Diary of a St Ivean

Two days before the Great Storm, I discovered in next door's garden the builder responsible for the scaffolding that will soon have been there for twelve months. When I reminded him of the approaching anniversary, he sheepishly mumbled that he'd nearly finished but that the weather had been so poor that...

He was talking about the sunniest February since records began.

But it seems he got the message because yesterday I saw in the garden next door a man wearing a woollen hat and with a cigarette dangling from his month staring up at the house and the scaffolding. I decided he was either a burglar casing the place or the scaffolder himself. Soon the merry sound of steel tubes and bolts being hurled to the ground confirmed that it was the latter.

Though the stuff is still there now lying in the garden waiting to be taken away. Don't hold your breath.

In Penzance yesterday I had my hair cut by a young lady who thankfully didn't utter a word during the whole operation (for which I rewarded her with a modest tip), except to enlighten me on the grading of haircut lengths. It seems that grade one is Yul Brynner short right up to grade eight. She gave me a seven. So now I know and can on future visits demonstrate some knowledge of the art and fashion of modern barbering.