The world from my window

There is a shovel waiting on the upstairs balcony, ready to deal with our latest visitor. It's not for my big brother, although I must admit that, at times when I was younger, I could quite happily have hit him on the head with a garden implement, preferably something pronged. No, our latest visitor emerged one night not long after a small white cat appeared mewing in the garden, closely followed by a bat. With Doctor Seuss timing, something that rhymes with mat suddenly appeared in the vine overhead. And it was not a hat. I could cope with the edible dormice in the roof. They have an interesting and noble history (they were once eaten on sticks by ancient Romans). And even ordinary mice I can put up with. But. Not. A. Rat. There it was, looking down on the family gathering on the outside terrace with cold, beady eyes. And then, once we'd spotted it, it shot off, like the proverbial rat up a drainpipe, although it found its way up by shinning up a pillar...

I am home five minutes and I find I have to alter my cast list. Not only is my son no longer a university student, he is a very smart graduate. His degree ceremony was one of the proudest moments of my life. Hundreds of Harry Potter cloaks and a great hall straight out of Hogwarts, just yards from where Number One son studied environmental geoscience at Bristol University. The organ played Bach and the masters in their assorted coloured cloaks and hats took to the stage dresses as Dumbledore and Co. Back in the village, however, something is not quite right. My morning dog walks are usually punctuated by the sound of Russell's Crow across the valley, cocka-doodle-dooing. But not any longer. While I was away, the noisy blighter discovered the invisibility cloak. He is no more. He is a dead bird. He has gone to meet his maker. The end was short and sweet, I am reliably informed. And he went very well with a glass of red wine, apparently. Which is a relief, really, because an a...

I had the pleasure of Number One Son's company for our village fun day weekend. He has come back from university and sprouted a beard. My first reaction was that Shaggy from Scooby Doo had just walked through the door. But Mr Loggins reckoned he looked more like Jude Law. The scarecrow competition was a huge success and judged so graciously by CBeebies star Cerrie Burnell , who was simply lovely. The children adored her and the dads seemed pretty smitten too. Here she is with the winner of the contest, the BFG: A selection of scarecrow photos for you: So fun day has been and gone for another year. Hundreds of people, glorious weather, a score and ten scarecrows, a bagpiper leading the village parade, loads of stalls and sideshows, a bouncy castle and tea ladies in dalmatian gear for the theme of children's fictional characters. There were very few glitches on an almost perfect day. The new sound system made me sound like Norman Collier and the new dishwasher filled up the hall...

It is strimming season and with it comes the inevitable expletives from the Grigg garage. On lawns and in workshops all over the village, the strimmers suddenly take on lives of their own, like the broomsticks in Harry Potter. They even have names. Mr Sheepwash has three adjectives for his and one noun - bastard - as the starting-up the strimmer process turns into a little dance. The smell of petrol and the sound of swear words fill the air, the engine floods and Pelly Sheepwash sagely shakes her head. 'They don't like stale petrol,' she whispers to me, adding that she told Mr Sheepwash this last summer. This has since been confirmed by the local agricultural engineer who says he is beseiged by bastard strimmers in the spring when the men of the house reach the end of their tethers and can deal with the frustration no more. 'Well, my car starts when I leave it for a few days,' Mr Sheepwash says. Rather snappily for one so usually laid back. 'Yes,' says Pelly...