Our countryside building renovation project was in full swing. I had taken the biggest gamble of my life. I had given up on my big-money job in London, uprooted my family and moved them (all six of us) to the quiet, idyllic county of Herefordshire (one of only three areas in the whole of the British Isles to be officially classified as 'An Area of Peace and Tranquillity'). And boy did our little David affect our peace and tranquillity on one (un)fateful day.
We had the builders in. The old building was surrounded by scaffolding (it needed renovating, literally, 'from the roof down'). This 'grand old building' dated back to the 1600s, and comprised a four-storey, leading up to a three-storey and, eventually, a two storey (of Elizabethan 'Spanish Armada' timbers and original English Brick panelled) building that had been neglected for goodness how many years: hence the scaffolding. In retrospect, perhaps it was my fault, but, needs must. Before the renovation was complete, as soon as the beautiful old place was habitable, I quickly sold our 'old' place and moved us all over from Buckinghamshire (goodbye London Commuter life) into our beautiful new/old Herefordshire county residence.
The place was still covered in scaffolding (interlinked metal poles that cover the entire building). The highest point of the (very high) building was, of course, the very highest, very tallest chimney pot. Do you know how high a chimney pot, on top of a roof, on top of a very high four-storey building is? I certainly don't (and I shudder when I even think about it). But there he was: sitting in all of his seven year old glory. Sitting right on top of the tallest chimney pot: 40, 50, 60? feet in the air? My heart sank but, at least, my brain got into gear. "David", I loudly whispered – for fear of shocking him into falling off, "David, please come down". "OK Dad."
'Peace and Tranquility?'