Morning:
8°c
I am in the wilds of Exmoor for a fortnight, so here's the score so far: tweenagers under my roof - six. Plumbing emergencies - three. Responsible adults present - one.
We arrived after customary four-hour drive to discover a burst pipe had caused a flood in the kitchen and our one loo had leaked. There was no hot water and - a new low even by my sub-zero standards - no cold water either. It was a Saturday.
It's always like this - as if the house is punishing us for our absence. I called the water company and they said a plumber would be there by noon.
He arrived by lunchtime and commendably didn't complain about the state of our track. He stomped upstairs in his boots, sucked his teeth and called our hot water system "a real farmer's job". Said he had one half of a valve, but would have to "scrounge" the other.
Then he glanced at his watch and disappeared to referee a rugby match in Wiveliscombe, promising he'd be back. Off he went in a blur of white van.
Days passed. Chris isn't a plumber by trade, but he can fix anything. He's in the village. He came immediately, in a red van. I tried to pay him for sorting out the pipe, but he said not to worry. That's what he always says.
On Wednesday the original plumber (Dave, white van) returned without warning, true to his word. "Who won the rugby?" I asked. "Chris has done a lovely job," Dave ruled, on inspection. "I'll call him."
The transaction may have taken four times as long as I would have liked, but it didn't matter. The job got done. Eventually. And no money at any point changed hands.
Ah, rural life. It makes you realise LP Hartley got it wrong. The country is a different country, not the past. They do things differently there.
* A smart girl from a Sunday glossy calls. The magazine's star restaurant reviewer is off this week. I drive for miles to get a signal on my mobile. "I'd love to, but I'm in Somerset," I yell, citing the three nearest restaurants (all an hour's drive away). She didn't thrill to their names. "Aren't you near Fifteen?" she asks. Fifteen is in Cornwall. That's 130 miles away. On little roads. London restaurants are closing at a rate of knots. If only some would reopen in the culinary wastelands of the pasty-eating South-West.
* Among the first wives' club, Michelle Obama is clearly a showstopper, in Chanel or J Crew. But sober-sided Sarah Brown has a lovely face and even more importantly, a sweet and kind expression whatever designer she wears. It's she who hits the spot in these dark times.
