What this blog isn't

It's not a Leeds-based exploration of the joys and challenges of shaping the mortar between house-bricks so that the rain runs off without undue damage.
Nor is it about looking at, achieving, or maintaining erections of the male variety. That's what the rest of the internet is for.
It's also not about drawing peoples' attention to the beauty of the Aurora Borealis by indicating it with an extended forefinger
It probably isn't SFW[Safe For Work] either (especially if you work in a church) thanks to the liberal sprinkling of profanities, heresies and blasphemies.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Floods, floods, floods

One of the advantages of living at the top of a big hill, apart from the daily contests between myself and Withers (my long-suffering but faithful butler) to see who can set the best paper-plane distance flight record from the upper floors of the manse, is that I am relatively unaffected by flooding. Looking down into the village below, my heart goes out to the simple but warm-hearted folk who live down there on the floodplains. There they go now - ferrying themselves about in makeshift boats, wearing makeshift wellingtons and carrying their makeshift children above the rolling waters to school.

Such sturdy folk - unbowed by having to live the life aquatic for six weeks, unbroken by lack of food or drinking water, mostly unharmed by the ravages of disease-filled raw sewage.

My chest swells with pride in the indefatiguabilty of my fellow man and I feel compelled to call down to them:-

"Did you see how far that paper plane went, mate?"

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