Much

Bit quiet round 'ere, innit? 'Er's off. They're all off. Still, I've got me snail, me river, the rest of the garden, and the spuggies to chat to, so it's not so bad. And I 'ad a visitor this week. Stephen's back. The church what owns this house still 'as 'im looking after the garden. Decent chap, Stephen, only 'e's as mad as a bloomin' 'atter. 'E goes mountain biking, climbing up waterfalls, you name it, no wonder 'e lost two of 'is fingers. (Mind, 'e did that when 'e were gardening. Accident with a chain saw. makes me glad I'm made of stone.)

Anyway, I 'as it on very good authority that the New House of Stories comes with a little stone lad and 'is dog. Don't know the dog's name, but the lad's Oliver, and 'e looks like he's had a lot of patching up done over the years so I reckon he's a scamp. Looks like the picture of innocence, and I reckon that's the kind you have to look out for. The sort of lad that always has an apple, a football sticker, a toffee and a dead beetle or two in 'is pocket and doesn't do 'is 'omework until 'is mum glues 'im to the seat. Don't suppose 'e'll be bothered about writing a blog, then.

'Ere come the ducks. Evening, ducks. Missus misses you something rotten. If you want any duck food, ask Stephen's kids.