7 gunmen in my back yard

Woken up by Grandad at 0745 which was far too early, we only had to be out for 0815 so that Grandma could have her shower (ensuite in our room). Once she'd finally appeared (one leg not functioning today) we drove to the tip to shoe-bank the unrequired footwear and ditch some old fossilized paint pots. For my trouble, Grandad has added £20 to my Lego fund.

For no apparent reason today was Dorset Use-Your-Vehicle Day and the narrow country lanes were full of Land Rovers and milk lorries and sludge-gulpers (septic tank emptiers) and little old ladies driving very slowly on the crown of the road.

We took the scenic route back through Thornford and Beer Hackett (PuddleDaddies must want to live there) which did not reduce the numbers of unnecessary oncoming vehicles in middle of road.

Upon regaining home, we couldn't help but notice the large group of armed men taking up position in one of the fields visible out of the bedroom window. They fanned out (so this pic only has some of them), stood to attention, and blasted birds and bunnies as the beaters banged the bushes up by Ye Olde Pheasant Rearing Copse. I watched them for a while and exploded along with them as they popped away for ages.

Grandma gave me a preparatory recorder lesson but my hands are too small to reach all the holes, the best I can manage is a series of mournful tweets, lucky I'm not paying mobile rates on them.

Before we left, we had to go through a quick farce, for no visit is complete without one. We knew we needed to fill up the car's windscreen water-squirty reservoir. But could we find the bonnet opening lever? No. All 3 of us tried, moving seats, using torches. I tried the boot, for you never know. In the end, we had a race.

Bud tried booting up the computer to ask Mr Google, Grandad asked Grandma to look up the phone number of the local car dealer in the free newspaper, which now comes with colour plates on selected pages. While Windows Updates were being grindingly installed, Grandad talked to the nice man who said you have to turn around 3 times, tap the Logo on the bonnet, slide it up and to one side, find the hidden keyhole, insert key and twizzle it in a certain sequence, enter MI5 code and release. FFS.

Having refused to eat much lunch, I yummed up a far more expensive soss'n'chips in the service station on the way home. MadMartin from Bud's work is ill so we can't get rid of them to the pub. Instead we opened the presents from Dorset to the usual confusion. We did indeed get some quality gifts, but some extras.

Jof got a napkin. I got an article on magic from the December 2007 edition of the Observer Newspaper and a packet of balloons (Millenium party mix). Bud got some medal ribbons and his school magazine. Jof got a school photo of Bud aged 13, which is a sight not to behold. I also got this book from his childhood in Libya which is a collector's Gem. Struwwelpeter, by Dr Heinrich Hoffmann, is a series of very laudable cautionary tales about how you shouldn't go around being cruel, rude or slovenly in your pinafore and corset because dogs will bite you, unknown assailants will cut off your thumbs and you will die in a variety of interesting ways, all of which are your fault, rooted in the Victorian era (with a strong flavour of 15th Century Holland), and quite probably linked to the wrong kind of mushrooms again.

This book (1972) is such a treasure I am going to serialize it for my learned and wonderful readers.

I start with a random page that rather leapt out at me. I expect some of my dark-faced colleagues at school will have questions about the Woolly-headed Black-a-moor ("Oh Blacky, you're as black as ink!")