In the recent storms it started to play up again. Yours truly was out of bed every half an hour in his dressing gown to find out what might have fallen into the pool - a hedgehog or some insomniac toddler . At two thirty one stormy morning two weeks ago , as it hooted away for the fourth time, our fraught relationship came to an abrupt end as I put paid to the devlish fog horn with a sledge hammer. Since then, no matter what Pyrennean gales may blow up in the depths of the night, we've enjoyed calm, klaxon free, uninterrupted sleep. Very Bret Easton Ellis. Hence the urgent need for a pool cover. Little did I know that 'the font' had arranged for Madame Bay to come at the same time to tidy up the beer bottles after the 'bachelor party'. Some hasty reworking of schedules is now underway to avoid the poolman and his chiffoned nemesis from coming into contact.
In addition to rug surfing and swing biffing Wilf has rediscovered that other summer favourite , the 'splosh' game. He carefully collects any stray balls he finds in the garden and carries them over to the pool where he drops them one by one into the water. The look of delight on his face as they land with a 'splosh' in the water is priceless. They then have to be fished out by yours truly, thrown onto the lawn where the whole process begins all over again. Wilf could, if allowed to, keep this up for hours at a time.