A car pulls up outside the Village Pub.

“Isn’t that…?” wonders Short Tony, a look of recognition alighting on his face.

Being a person with a leading web log, I am well up on the modern media. “It is the man from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ who goes ‘no no no no yes,’” I confirm.

“It is!”

A celebrity!!! Visiting our humble Village Pub!!! The news spreads. A frisson runs through the bar. (I actually have no idea what a frisson is aside from the fact that one usually appears at times like this – I imagine it is small and scuttles, like a weasel). As the door opens, everybody adopts a forced nonchalance so as not to make our guest feel awkward. Some people have such a forced nonchalance that they rush up to him, presumably to ask if he is the man that goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’, just to make sure.

It seems unnecessary. I know there are people (like Michael Jackson the King of Pop) who have changed their face to look like other people (Liz Taylor), but I think it would be an unusual fetish indeed to repeatedly visit shady plastic surgeons in order to gradually reshape your features so that you look exactly like the man who goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’.

It is ascertained that he is indeed the man that goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ and not an impostor. He stands, waylaid, at the door to the main bar.

“I’d really like to talk to him,” I whisper. “Just to check an anecdote. An old friend of mine always told this story that he was on jury service with him, and the other eleven elected him foreman just so that when the judge asked if…”

“Another pint?” interjects the Chipper Barman.

“Definitely,” I reply. In a low voice: “Do you see who that is?”

“It’s the bloke from the Vicar of Dibley. Who goes ‘no no no yes’. He was in here earlier.”

“Oh,” I say, a bit disappointed.

“I’ve got my camera phone,” whispers Short Tony. “Do you think I could get a picture without anybody noticing?”

We experiment with different techniques, pretending to take a picture of me but holding the phone the wrong way round, taking a photo of the big mirror at the end of the bar, etc. But we can’t get the angle. Short Tony puts his camera away in disappointment and frustration. The man who goes ‘no no no no yes’ from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ finally frees himself, and wanders through to the back of the Pub towards the restaurant.

Mrs Short Tony arrives in the bar, fresh from the Chinese Pub, our takeaway waiting in the car.

“But there’s a celebrity in here!” I protest.

“Who?”

Short Tony narrows his eyes and lowers his voice. “It’s… Cruise,” he hisses.

Mrs Short Tony is momentarily flustered and bewildered.

“Not really,” he reveals. “It is the bloke from ‘Vicar of Dibley’ who goes ‘no no no no yes.’”

“Come on home then. The food’s getting cold.”

“I’ve got a good idea for that doorway,” I muse.

The LTLP scrutinises me, adopting the expression that she uses to wither the ground elder. “I can already tell,” she drawls, “that this is going to be the most ridiculous thing that you’ve ever suggested in your life.”

I am stung by her barbed comment. “That’s a bit unfair,” I protest.

“Go on then. Tell me your good idea.”

The doorway into our bedroom is square and chunky, and only around five foot tall. In fact it’s less a doorway than an opening. It aspires to doorway status.

“I was thinking about the fact that I haven’t got a Scooby Doo bookcase any more,” I explain. (I used to have a bookcase that opened out on hinges to reveal a secret room beyond, like in the Scooby Doo cartoons. It was the best thing ever.) “So I was thinking…”

“Yes…?”

“Well, if I got some wardrobe doors, I could sort of build a wardrobe-looking thing in the doorway. But it wouldn’t really be a wardrobe. It would be our bedroom. So to get into our bedroom you would walk through the wardrobe.”

She gives a sharp intake of breath.

“Like in Narnia,” I add, by way of explanation.

“Then,” I continue, “when people came to stay and we showed them round, we could pretend that it is just a wardrobe. And when we went to bed they would think ‘why are they climbing into the wardrobe?’ and we would say ‘aha!’ and they would be amazed and astonished when they discovered there was a whole room beyond.”

“Like in Narnia,” I add, to fill the endless silence that follows.

Stealthily I let myself in to Short Tony’s house.

As they are on holiday, it is my job to feed the rabbits, pick up the post, check for intruders etc. I have my own key and the run of the house!!! But I am trustworthy and do not abuse this privilege.

The kitchen has flooded!!!

It is a flood not just of biblical proportions, but of biblical proportions if you are thinking of a really big bible, say one in hardback with illustrations of the miracles, exoduses etc and perhaps large print for the bad eyesight people. I splotch across the tiles, very concerned.

Water is dripping through a light fitting in the ceiling.

This seems bad. I am not a qualified electrician, but I know that putting water with electricity makes it explode. I wonder what to do.

By rights, I should switch the electricity off. However this is not as simple as it sounds. For a start I would have to empty the freezer. Short Tony is going on a goose shoot next month, and my plan was to buy lots of cheap fish fingers in order to fill up his freezer so that when he got home with his haul, he would have nowhere to put it. He would then be forced to offer me a goose or, better still, geese. This would impress my mum and dad no end, whopping out a goose (or geese) for Christmas dinner.

Considering this, I decide that he will be unlikely to offer me a goose/geese if I allow this to override my electrical caution and his house subsequently burns down. At a later date I will have to think up some way of dropping hints that it would be good to have one if he has a spare.

I reach a compromise and switch the light off. For safety reasons I then tape a bit of paper across the switch and write ‘DO NOT TURN ON’ in large letters, adding as an afterthought ‘By Order, New Orleans Police Department’. I then pull out my cell phone to call Short Tony.

Trying very hard to draw a balance between factual reportage and not being too alarming, I detail the situation. What I actually hear my mouth saying, however, is something like: “Your house is flooded and it’s all really shit!!!” Short Tony, however, is relatively unperturbed.

“Don’t worry. We’re actually on our way home now. We’ll be there very shortly.”

This is unexpected. It is a good job that I have not dressed in Mrs Short Tony’s clothes. I splotch upstairs to find the cause of the cataclysm. It is a small leaky tap, which I de-leak.

It feels good, being able to be a good neighbour. I do some token mopping up. The rabbit food is unaffected; I take supper to its recipients.

Continued from yesterday.

There is a scrunch of gravel!!!

I zip over to the previously-prepared camera. But it is only the Postman. I am glad I checked; I would not want to shoot the Postman in the goolies after all I have done to safeguard his job. He looks curiously at the video equipment but does not say anything non postal service-related.

I wait some more. By now I am tense.

I appear to be doing a lot of waiting. I think journalists are a bit less keen to harass Norfolk folk these days, after the Tony Martin affair. It is a bit like how they are always being public spirited and ‘exposing security lapses’ at royal parties etc., but never black up, stick some wires under a bulky jacket and vault the gates at Stockwell tube to see whether terrorist recognition techniques have improved.

There is a scrunch of gravel!!!

It is the Methodical Builder moving some plasterboard. I settle down again.

It suddenly occurs to me that it is now 2006 and the journalist might be a woman. If that is the case then I would have to shoot her in the foo foo. I am a bit old-fashioned and slightly uneasy about this. Shooting a lady reporter in the foo foo is not as funny as shooting a male reporter in the goolies, and I think the readers of ‘You Tube’ will probably not be impressed. I do not want comments like ‘WTF u shot this woman you sicko?’ Or: ‘dude u rock!!! i got tons of clips like this u wanna swap?’

I mull this over.

If it is a female reporter from the London media the likelihood is that she will be quite fit. The best thing would be to invite her in and then seduce her. She would then be exposed as a trollop, thus negating the entire angle of her story, especially if I could get her to do unusual stuff like doggy. This seems to be a good contingency plan.

I wait some more.

No reporters appear. Boooooo I am clearly not important enough to be doorstepped by the tabloids. A small part of me is disappointed, although frankly it is a very small part. The LTLP arrives home from work. I film her as she walks in.

I receive an alarming telephone call!!!

“There are photographers in my front garden,” states an upset voice, “and reporters are harassing my family and badgering my friends for stories about me.”

“Oh.”

“I thought I’d better warn you. They might be on your case.”

“Thanks.”

I replace the receiver, thoughtfully. (Actually there was a bit more conversation after this, but you get the gist.) I have always assumed that I would get drawn in to the Masturgate Affair to one extent or the other, but did not expect a crisis situation like this.

I have a bit of a ponder. Should I be doorstepped by the Daily Mail or Sunday Times then there may be unpleasantness. I think the Methodical Carpenter would be quite good in a scuffle, but he is still limping slightly and it would be unfair to involve him. I need a plan.

The kitchen window looks out down the drive onto the road, enabling me to easily spot an approaching tabloid reporter, who would give the game away with their London clothes.

An excellent idea occurs to me. I grab my video camera and set it up so it covers the doorway. Consequently, when I am doorstepped, I will be able to switch on the camera, establish that the journalist is from the Sunday Times or the Daily Mail and about to cause unpleasantness, then shoot them in the goolies with an air gun.

I can then send the resulting footage to the website ‘You Tube’, who will be bound to print it. There is nothing funnier than seeing a film of a man saying “hello I am from the Sunday Times/Daily Mail and our readers would very much like to know about – ” and then getting shot in the goolies and hopping around shouting “ow ow ow! Fuck! You have shot me! In the goolies!” I will easily get loads of comments against it saying things like ‘dude u rock!!!’

It seems an excellent plan, despite nagging doubts about subsequent implications of shooting people from major newspapers in the goolies.

I settle down to lie in wait.

Continued tomorrow…

One of the things about being disabled is that you want people to draw a balance.

You’d like to be treated exactly the same as everybody else – but obviously you also need people to make allowances when needed.

That was Granddad’s view anyway (he had fewer than the usual amount of legs). Although on reflection he was really quite happy just with the ‘making allowances’ bit – demanding to be wheeled to the pub at opening time with instructions to pick him up on the sound of ‘last orders’. He didn’t even bother having one of those turquoise three-wheelers that disabled people used to use to get from A to B whilst flaunting their status.

But I thought of him – and more relevantly this balance of treatment – as I contemplated the pile of tiles. The LTLP and I had spent ages choosing a mix of subtle green hues, in order to create an intricate and tasteful pattern in the shower.

“What do you mean you’re fucking colourblind???” I screamed at the Tiler, losing my rag like I’ve done with the other builders and thus treating him with the dignity and respect he deserved as a less abled person.

He shrugged. “I just can’t distinguish some colours very well.”

I grit my teeth and go through each box with him, explaining which is which.

The Methodical Builder has promised me that his men will be gone in three weeks. But, like space travel, he has promised so much. Conditions here are, in fact, a bit like on the Mir Space Station, and I feel it is time to get tough.

A tree blocks my path!!!

I pull the car over in excitement. The tree is not exactly blocking my path – it is just in the road a bit. But I have always been quite into this ‘living in the countryside’ thing, and spend my life convincing myself that I have the sort of rugged rural existence epitomised by fallen oak trees cutting me off from civilisation.

On closer examination, it is not quite a whole tree. It is a huge branch.

It seems a good idea to move it and clear the road. There might be a combine harvester along at any minute. The easiest way would be to quickly grab the chainsaw, lop off the thick trunky bit and chuck it in the back of the Land Rover.

I think about this carefully. The plan would be practical if I had a chainsaw, or a Land Rover. I could probably fit some of the wood in the car boot, but then I will not have room for much shopping when I get to Waitrose.

The only solution is to simply drag it on to the verge. Flushed with a ‘doing my bit for society’ rush, I grab the trunk with both hands. It is all wet and slimy. I give it a good heave. It is heavy.

About seven hours later another car comes along. I give the driver a winning ‘I have only just started trying to move this tree and don’t really need any help’ smile. He gets out of his car and moves the tree. I thank him for his contribution.