There is a corner of Connecticut that is forever England. Here lives James Sheed; son of Albion, father of two, mixer of a mean Martini, user of over specified heavy garden machinery, Slayer of Dragons and holistic marine mechanic.
Its the 4th July and an Englishman is at a loose end while the natives celebrate the loss of our colonial revenue.
Fortified by a Fat Boy Breakfast from the Post Road Diner James announces that he will fix our Generator today. This is the red beast that has not had the faintest of heartbeats nor drawn the shallowest of breaths for over 12 months - skeptically we retire to Jem and I show him what the problem is.
The symptoms are considered, a prognosis delivered and a beer drunk. Then, in a flash: the twist of a 17mm spanner, the wipe of a cloth, the laying on of hands and a few quiet words, a final squirt of oil and the gentle threat of replacement.
It started, how happy are we
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