Yesterday Benedict Ambrose and I went to the grounds of our old home, the Historical House, to pick blackberries before dark. 

It was a bit like the Second Mrs DeWinter’s nightmare about Manderley in Rebecca. The shrubbery was overgrown, and the recently paved drive was marked here and there were tufts of bright grass growing right through it. A dog-walking couple who recognised B.A. told him there was a mass of hay just rotting at the end of the field; being in the know, I explained that there was so much dog faeces in it, it couldn’t be sold for animal consumption. 

Fortunately, the House was okay. The rock-smashed window has been repaired. Whatever has happened to the grounds, at least the House looks fine. 

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