You know, the chick-lit about the prada wearing latte sipping urbanite
who decamps to a damp mould sprunkled hovel in the country, expecting
agas and dog roses and free range eggs from fluffy hens - and gets
instead toads and outdoor plumbing and a shop which only sells parmesan
ready grated in cardboard tubs and an industrial pig unit moving onto
the land next door.
The deep contented sigh of this happy rural slum dweller, toasting her
dirty toes while necking rum isn't all that entertaining… but the life
is perfect.
Now if I could only get the toads to wipe their little feet when they
come in from the rain.
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