There are few, if any, who would accuse me of being the most practical of fellows. Not that I would wish to be seen as in any way fey - indeed should any person ever threaten someone I hold dear my fearsome wrath would cede place to no man - but horny handed man of soil or toil is not a badge I could reasonably claim as my own.
Tonight, therefore, I am somewhat revelling in the arduous and extended hours Frank and I have spent fitting two new batteries to the horsebox. We are not here talking popping a couple of double-A's into the TV changer. We are talking 12 volt batteries weighing over 20lbs, each to be fitted into a mucky, inaccessible, dark, confined space; with endless labour to find by touch, to fix and tighten nuts half-frozen with dirt and rust.
We are talking limb and sinew stretched to breaking point in the cold and the rain. We are talking not insignificant risk that the wrong terminal connecting to the wrong lead at the wrong moment would send us both to the great menage in the sky.
"By heck, reet champion our Frank" is not language that would ordinarily find an outing from my lips, nor indeed were they words I uttered today. The sentiment though was there and rightly so.
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