? How long will it be before a bunch of sex workers hire the Cherry (hubby and wife who chalked up some £20m last year) to fight a sex and age discrimination case for them?