Ron's back. Sometimes I really do my toaster with this lot (Blogger that is); often I just can't upload a picture for love or money. Then the next day, wheee, up it goes sweet as a nut. Search me.Cut a load of hay for my old mate Riccardo the other day in his vineyard and the payment, pictured above, followed soon afterwards. Wrapped in the newspaper are half a dozen fresh eggs, nestling amidst the bottles of doubtful provenance. I understand the wine to be a blend of Dolcetto and Barbera but he's always a bit evasive when I try and pin him down. As the years hurry past I'm afraid his wine is getting more, er, unpredictable. I find that now I can only do about half a bottle before I throw in the towel and open something labelled. Blimey, I'm turning into a poof.
Riccardo found a buzzard in his chicken pen the other week that having landed and killed a hen, couldn't find the necessary space for take-off. He beat it to death with a shovel.
