10th October 2013

During the night, newly qualified David Nixon of the RAF executed a bombing raid and returned to base with a dam burst and bomb bays emptier than a pub on a Tuesday night.

The day that followed was less glamorous but equally destructive, this time directed at our nerves. With both barns now looking respectable, we turned our sights to the front gate, a project left in a half-baked state years ago. Back when David first moved in, he’d hired local Bulgarians to do the work. Unfortunately, their efforts resembled a jigsaw puzzle where half the pieces were missing and the rest belonged to an entirely different set. Fascia boards were too short, tiles looked as though they’d been cut by a blindfolded toddler, and vital waterproof joins were as mythical as a restful night after a vindaloo. As for boxing in the joists? Let’s just say the memo clearly got lost in translation.

So, after a long morning walk with Banjo, we rolled up our sleeves and set about fixing the mess. What followed was tedious, cramped, splinter-ridden work, the sort of task that makes you question your life choices and wonder whether it’s too late to hire a younger, more flexible body to do the job.

Adding to the spectacle, Milen appeared and watched from below, no doubt enjoying the free slapstick theatre of two old blokes squeezing into gaps better suited to contortionists. When he eventually wandered back to his own house, the air soon filled with drilling and hammering, perhaps inspired, perhaps competitive. Time will tell whether he’s building a masterpiece or simply trying to drown out the sound of our groans.

Now that David’s digestive system had finally sprung back into service, lunch was fried egg sandwiches with chilli beans.  My appetite was slightly dented, however, when I discovered dozens of dead ladybirds scattered across my bed and floor. A full-blown kerlinka massacre. Back in the UK, ladybirds are gentle garden helpers; here, they’re kamikaze pests with a taste for human flesh, dive-bombing ladders and biting like tiny ninjas. Into the Hoover they went, my own minor contribution to population control.

By evening, we called it a day and treated ourselves to a chicken and mushroom hotpot. The chicken was fine; the mushrooms, however, came from a jar of brine and tasted exactly as you’d expect, like brine. Suitably underwhelmed, we finished the night with a film that dragged on so long it made a snail race seem positively pacey. When it finally ended near midnight, I staggered off to bed, grateful for the rare luxury of a kerlinka-free mattress.