Do you remember that song by the late Bernard Cribbins? The one about the chap who was digging a hole in the ground, and somebody in a bowler hat came along and gave him all sorts of unwanted advice?
You might care to keep this in mind while reading this snapshot of domestic life at Dear Towers.
We should begin, I suppose, at the point where Mr Dear and I were involved in delicate negotiations over the state of our guttering.
‘There are plants sticking out