I omitted to tell you yesterday that the notes of the brass band weren't the only thing drifting in through the kitchen door.
Rowntree Park stinks. Much as I love the place, we've been keeping the windows shut and taking detours where possible. The park was under five feet of flood water for several days, and for just over a week now, pumping machines have been getting it all out. They're almost there from what I can see through the railings, but it looks very brown, bedraggled and sorry for itself - and what a stench. According to Ruby Senior, it has never smelt this bad on previous floodings (thank you park, wait till I arrive in town, why don't you) and she was heard to utter with screwed up nose while firmly shutting windows yesterday "Urgh! I think there must have been a burst sewage main!"
Not surprisingly, I don't really feel like going to the Food Festival today. Maybe I should make the recipe for atomic buffalo turds kindly donated by Jane instead. Or even research the aforementioned Viking story. Because guess what? My eldest son Erik has provided me with an unexpected and welcome lead on the saga of the Viking Poo.
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