Drilling holes - part deux

The hole finally got drilled and the outside tap duly fitted. What didn't do much for my blood pressure was the discovery that, by sheer good luck, Keith managed to drill neatly between two water pipes which, unknown to us, were running through the cavity in the wall. The drill missed both by millimetres!

Paddy wasn't worried though. He was busy sunbathing.

Drilling holes

Today is hole-drilling day, which means that Keith has borrowed the biggest drill bit he could lay his hands on, tucked himself under the sink and proceded to drill a hole through the wall. The idea is that we should have an outdoor tap, which will be handy for watering the garden (doubt if we'll ever need to do that!) and washing the caravan, the car and his van.
Of course, in  good male, time-honoured fashion, the job is currently unfinished. The drill bit wasn't quite long enough to go through the back of the cupboard, the space between it and the wall and the wall itself, so the hole has not reached the outside, which doesn't bode well for the tap.
At one o'clock, he had to leave it to go out, so it looks like the kitchen will be in a mess for more than just today.
On the bright side, maybe I have an excuse not to cook tonight!

Mystery fencing

Today Paddy and I walked past the new houses being built down the road. Being of an inquisitive nature, I wanted to see how they were coming along and the answer to that was, quite well, I suppose and one or two of the plots or houses are sold already. A little further on, down the lane that leads through the wooded area overlooking the lake, I noticed this fencing.

The wooden stakes are about three feet high and the black in between is some sort of fabric, but I've never seen a fence like it before.
Needs further investigation, perhaps...
Or maybe I just need to get a life!

Mi pluma, tu pluma

One pen I have, sitting, neatly aligned with its accompanying pencil at the top left hand corner of the coffee table. (Keith has a theory that I am a bit obsessive compulsive as I also line the remotes up in the bottom left hand corner. As if!)
Meanwhile, on NASA, there are at least a hundred (all-right, three or four) pens specifically for Keith's use when someone rings up and he needs to write down their details. There are also three or four small notepads.
So why can he never put his hand on a pen or pad when he needs them and why  does his hand immediately stretch out to the coffee table to pinch mine? And then, of course, why do I never get it back?

How did that happen?

"Do you think I've kept the sink nice and shiny?" asked Dad when I arrived on Thursday.
"I've moved that cable up the stairs because I knew you wouldn't be happy about it still being there when you got home," said Keith after I got back this afternoon.
After spending most of my adult life complaining that no-one ever takes any notice of things I say, it's a bit disconcerting, to say the least, to find at least two people apparently hanging on my every word.
How did I manage to do that, then?
Or is it something else that comes with advancing years?  :)

My pink phase

These days, I notice that the colour pink is becoming increasingly attractive to me. I find myself searching in stationery shops for pink pens, my small handbag diary is, unbelievably, sparkly pink and yesterday, I noticed this pink rainhat and found myself thinking that it would probably be very useful for walking Paddy on rainy days  (for me to wear, not him!).

"I'm in my pink phase," I explained to friends recently when I fished out my pink diary to jot down our next lunch date. No comment was made, but did I imagine the slightly raised eyebrows?
Perhaps I missed out on this aspect of my early teenage years. Let's face it, it's quite a while ago, too long to remember.
Or maybe - and this is a lot more worrying - maybe, I am getting a little too close to my purple phase!

Any colour as long as it's blue

I don't normally keep abreast of local Bristol news, but I had recently heard about the city's latest idiotic scheme brilliant idea for its taxi drivers. Apparently, some desk-bound jobsworths had decided in their wisdom that all city cabs should henceforth be any colour as long as it's 'Bristol blue', a precise shade found in Bristol glassware. The fact that the necessary respray would cost an average of £3000 and mean that the cab would be off the road for about three days, meaning three days' loss of earnings for the driver, either passed them by or was deemed to be unimportant, just as long as the city cabs presented a corporate image.
Not surprisingly, there was a bit of an outcry about this and the council did eventually concede that there could be a slightly wider interpretation of 'blue' in that it didn't have to be the one particular shade previously stipulated.
With me so far? Good.
So, having dealt with the cab drivers, the powers that be then turned their attention to private hire taxis and yes, you've guessed it, to avoid confusion, they can now be any colour except blue! Private hire taxis which have the misfortune to be blue (any shade) will no longer be licensed. Well, it is understandable. After all, there is so little difference between a cab (big) and a private hire cab (much like any ordinary car) that the public could so easily be confused.
And on the bright side, car resprayers are going to be doing a roaring trade. You really couldn't make it up!