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I continue to be frustrated at the lack of a nick-name since everyone else round here has one. They are largely invented by the Paine Twins. I have asked them several times if I could have one but so far they’ve been unable to come up with anything other than ‘Sir Christopher’ which is merely a reference to my accent and not a reflection of reality. I wouldn’t mind if everyone else called me that but they don’t. However, I do feel sorry for the Fall Over Twins who I head about last week in the office (that’s what the pub is called).

The Fall Over Twins are apparently now very much over the hill. ‘Bloody ‘orrible. All gone to rack and ruin. Covered in tattoos. Lovely girls once, bootiful. Must ‘ave ‘ad sixteen thousand men. Never ‘ad no job though.’ I would quite like to have seen them but they’ve long since been banned from the pub.

I also heard about Nitro Man and R2D2 but I don’t know who they are yet.

I pulled a letter out of the hideous faux Victorian red letter box at the end of our path today. On it was scribbled ‘Sarah, packet in the bin by the door. Rob.’ Now where else in the world would the postman leave you a note like that, and the ‘sign for’ package parked outside your door, not signed for except by the postman?

Spring is lurching slowly to its feet. The woodland floor is greening, nearly all 1,110 hedgerow plants that only went into the ground a week ago are producing buds – probably hugely relieved to be in some earth at last. The pigs have dug up nearly all the orchard. The daffodils, having popped up in January last year, have had a lie-in this time around and are dozily poking their petals out.

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