… Herefordshire. No, I can’t quite believe it either but fifty two weeks have passed since we surfed into the county on a stream of storm washed mud. Tomorrow we’re celebrating with a trip to the “Welsh Rivera” where the dog shall attempt to unearth Australia through vigorous digging, and the kids may, or may not get washed out to sea.

They swim better than me, so it’s pretty pointless going after them. Worse case they’ll be swept onto the east coast of Ireland and the name tags in their swimming costumes should see them DHL’d home, before we’ve really noticed.

On the first day of my very long weekend, I graciously took time out to locate the perfect spot for a lovely family picnic in the warm sunshine. And while hungry offspring disemboweled some pork pies, I found – by happy coincidence – that 200 metres of big Welsh slope provided a bit of a lift for one of my silly gliders. Well it didn’t really, because it was as flat as it was it was calm, and the uplifiting thermals were hidden behind pesky cloud.

But I cared not at all because it’s a view of mountains – so perfect they must be CGI – that I can never tire of. When I explained we were celebrating our first anniversary in the six fingered county, the question of whether I missed anything was posed. I thought about that for a while, before responding that there was really nothing at all. And I’d counted all those reasons twice.

Although my perspective may be skewed by six hours of Motorway madness ending in Milton Keynes yesterday. Our spanky new office is so fresh from the construction packet, the SatNav can’t find it and niehter could I. Having parked some four damp nautical miles away, the irony of travelling 120 miles to participate in a video conference with an office closer to me couldn’t even raise a smile.

A smile which stayed deep stowed as I attempted to carve out a political niche with the “5 Door Hatchback and Anti Motorway Party“* using my 365 day old local knowledge (no good, got lost), and the ever reliable SatNav (reliable in that it’ll direct you up the back passage of a passing cow). It saved me 4 miles and cost me about an hour, but – in principle – a navigational triumph.

I did manage to crack a grin earlier today though as the four new chickens (BHD**, Fluffy, Lt. Nibble and Boudicia: it’s a long story and has a Random element – I’ll spare you) plus the surviving wonky necked Nugget have brought about the “Second Laying“. A single egg greeted us this evening, and by my calculation we merely need another 9,254 to break even assuming they never eat again.

So as the sun gently sets over the field, and the head settles almost as gently on a muched loved bottle of Hooky Gold, I’m feeling immensely smug. Which shall likely last all the time it takes for a man in a boiler suit to drag in a huge intake of breath, and demand a few million pounds for two new tyres tomorrow.

I wonder if he’ll take an egg as a down payment?

* Got as good a chance as anyone else I reckon. It’s not like those bonkers “The Sun hasn’t set on the Empire” yet nutters or the fascist twats in ill fitting suits. We’re campeigning on two issues, and our first policy will be a massive economy stimulating programme of building scorpion pits.

** Bad Hair Day