So there I was, sitting at the computer at 7.30 this morning, thinking that I'd get a bit of writing done. I'd taken the day off so I could get a clear run. I'd made myself a nice cup of coffee. The sun was shining. The wattlebirds were beating up the starlings. All was right with the world.
And then this happened.
I can't help feeling there may be a touch of the Arthur Dent in all this. Except that it's taking place next door and I don't, as far as I'm aware, have a friend who is either an out of work actor from Guildford or from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse.
Now they're using a big claw to pick things up and compact piles of debris. Looks like fun to operate. Not so fun to watch through the window. Especially as my house is shaking as if it were in an earthquake and the skip they're dropping the debris into is literally a hand's breadth from my fence.
I don't like the machinery operator's choice of radio station either. But I think I should prioritise the annoyances.