There’s some sort of fundraiser this evening in the village, which has been entitled a Ball. I’m not sure quite how like a ball it will be and I certainly won’t be wearing a ballgown, but the OH has splashed out on some tickets and we’re joining a table that seems to be mainly people he’s met at pub-quizzes or from the local am-dram group. Still, it should be fun as there will be live music and dancing so the entertainment value could be quite high. I will post an entry about it if anything interesting happens. And possibly even if nothing interesting happens, you’ll have to wait and see.
Meanwhile, in amongst all the showers and potential flash-floods, life goes on here in our sleepy village. Nibbled at the edges, sometimes, by the goats belonging to a smallholder on the edge of the village, that escaped from their yard and were caught just up the road from our house, demolishing Sylvia’s roses and completely unfazed by her dogs barking at them. I went out later, down to Joe’s house to check the post for him – he’s gone on some sort of research trip while the decorators are in as he can’t stand the smell of paint, and has asked me to stop the post from piling up too badly – and I don’t think there’s a single front garden that the goats didn’t sample. Poor Colbert was very embarrassed and muttered something about the pigs having charged the gate when Sylvia returned them, but since it was the goats that were out rather than the pigs, I don’t quite see how that can be relevant. It’s given Sylvia good mileage at the pub, anyway.