Things That Go Bump In The Shepherd's Hut

Here I am! All in one piece and for that I am grateful, because things could have been so much worse...

(At this point I do not want to alarm my Mum, so I am going to say 'I am okay, Mum - do not be alarmed!')

And so I continue...

...so last weekend found Andy and me in Suffolk, in a shepherd's hut, doing a spot o' glamping. 'Twas Andy's birthday, and we have decided that we are of an age where we don't really want to be spending money on birthday tat so we're going to spend money on birthday weekends away instead. It was a bit of a posh shepherd's hut - massive bed, wood burning stove, private shower room, set in a woodland area, all very  nice. 

Except the peace and stillness of the first night was disturbed by the branches of the tree hanging over the hut scraping against the roof in a teeth-edging 'eeek, eeeek, screeeeeeekkkkk,' kind of way. 

So the next day, we decided to take action. Of course, sensible glampers would have called the owners of the hut and said, 'Please could you come out today with a saw and sort out these over-hanging tree branches,' but Andy and I were high on the excitement of a visit to Sutton Hoo, not to mention seeing pigs in fields and a kookaburra, so we thought, 'We can deal with a tree branch. We are allotmenteers! We have collected swarms of bees! We have no fear of the natural world. Except bears, maybe.'

So Andy went outside the hut, and I stood on the bed and hung from the small window in order to grab the branch and bend it down towards Andy as far as possible so he could grab it and snap it off at the screechy point. 

Now, the important thing you need to know about the bed upon which I was standing is that it was taller than your average bed. It was what I call a 'Princess and the Pea' bed. At least three feet high. Could have done with a step ladder to climb up on it, but a gentle vault sufficed. But it was tall. Very tall.

Anyway, I leant from the window, grabbed the branch, bent it down towards Andy, who hung on to it for grim death. So far so good. The screeching stopped. And I thought, 'I'll go outside and help Andy break the branch.'

And then, dear reader, I performed what I can only describe as the most stupid manoeuvre of my life. To this moment I still do not know of what I was thinking.

I decided that it would be a good idea to step, from my standing position, BACKWARDS off the bed in one step to the floor.

Now doing this from a standard height bed could be deemed as being marginally stupid, but from a bed of enormous height? I realised, as I plunged backwards, in what seemed to be slow motion, that this had to go down as the most stupid idea I have had for, oh, at least twenty eight years. 

I flailed wildly in an attempt to save myself. I hit the floor standing, then lost balance and ricocheted into the chest of drawers which bore enormous knobs. I rebounded off the chest of drawers across the hut and back into the bed. I seem to remember at this point I may have sworn a bit.

Andy said from outside the hut it sounded very spectacular. He found me sprawled on the bed, going 'Ow, ow, ooooow!' Or something like that.

I have a bruise the size of a side plate on my right upper arm. It bloody hurts. I have been covering it up with a variety of cardigans all week in order to avoid awkward questions being asked at work.

I am such an idiot. 

On more positive notes, we had the first harvest from our allotment today - lovely rhubarb! The allotment is looking good. Potatoes, beans and shallots are in, strawberries, beetroot , parsnips, carrots and radish going in tomorrow. Tomatoes, cucumbers, more beans and aubergines are taking over the greenhouse. A landscaper man has been secured to sort out the patio, renew the fence and returf the lawn in the back garden. Pandora is making steady steps towards better health, and I have been offered a full time contract at my school to carry on tutoring for another year. 

Now, if only I could find some anti-stupid medicine...

Gerbera

Whenever Sainsbugs deem their gerbera to be past their 'best before' date (a BB date? On a PLANT???) they put them on the 'SELL NOW- BARGAIN' stand alongside the hardening bread rolls and looking ever-so-slightly-like-there-could-be-a-hint-of-mould cheese oddments, at a reduced price, usually £3.99 down to £1.99.

And I rescue them, and nurse them back to health so their bright and breezy neon coloured cheerfulness can grace the living room window for months to come and distract me from the fact there is a main road outside.

At the moment there are 4 in residence - a red one, a pink one, an orange one and a white one...

...until half an hour ago when Andy collected me from Sainsbugs and spied a yellow one poking from the top of the basket.

'I haven't got a yellow one,' says I, by way of excuse, don't know why because Andy does not mind what I buy.

'Should we start a gerbera rescue centre?' says he.

I give this a moment of thought. 'Best not,' I say. 'Because I suspect there could be some confusion and we might find gerbils being left on the doorstep. And given Pandora is no longer allowed the varied diet she once enjoyed, it could tempt fate.'

So we shall not be starting a gerbera rescue centre in case we find ourselves overrun with rodents.

But I shall still be smuggling the sad and discarded ones out of Sainsbugs whenever I get the chance.

Dear God...

Dear God,

Hello! How are you? Hope you are enjoying your day off, although I expect in this day and age Sundays are taken over by paperwork and admin. Still, it's a Bank Holiday, and a lovely sunny one at that here in Kent, so hope same is with you.

I thought I'd write to you rather than using the usual form of communication because I want to make sure my question gets through. I am sure the usual method is being hindered by the increase in mobile phone masts and satellite TV clogging up the airways. So my question is this...

...can you explain, please God, what the reason is for the existence of the plant mare's tail? I say this as an allotmenteer who has spent 4 hours this morning digging the stuff up from her plot and feeling like she is not actually getting anywhere. There is so much mare's tail that we are in danger of turning into Follyfoot Farm. I'm half expecting Black Beauty to come galloping across the site with all the Thelwell ponies in tow.

And is it true, God, what I have read on the RHS website? That mare's tail is the most pernicious of weeds and once you've got it, you might as well say goodbye to your social life because it'll never go away and you will spend every waking hour trying to weed it out and/or hacking off every head that dares pop above soil level? If it is, God, then may I be so bold as to suggest that this plant wasn't one of you best ideas?

Whilst I am here, God, can I get a blessing for the dead rat that we found? The semi-decomposed, covered in flies, smelt like cat poo dead rat? Andy scraped it up as best he could given its putrified state and gave it a burial at sea - well, in the river actually. He dealt with it because he is a vet and a man so drew the short straw on both counts. I did my bit by finding it in the first place and not immediately throwing up.

Oh, and can I get a couple of 'thank you, bless yous,' too, to the nice neighbour who gave us some tomato and lettuce plants, and the other nice neighbour who popped across to tell us what a good job we were doing? Luckily, I wasn't swearing at the mare's tail when she did, because Andy had just made a nice cuppa on the camping stove and my blood sugar was high on a shortbread finger.

And whilst I am here, can I just bring up the subject of mosquitos? And could something possibly done to stop them making a bee-line for me as soon as I pick up my gardening fork? And if they still find me too irresistible and bite anyway, please could I not swell up like a balloon and itch for three weeks after? Thanks.

I think that's about it, God. Thank you for all the birds that visited today - the robin, the blue tits, the woodpecker, the geese, the two gentlemen blackbirds in hot pursuit of the lady blackbird and the thrush who got into the netted area of the allotment that was erected especially to keep birds out and away from the soft fruit.

And thank you for all the butterflies and bees, too, and the forsythia that is in full blossom, and the hop bine I found and almost pulled up because all I could see at that point was flipping mare's tail.

And thank you for reminding Andy to wear his hat so he didn't come home with a boiled head.

That's all, God. I'll wait to hear back from you vis a vis the mare's tail, shall I? Thanks for listening!

P.S Even though yesterday was 'Garden in the Nude Day,' I kept all my clothes on, mostly because of the mosquitos and despite my friend Vera saying that as I am going to be 48 this year I am just about old enough to start dipping my toes in the pond of eccentricity. And I wouldn't really want to perch on a spike of mare's tail sans pantaloons either.

At the End of the Day and Other Ramblings

It has become my ambition to get through the day without hearing the phrase, 'At the end of the day.' What does that mean anyway, 'At the end of the day?' I tell you what it means. It means NOTHING, that is what it means. It goes on my list of no-nos along with the misuse of the words 'legendary' and 'awesome.'

But then there are several things that bemuse me. Like tattoos and piercings. I say this as someone who is too scared to have either. Actually, I say it as someone who does not feel the need for extraneous holes upon my person, and someone who looked down at the area between her knees and feet today, surveyed the sudden appearance of what can only be described as elephant wrinkles and thought, 'thank goodness I never had that butterfly tattoo on my ankle that I toyed with years ago because now it would be looking like a deflated caterpillar. Or some kind of rainbow poo.'

Ducklings and goslings have appeared on the lake in the park. Spring has officially arrived although come the evenings I still feel inexplicably cold. I am on the verge of blaming my thyroid, and keep poking my neck for any suspicious swellings. All this does is make me cough. I discarded my fluffy socks a couple of weeks ago because it seemed absurd to be wearing fluffy socks in April, for goodness' sake, but my feet turn blue in the evenings, and what with the coughing I think I might need to reinstate the socks. And a scarf.

Andy managed to throw a jar of marmalade across the kitchen floor this morning in a quite spectacular and nerve shattering display of 'Oopsadaisy!' Now I know we are still trying to wade through the results of my mammoth marmalade making session of 2011, but really there was no need for that, dear heart. I mean, I made a marmalade cake last week. That got rid of 4 tablespoons.

The Year 11s are getting very fidgety as study leave and exams approach. Some of them are trying to escape early using tenuous excuses as they are rounded up on the school drive way like wayward gnu. 'But Mr Jones said we could go bowling.' Yeah, right. It's like manning Colditz sometimes. Darren said, 'Will you miss me, Miss?' 'No,Darren,' said I. 'Bet you will,' said Darren. 'I'll come back and visit you.' 'Please don't,' said I. He laughed. I suspect he may think he has spotted some irony, something we have been practising for his exam. I want to tell him he hasn't.

I continue my master plan to plant the entire world,nay the Universe, with lavender by installing 5 more plants in the back garden. That makes 19 now. I ought to make it a round 20, but I prefer odd numbers so perhaps 21 then. I love lavender. Can one have too much lavender? I don't think so. I wish it could survive as a houseplant. Then I could line ALL the windows in the house with pots of lavender and ruffle them as I pass by. Everyone would be in a soporific stupor by Friday.

Pandora is a bit better. The last time I said this, she got worse. So forget I said that. (But she is!)

After 12 years with the same company we have decided to change our broadband Internet supplier. This is clearly the act of crazy people because something is bound to go hideously wrong during the changeover, and we shall become embroiled in some dreadful customer service debacle and in two years time we shall have to involve The Guardian Money page to sort it all out, whereby we shall be offered a derisory £25 in compensation for the distress caused, along with a bouquet of flowers that wilt and die within 12 hours of being delivered. Watch this space for the inevitable rant-a-roony.

I think Joan Collins should avoid wearing ruched satin because it makes her look like a half empty loo roll that has been dropped in water and then dried out on a very hot radiator.

I brought some forget-me-nots home from the allotment at the weekend and put them in a clear glass vase of water. I can see that they are starting to sprout roots. Do I put them back in the ground in the front garden? Will they survive? Shall I transfer them into a pot first, then pop 'em in the ground when they have finished flowering? Oh Lord - why am I being tormented with angst about forget-me-nots.

Apparently the DVD of The Life of Pi is out now. I tried reading the book but didn't get very far. Might do better with the film. What I am really waiting for is the arrival of the Pie of Pi. So long as it is vegetarian. With a nice cheesy crust.

And that, at the end of the day, concludes my ramblings.

You Decide...

Okay, here are two crackers of speech that I heard today, one on the radio and one on the telly, and I can't decide which is the best...so I am leaving it to you to decide.

Offering Number 1: 'She's not impressed when I get it out because she can't walk to the kitchen.'

Offering Number 2 : 'There are so many different cakes to point the finger at.'

(If you need some back ground information to help you make your decision, Number 1 was a man being interviewed about a huge tapestry he had sewn of the Battle of Hastings and he was describing how much space it took up when it was fully unrolled, and his wife's response to the ensuing length, and Number 2 was a football manager being asked about his tactics for a forth-coming game, and clearly doesn't understand that you don't point a finger at cake, you eat it!)

These Animals

Pandora is unwell again. More bouts of projectile vomiting, another loss of weight, she goes off with Andy to work today to be prodded and poked, x-rayed and scanned, blood-let and whatever else these vets get up to when they are dealing with a patient who can't tell them how they are feeling.

I leave my phone on at work, so Andy can call me with the best of things or the worst of things as and when they happen. I spend a few hours fretting and trying to teach - my two Afghani students who are having extra language lessons, Darren with the latest update on his crazy sex 'n' drug 'n' rock 'n' roll lifestyle, Bob who is lovely but possesses academically challenged brain cells, Al who thinks he is hilarious but really shouldn't give up the day job for the life of a standup comic and Sally who regularly asks advice about her boyfriend to wit I reply that she should tell him to sling his hook because, at the ripe old age of 47 I can tell he is a waste of space, but then I can also see through her love-struck 15 year old eyes that a) she is too scared to be on her own and b) she thinks she can change him. You can't change 'em, sweetheart - you just have to learn to live with them.

And I teach a whole class of Year 10 who I thought would be resistant to having a temporary teacher this late in the school year but are in fact, catching on to what we need to do and have been nothing but hardworking and agreeable.

And I fret because Pandora is my little cat, my follower, my pal. She sings to me. She dances with me. We have conversations, speaking in different languages but understanding each other nonetheless. Is it right to get so emotional about an animal? They are only animals after all...I hate it when people say that....'only animals'...

The phone call comes. Pandora is waking from her anaesthetic. Her major organs are all fine. But there is something 'not quite right' with her bowels. She will need more tests, and an operation.

I get home from work to find her with patchy shaved fur here and there and demanding food very loudly. She sits outside the bathroom whilst I nip to the loo, and shouts, 'Give me food! Now!' She is perky. Tail aloft. Schmoozing.

In the garden, Primrose and Daisy are dustbathing and sunbathing and doing their best to denude the willow arch and dig their way under next-door's fence. Tybalt is curled up on a cushion, the very picture of a contented cat, lapping up the afternoon sun. Phoebe, too, is sun-catching, as she does her yoga routine. Seventeen years old and still able to cock a leg behind her ear.

These animals...they do make me smile.

Battle Garden

Since we moved to our house eight and a half years ago, we have had a bit of a battle with our back garden. It was all bushy shrubs, grass and a dodgy shed when we arrived and has been through many a change since. I almost typed 'transformation' there, but transformation suggests something Cinderella-ish, something caterpillar-to-butterfly, something drudgy-to-diamanté, and by those criteria, transformation it has been not.

The thing is I have always been a bit frightened of back gardens. Now I know that sounds a bit weird (I can hear you all shouting 'weirdo' right now) but I have been giving this fright-of-back-garden some serious thought and here is my (weirdo) theory...

...I think it is that whatever house I have lived in as an adult (there have been 6 including this one) I have never felt it has belonged to me. And this means that I haven't actually yet found the home (and hence the house heading its way back to the market any moment now, but that is a different story) where I am meant to be.

House number one was a rental property and didn't have a garden. It had a shared space which belonged to the landlord. House number two was my grandparent's place, where I lived briefly whilst work was being done on the first mortgaged house I lived in. So that was Gran's garden. I didn't touch that because it was so 'right' already. House number three had a short, thin garden which was half concrete, half scruffy lawn and a rickety fence overlooking a dodgy alley. The house was surrounded by hundreds of other houses. I didn't feel safe in that garden.

House number 4 was a semi-detached. It had a pretty garden, but the garden had a pond and the pond was my ex-husband's domain. Wasn't allowed to take any ownership of THAT garden because if might upset the FISH - go figure that one if you can, because I never could. Bloody fish.

House number five was a post-divorce move back home to Mum's place. I tried gardening there a bit, but it wasn't my garden really. And then Andy and I got married and bought this place.

And the garden still feels like it belongs to the previous owner. Despite the fact I deforested it because I don't like overwhelming shrubbery. And a succession of hens have done their best to excavate their way to Australia via the game of 'Dig Like Your Little Feathery Life Depended On It.' And we've planted two trees, removed an enormous eucalyptus, added a greenhouse, moved a fence and built a herb garden.

Yesterday, I marched into the back garden.

'Now look here,' said I, legs akimbo and digging fork in hand. 'You belong to us, do you hear? You are to do as you are told. You are to stop behaving like a stroppy teen who doesn't want to grow up. You, garden-me-lad, need to sort yourself out!'

And that is why I am finding out about getting the patio re-laid. The patio - that's what has been bugging me all these years! It is made of mismatched slabs. Its lines are wonky. It grows weeds where it shouldn't grow weeds. And then it is a bugger to de-weed. Bits of it wobble. There are odd colours. It is a stupid shape. The whole aestheticness of it offends mine eye and it is driving me nuts!

And after that, the lawn. Okay, I feel slightly sorry for the lawn because it has been ransacked by a series of hens over the last 5 years, and the grass has struggled to stay alive, but it is the North Sea of a Lawn in a Force 10 gale. It needs seeing to also.

And now I am heading front gardenwards, to plant up some violas and osteospernums I bought on the way home from work. I can deal with the front garden. The front garden is much better behaved.