“It’s all right in here, isn’t it?” said Micky.

Big A’s cousin Micky was staying. Not being from Norfolk, we regarded him as a bit of a yokel and had debated where we should take him in order that he could get a tiny taste of life in the fast lane.

We had settled on the village pub.

“Is it normally this busy?” he asked, in a semi-shout. I looked around the bar. A massive party was in full swing, featuring the cream of Norfolk well-to-do society and a hog roast. I considered this against the usual sparse and scabby collection of foul-smelling regulars with whom (grammar) I normally mingle of an evening.

“Yes,” I lied.

An enormous plate of grilled cheese and roasted vegetables arrived in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asked in surprise.

“You said you were a vegetarian, so I got the guys to knock something up,” explained the Chef.

“For me?”

“Enjoy.”

“Golly.”

Later on I was quite drunk, having enjoyed a long and expansive chat about historical buildings with Len the Fish’s son. But I could still overhear the conversation between Micky and a lady at the bar, who was slurring at him in a posh drawl.

“Yes, because I’m bisexual you see. My thing is that I like taking other girls home with me and being watched. Would you like to come to a party at the weekend?”

“Golly.”

We wandered home together after the second bell, Big A, Micky and I. The sound of car doors slamming, of people kissing goodbye, of the annoying yappy dog in the house opposite. Micky was strangely quiet.

I have grown a breast!!!

I have been bitten by something gnatty, in the left nipple area. Overnight it has sort of ballooned up in a wide circle and gone very red and glowy. This seems a bit worrying.

I do not usually react to insect bites. The LTLP knows about infections and stuff, so I ask her opinion.

“It had probably just trod in some shit or something,” she shrugs.

I will not ask her opinion again.

The lump is warm and smooth. I give it a bit of a feel. If I could capture another gnat and dip its feet in some shit (or recapture the first one as long as it had not washed its feet) then I could arrange for a bit more symmetry. But I might then have to start wearing the LTLP’s bras, especially the red soft one.

The best thing to do is probably to put some antihistamine on it. There are other creams etc, but the baby has antihistamines so they are free. I smear it on liberally.

The breast does not disappear, so I put on a bulky coat to go to the Village Shop. The baby looks at me hungrily.

First there was an atmosphere.

Then a few short words. Looks. Then some vigorous chest-poking.

“Go fuck yourself.” The words cut through the air.

I (one of several others) put my head down, ashamed at my cowardly unwillingness to get involved.

I discussed this and the subsequent events with Len the Fish in the Village Pub later on. “That wasn’t the sort of thing I really expected,” he mused, “when you persuaded me to take up playing bowls.”

“I’m still not clear how it all kicked off,” I shrugged.

Len the Fish launched in to a long explanation that didn’t make things measurably clearer. His dog listened dutifully; beside me, Eddie perched on a stool, supped his beer and laughed.

Gaps appeared behind the bar, where the Well-Spoken Barman and the Unfeasibly Tall Barman used to stand. They had left during my absence from the village, like traitors and worms. The conversation moved on to the weekend’s big village party, which I’d missed due to removal duties and not being entirely sure whether I was invited. Everybody had had a good time without me.

I wondered whether to stay for another pint. It seemed that I had been away for so long – eight months going on fifteen years. There were some faces in the bar that I did not recognise. New chairs and décor had appeared.

The pint appeared in front of me anyway, via the Chipper Barman’s automatic pint system. Four more, and I was strolling down the road, gazing in wonder at the stars.

Past the memorial, past Eddie’s and Tall Alf’s, down towards the cottage, walking in the middle of the road because it’s more fun that way. The air entered my lungs, like air should. I took it in with deep happy breaths.

Wherever you go in the world, there is never, ever, ever, anything better than being at home (unless you live somewhere really shit).

I have moved in!!!

Back to the cottage, back to the village. Back next door to Short Tony. Back to the rabbits, back to the village pub.

The lounge is still a building site, but I have a kitchen, bedrooms, an office and a toilet. Admittedly the office is up the road at the village pub and the toilet is next door at Short Tony’s, but beggars can’t be choosers. We have some stairs, which appear to have been constructed by Stan Laurel.

Many thanks for your patience over the past few days. Normal service shall be resumed ASAP, etc. Until then, if friends and readers could continue to be the subject of newspaper exposes, perhaps on a rota basis, then that will keep the sitemeter ticking over.

The Methodical Carpenter sensationally returned!!!

“I wouldn’t have left you in the lurch,” he explained. “I’ll finish off your job here then go my own way.”

I was glad, and not just because his absence had threatened to make us homeless. Despite his spiky character, I liked the chap, and was fond of his carpentry. He buzzed away at his saw, only occasionally wincing at the electrical burns on his hands.

I left the site, all well with the world.

Less than twenty-four hours later Short Tony was on the phone to me.

“I thought you might like to know,” he began, in that tone of voice that inevitably precedes information that one would like not to know, “there is an ambulance and a paramedic’s car outside your cottage.”

I knew who the casualty would be. My stomach experienced that horrible, desperate sinking feeling, like when you get out of the bath all beautifully clean and fresh ready for your date with sexy TV actress Zoe Telford only to realise that you really, really need a poo and it is likely to be a smeary one. I got in the car and sped over there.

The Methodical Carpenter had been hospitalised after a horrible testicular accident. He would not be returning to work.

Really homeless this time.