Ain't No Mountain High Enough

This past week I have been becoming rather too well acquainted with the various stages of decomposition of animal poo. It’s a world that many of us never venture too far into, possibly for fear of becoming so enthralled by the complexities of dung ecology that we become a bore at parties, banging on about the pros and cons of cold versus hot composting, lecturing others on the chemical virtues of cow manure, haranguing close friends on the necessity of mixing animal waste with kitchen scraps, dead vegetation and straw to the correct proportions. Let’s hope I don’t find myself slipping down that path (metaphorically or literally).

A Very Big House In The Country

We have been steadily growing in numbers over the last few months and we are now nearly at capacity with just one spare room for male guests (which is soon to be occupied by someone applying to live here) and two for women. There are currently six members (i.e. paid staff), sixteen guests, four volunteers and one baby. With occasional wayfarers, day volunteers and visitors, our meal times can get quite cosy if not outright squashed.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

The last of the tomatoes

You’re never at a loss for something to do of an evening at Pilsdon. Wednesday night is Games Night, which usually entails nothing more energetic than a round of canasta or a frame of snooker. Thursday night is Swimming Night where those who haven’t crammed too much dessert down them head off to Bridport’s swimming baths (this has yet to entice me). Friday night is Comedy Night, entertainment provided by professional comedians who have kindly allowed their shows to be recorded and provided to us on a DVD. Saturday night is Film Night in which we gather in the library-cinema and fall asleep in front of the latest Ewan McGregor yawnathon. Sunday night is Church and Soup Night whereby we do church (along with some from the surrounding villages) then eat soup. Monday night is Craft Night for those of a crafty disposition.

Public Enemy Number One

I found some secateurs within the potting shed and returned to the table outside. In front of me lay the creature, still within the pot I had placed it in and still very much alive. I knew what I must do. Although every instinct within me was screaming at me to do otherwise, I reached down and snipped it in half. Instantly its intestines burst from both ends, its slimy entrails hanging loose from its front half which I watched in horror squirming for the next ten minutes as it sought without success to escape from the pot. I decided I had to stay with it during its death throes rather than callously leaving to get a cup of tea. It was an ordeal but I knew which end of the secateurs I preferred to be on.