‘Not being rude, but I don’t think you should do any DIY,’ said the gamekeeper.
He had just witnessed me make chicken soup by liquidising a boiled chicken carcass then pressing all the wrong buttons on the liquidiser, so detaching the bottom of the jug from the jug rather than releasing the jug from the machine, sending a deluge of soup downwards on to the kitchen counter and floor.
Cydney was standing below, ever hopeful, so as the cascade of soup splashed on to the spaniel’s head she simply tilted herself to gargle down the rain of good fortune.
The keeper, who had popped in for a coffee, had been listening to me excitedly reciting my plan to finish the house myself by doing all the outstanding work bit by bit with my own fair hands, no matter how many years it took me.
I would drill, hammer and paint my way to glory, I told the keeper, finally sorting out my life for myself, with no help from anyone.
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