No flies on him

We're having a bit of trouble with the compost bin. Every time we open it, a load of fruit flies come roaring out in a hornet-shaped cloud. I have asked Mr Grigg to bring his fork back from the plot to turn the contents over to bury the blighters but to no avail.

It has something to do with the weather, which has taken a turn for the better. Ever the optimist, I have been predicting a heatwave for weeks. And finally it arrives. The village comes and goes, cars still park this way and that in the Square and a large lorry tries to go up the one-way system.

There is a rumour that Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is about to be remade around these parts. Hence the picture at the top of this posting. I couldn't bear to use one of flies. I cannot see it working without Julie Christie and Terence Stamp. Sergeant Troy's devil-may-care attitude is not unlike Mr Grigg's, who underneath it all is as dependable as Gabriel Oak. Some 80 cast and crew are looking for self-catering accommodation. I now hear the whole village (the Griggs included) is planning to bunk up with relatives to make a bit of money.

Tuppence has just come back from three weeks in Ghana with a tan and a song in her heart. Mr Loggins and Darling are about to go off camping and Pelly has Mr Sheepwash going full pelt with the pressure washer on the terrace. Mrs Bancroft has invited me to lunch at The Wild Garlic. Bellows is back from his hols - we could hear him from the Square. Monty Chocs-Away has erected two very large posts outside his large house and we are waiting for the bulletin on the gates to find out more.

Lady Friend put 25 wine bottles outside Mr St John's for recycling yesterday, after learning he feared the whole village would think him a lightweight for the lack of booze receptacles in his green box. At last he can hold his head high.

Celebrity Farmer had a name check on Sky Sports after being spotted at Edgbaston. Luckily he has recorded it on his hard drive so is playing it over and over again. Meanwhile, Celeb's mother - the minx - is coming to our 'No Hat, No Supper' party next week to thank our fete helpers. But she read the invitation as 'no knickers'. Mr Grigg says he will be checking things out on her arrival.

The mirrored garden of the Nymph's Dad has become the target for people taking pot-shots. Over the road, children have etched rude words inside the play tunnel on the green. I know this only because a delightful seven-year-old came through it and then asked me what was it that Old Mrs Hunt had.

The wedding is getting nearer and Number One Daughter is getting stressier. Number One Son, who is giving her away, has a new tie to go with his prom suit and is pleased he does not have to make a speech. Less pleased, however, is Number One Daughter on being told her mother - that's me - is going to make one instead.

Anyway, I digress. Back to the compost bin. I have been telling Mr Grigg for some time the best accelerant is male urine. He eventually listened when Pelly said the same thing (for some reason, he takes notice of what she says. I think it is the Queen's Guide badge she still wears with pride or the eco-halo that hangs like an aura over her head).

I say he needs to get on with it before the new neighbours arrive next week. What a welcome that would be, seeing him taking aim over the other side of the wall.

'I could do it in a cup and then chuck it in,' he suggests

'No, just get it out, take the top off the bin and pee into it,' I say.

He makes a face, points to his groin and then makes a buzzing-sort of fly sound.

'They might get me,' he says. 'Sounds like a task for Nobby Odd-Job.'

Nobby, you have been warned.

That's about it.

Love Maddie x