A Stitch In Time

It boggles the mind. Really it does. How can a Summerhouse get so grotty after being left empty for a few chilly months of winter? Perhaps the local wildlife squat there? Do deer break in, have riotous parties and cause devastation to the place?

Myself, Robert the Hall Boy (who, incidentally, is still smarting from England's so far anemic performance in the cricket world cup. Say the name 'Michael Vaughan' to the poor lad and he gasps and grabs his chest like a Transylvanian peasant asked their opinion of the local castle-dwelling Count) and Simon, one of the Footmen, began our trek shortly after lunch. Perhaps I should have waited a little while. Mrs Styles is a marvellous cook. Sometimes too marvellous, and it is safe to say that I indulged a little too heavily before setting off. The embarrassment I felt at feeling the sharp pain of a stitch in my side before we had even reached the first pathway was acute.

We have managed to make the Summerhouse habitable again. It will probably be in use over the week-end, weather-permitting.

Incidentally, for long-time readers of this blog (I really do still prefer the term 'diary' although strictly speaking this is more of a journal than a diary) my post of yesterday was something of a first. It was the first time I have posted a genuine picture of a portion of Carstone Park. Obviously my titanic battle with the knighted troll 'Sir Quintin' has emboldened me somewhat.