
Having failed to get out last weekend, I'd done something to my back this week (getting out of the car in a tight spot I think. Cars are bad, m'kay? So is a trapped sciatic nerve which is what I think it might be*) so seeking a spot that was above all flat I decided to take a leaf out of Big Jim's book and pay a call on a local widow.
Your own back garden does not count but that of your friend or neighbour does, right? It was all a bit overgrown but I was kindly given the key to her summerhouse.

Things quietened down after 11 when Robbie Williams went off stage and I retired to my sleeping bag. There's a family of foxes so I left the doors open in hopes of seeing them but in the event there was only an annoying fly, plus the mat developed a puncture which I'll need to fix before daughter number one's bronze DofE expedition this week.

That's if she survives the inaugural run on the tandem this afternoon.
* I grow old ... I grow old ...
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled