Trip out, no fuel, amber light blinking reproachfully; time to fill the car with petrol. An almost impossibly complex task you might think, but there’s nothing to it for someone of Rupert’s prowess. Then again, things never run smoothly when Rupert is involved. Despite having owned cars for years Rupert hasn’t yet realised that those idiot car designers have not standardised which side of the car the filler cap is on. Left or right? No mater, most garages’ filler hoses are jolly stretchy and will reach however badly you park. Somehow though, with Rupert’s parking redefines ‘approximate’, no amount of cursing those idiot pump designers will stretch the hose quite enough to reach the filler. No problem, a quick realignment and the hose reaches. Rupert’s normal placid temper has been restored. The only problem now is that the idiot pump designers have made the numbers on the pump so minute that Rupert’s “out of focus glasses”* can’t focus on them. Still, how hard can it be? Pull the trigger; fuel flows, just count to 60 or something and all will be well. No need to see how much fuel has gone in as long as you know that fuel has gone in. So Rupert stands, one hand in his pocket, one on the pump casually admiring his distorted reflection in the plate glass of the garage window. Count to 60, put the pump away, close the cap, then go to pay. It is at this point that it all starts to go horribly wrong.

“How much for pump 3?”

“Nothing, you haven’t put any fuel in”

“Eh?”

“You have to wait for me to authorise the pump, didn’t you notice the little numbers weren’t going round?”

“Golly!” said Rupert.

A slightly flustered Rupert tries again: this time it will work; this time the little numbers have moved; this time he will succeed. Triumphantly he returns to the pay booth.

“How much?”

“£35 please”

“I left my card here the first time I came in”

“Don’t think so, mate”

There is only one possible explanation as real men just never forget where they have put things. Incandescent with rage Rupert storms back to the car threatening dire retribution to the cocky miscreant who dares to …! Back in the car he finds us with our off practice look of Rupert induced embarrassment. He also finds the stolen wallet on the seat where he had thrown it. Luckily, it is biologically impossible for Rupert to suffer embarrassment, so he has no problem returning to pay for the fuel. A mere twenty minutes to fill up and we are on our way. Suffice it to say the current Jeep has blacked out passenger windows so we can all cringe anonymously in the back where no one can see us.

*Many stories involve Rupert’s hawk like vision being spoiled by his “out of focus” glasses!

Trouble is they are too good to use now, best build some plain ones for the guests!

Next, build a sand mold on the base then smear the puddled clay over it.

Relax with a glass of wine and wait for the first layer to dry. As it may take days for the first layer to dry you may need a lot of wine! 

Next week: the chimney and insulating layer…

Rupert’s mother has made the arduous trip down from Somerset to see her beloved son.  This merits a card at least, so it’s off to the local shop for Rupert.  There’s a card with “Mother” in large type so that must be it, there’s some other writing but without his glasses it’s far too small to read.

When he gets the card home and reads it properly, it turns out that the tiny writing says “Happy Birthday”.  What idiot would put cards with the word “mother” on display on mothering Sunday that were notmothering Sunday cards? Busy people don’t have time to read every word on a card!

This is the moment when Rupert’s native wit and cunning come into play.  No need to waste money on a new card, just stick a post it note over the word ‘birthday’ and scrawl in ‘mothers day’! It is, as they say, the thought that counts.

Here’s how to do it:-

First Make your base..

Then a floor…

Draw a circle

Put up the walls…

Now the Roof poles

Now the many layers of insulation and waterproofing…

et Voila..

Those who follow Rupert’s adventures will know that we very nearly collected the yurts last week. Now for the return! Once again we chose the awesome power of the Vito, confident this time that it would be big enough. Once again we arrowed towards London, ears bleeding, spine crumbling, maidens swooning. Rupert, as always drove perfectly unlike all the others who were either driving far too slowly^[1]or far too quickly^[2]. In no time at all we arrived at the warehouse, in fact we were an hour early, plenty of time for Rupert to try the “Fat Boy, Double Gut-buster” Breakfast. Surely this would be no problem at all for the all Halwill, heavyweight eating champion. His finely honed body a testament to years of dedicated eating. Admittedly, the South East is a much larger place than Halwill Junction but a champion is a champion. We were soon to find out that standards of decadence are a little higher in London than in Devon.

We strode into the café, like a heavy weight boxer and his enthusiastic second. I Paulie, to his Rocky.

Eventually it was our turn at the head of the queue:

“One ordinary Breakfast and one Double Gut-Buster Please. Oh! And two mugs of tea.”

The waitress raised a contemptuous eyebrow: “Who’s the gut-buster for?” this seemed a little strange as I was standing next to the finely honed eating machine that is Rupert.

“Him”, I said, jerking a thumb in Rupert’s general direction.

“No, who’s going to eat the Gut-Buster?”

This was perplexing, could she not see the once and future champion?

“He’s standing here” I said.

“You’ve got no hope”.

How little she knew us, she hadn’t reckoned on our steely determination and downright greed.

Looking across to the neighbouring table we espied a plate piled high with breakfast fair; this must be the fabled gut-buster. Admittedly a challenge, but definitely do-able. Rupert looked confident. It was only when my ordinary breakfast came out looking remarkably like the plate opposite that alarm bells started to sound. If this was a standard breakfast what must the Double Gut-Buster be like?

“I don’t feel hungry” said Rupert. Loser words I never thought I’d hear.

A few stomach stretches later and Rupert was ready to eat!

‘Ding’ went a bell and out was heaved the mountain of food known as the Gut-Buster.

Blood drained from Rupert’s face. This wasn’t breakfast, this was suicide. This wasn’t a mismatch on a Tyson verses Bruno scale, this was Tyson verses Willie Carson.

“I can’t eat all that” More loser talk^[3]. This breakfast would feed the whole of Halwill Junction for a week: this was the EU food mountain on a plate (a very big plate at that): this was more food than most people eat in a lifetime!

Numb with shock Rupert prodded tentatively at the mountain that confronted him, hoping against hope that it was hollow, it wasn’t. “There’s a sausage missing” Moaned Rupert, His mind clearly unhinged by shock.

By now, a small crowd had gathered, camera phones flashed and good luck cries echoed around the café. The proprietor waited surreptitiously in the background, defibrillator in hand and telephone speed dial set to 999.

“Exactly how many chips are there in this?” I asked the waitress.

“A bag” was the somewhat enigmatic reply.

Twenty minutes later and Rupert was beginning to struggle. Sweat poured from his brow, strange noises emanated from his stomach and his face had gone a colour never before seen in a healthy human. Time to cheat. Surreptitiously I shovelled chips and bacon into my gob. Unfortunately I’m not the finely honed eating machine that Rupert is and soon I was full to bursting. Defeat was inevitable. Rupert had done his best but had learned a lesson in humility. All that remained was ignoble retreat and to pick up the yurt. Lesson learned. Better to be a big fish in a small pond than.

[1] Dangerous, causing perfect drivers to break or change lane.

[2] Dangerous, causing perfect drivers to move over from the comfort of the middle lane.

[3] Definitely accurate loser talk.

Ingredients:

• Sprouts
• Biryani sauce
• sausages

Method

Pour the biryani sauce over the sprouts using a sausage as a stirring stick if desired. Discard sausage. Serve. Stand well away from naked flames for the rest of the day.

Phone rings – “What’s the worst thing I could tell you right now?”

Given that all my relatives are in robust health and that I have spent all week installing complex plumbing under the floor of a very expensive and immaculate house I didn’t need many guesses.

- “water flooding through the dinning room ceiling, makes the Pacific ocean look like the Sahara dessert, Noah would feel right at home etc.”

I jumped straight into the van and sped off (more ’chugged slowly away, belching noxious smoke’ to be honest) leaving my bewildered sister to wonder if she had dreamt my visit. I traveled in dread, expecting at any moment to meet the flood water flowing out from Yeovil.  Unfortunately, I could not get through to Peter on the phone so I thought he would just have to take his chances with Rupert who I left playing happily on his tractor.  When I finally arrived back in Yeovil I was slightly disappointed with the size of the flood.  No collapsed ceiling, no ruined floor just a slow drip into a cup.  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or cross at the slight drip which met me.  Four hours later and all was right as rain (dry rain that is), no damage done except to my nerves.  Trouble is I missed Peter so I will be interested to see what Rupert has bought on our behalf.  Lesson learned; only do work on people’s houses if they will be improved by a flood.

The new yurts are finally to be picked up and erected! We have had a few problems long the way but it is all plain sailing now.

The only problem is what vehicle to take? We settle for the Benz pantechnicon: this isn’t a van this is a go kart with storage; lowered, stiffened suspension, bling wheels, chipped and tuned to the point of destruction the straight through exhaust producing a noise like an enraged bull fired from a cannon. This shouldn’t be called a Vito, this is a Virile! The one teeny pitfall is the slightly limited load space but then how big can two yurts be? Precisely on schedule we set of for the mystic east^[1]. 5:30 and Don and Rupert are on the road, the Virile’s rock hard suspension locating every pothole with ease, the deafening roar making peoples ears bleed, women lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the Virile swooning by the wayside^[2].

Two hours in and it’s time for breakfast and fuel. The warning bells should have sounded when we entered an empty transport café at peak breakfast time. We soon found out why; not so much the full English as ‘tubes of minced pig extremity’ with mysterious brown things (mushrooms?), burned nimble and a mug of tea in the smallest mugs seen outside a doll’s house. Refreshed, we set off again. Navigation was straight forward^[3] and we soon arrived at the warehouse. There we waited in the freezing cold. Then we waited some more. And more… This was getting worrying. A quick phone call soon assured us that the importer had forgotten we were coming so we got down to doing some more waiting while he made his way in.

When eventually he arrived he enquired, “Where’s your van?” this seemed a little strange as we sitting in the sleek, black magnificence of the Vito.

“Here”, we said.

“No, the van to pick up the yurts”

Was the man blind? Was he so dazzled by the Vito that he could not see?

“We are sitting in it” we said.

“You’ve got no hope” was his optimistic quip.

How little he knew us, he hadn’t reckoned on our ingenuity and steely determination. With great skill and perseverance we packed and repacked, filling every nook and cranny until eventually we sat back satisfied that he was right. Every cloud has a silver lining they say, in this case it means we will get another visit to the warehouse and Rupert will get a chance to accept the “gut buster” challenge at the local Fat Boy Café Eat it and you don’t have to pay. If they have any sense they will lock the doors when they see Rupert coming.

All that remained was to cart back our one and a bit yurts. Roaring like a flatulent brontosaurus after a night on sprout biryani^[4] the Vito swallowed up the miles and so we returned in semi- triumph.

Saturday and it’s time to unpack the van and try and erect a yurt. Many people gathered round, men, women, children and Rupert ^[5]. Unfortunately someone had read that it was unlucky for women to touch the crown wheel so they were soon seated, drinking warming mulled wine and proffer their opinions on the organisational and technical abilities of we men. Much to everyone’s amazement the lattice work was soon up with hardly any trapped fingers or colourful language. The sacred crown wheel soon followed. How could the women ever doubt us? Once we had the first ten spokes in place we decided that this yurt erection business is a doddle and there was no need to carry on. To be honest it was cold and that mulled wine was looking mighty tempting. How wise a decision this is only time will tell. There dose seem to be a lot of bits still to assemble and I do seem to have misplaced the instructions but for now, we are happy. Next time we assemble the yurt it will be in its final location.

[1] When you live in Devon it’s all mysterious and mostly East except Cornwall which is the bewildering West.

[2] Wherever the Virile passes, the birth rate goes up!

[3] Even the satnav managed to cope

[4] The half ton of felt muted the sound inside the van somewhat

[5] Rupert may belong to one or more of the previous categories