I WALKED into the pub to find Rog the Oil and Mickey already there, arguing about the location of a cottage in the village. They’ve lived here for a combined one hundred years plus and they were still arguing until one eventually said, “Oh, on the corner with the red door?”. “Yes”. Finally, and by now no-one could remember why the discussion had started, so we had a drink. It seemed the best idea.

These two have been friends all their lives but happily trade insults - Rog always calls Mickey ,”Eleven-o-reef”, as he reckons if you tell Mickey you’ve been to Tenerife, he’ll say he’s been to Eleven-o-reef. Mickey’s riposte isn’t polite.

We had our usual exchange of health notes, but Rog’s imminent retirement is preoccupying his thoughts. It’s a big step for an active and sociable person, but I know he is in demand. I fully expect to see him in a few weeks complaining about how busy he is.

Mickey has been retired for several years and says he’s perfected the art of doing absolutely nothing, unless Plymouth are playing at home. In which case, he sets off so early, to get a prime parking spot, the crowd are only just leaving from the previous game. But, Mickey is a man of habit so nothing will have changed.

I reflected on this, looking up at the sycamore tree in the garden. There are gaps in the leaves now, I suspect maybe half are on the lawn. I wondered, if Rog was bored, he might use a rake but I’m aware he gardens under protest and with strict instructions from the ever-patient Dawn. I’d best get the rake out, there’s nothing else for it!

However, Tim and I have topped the field for the first time, leaving some grass for the little animals. What a great job, the little Fergie tractor singing away as we give it beans up the hill. A friend wants us to do it on his field and it will make a change to be on level ground and not the slippery, sloping challenge we have.