The Final Curtain...

...or perhaps NOT!! Hey, hey we are on our way! Finally, after much hoo-ha and huffing and puffing and 'shall we, shan't we?' lasting a good couple of years (because life is a dress rehearsal, isn't it, and we shall get that time back for good behaviour, shan't we?) Andy and I have moved to our own website!!

Called, surprisingly and originally, Much Malarkey Manor (!) it can be found by following this link to www.muchmalarkeymanor.co.uk which you may have to type manually into your search engine of choice address bar because I am writing this on the Blogger app and cannot for the life of me find the linky thing that makes it work automatically. You can give it a try if you like, but don't hold your breath and/ or be surprised if the instant magic does not happen. Andy says he is going to tiddle with it later - I am assuming he means the link and nothing more rude or sinister. 

Anyhoo, why have we now gone all website? To be honest, we aren't 100% sure. It was something we discussed as we were playing around with website templates at the start of May. And these are the excuses...er...valid reasons we came up with. 

Firstly, it seemed a very grown-up thing to do. All the best people have websites, don't they? To let the rest of the world know what fab people they are and what they can do/ sell/ make etc. Secondly, it  was decided we needed a bigger and better forum for our writing, because we all know that bigger is better, don't we, especially when it comes to cake or potatoes or hot air balloons. And thirdly, as we both work part-time we needed something useful and worthwhile to occupy our spare hours with other than watching cookery programmes and playing endless games of Mah-Jong Titans. 

Well, it's a start anyway...and very much an early stage work in progress...so forgive the rough edges for a while as we become 'website savvy.'

To be honest, I wasn't expecting us to 'go live' today (this is a technical term, apparently). I was thinking it might be tomorrow, because tomorrow is the 1st June which has a neat and tidy air about it which appeals to my mild OCD tendencies - you know, doing something new on the first of the month. But then Andy took me by surprise. He also said, 'We are going live - TODAY! Write blogs! Tell people, in case they turn up at the old place and find the doors locked and all the furniture missing. We don't want them calling the police, do we?' So I did. I have.

And thus, as I approach the end of my sixth year a-blogging, we move into new and potentially exciting territory. No one can accuse us of being resistant to change, oh no! Just a bit slow off the mark, maybe. But we are determined to build this city on rock and roll...what? Did I mean that? You see - getting all celeb already! We are determined to build up the site, add new things (also a technical term) on a very regular basis, and hopefully keep you all as entertained as you have been in the past and more.

So this is the last post (par par paaaarp!) on this blogspot. Normal service is being continued on the new website. Forward we go, into strange new worlds, to seek out new cake, new civilisations, to boldly split infinitives where no decent teacher of English would have dared before...

See you, as Arthur Conan Doyle probably said, on the other side...! 

Xxx

Cobwebs Gone!

There is nothing like a short break in a cottage in the middle of nowhere surrounded by sheep in order to blow away the cobwebs. You know, those cobwebs that encroach by some stealthy and insidious process and clog up the workings of your mind to the point where you find want to trade in your boring current existence for something shiny, new and jolly well exciting. Damn those cobwebs! Damn them!

Anyway, Andy and I set off on Sunday for a much needed four day break in green and lovely Worcestershire/Herefordshire/Shropshire Shire. We found our cottage at the end of a long bumpy narrow track on top of a hill. Our neighbours were sheep. It was very quiet. Apart from the sheep. They were quite loud. But not as loud as rush hour cars, say, or neighbours having loud barbecues, or shouting matches, or, well, you get the gist. 

On Monday, we visited Malvern spa town, because they were having a food festival, which was excellent and far better than any excuse for a food festival I have ever attended in Kent. We purchased much lovely food and thus have lost no weight this week. We got a bit lost coming out of Malvern and ended up right at the top of the Malvern hills, almost in Heaven's clouds. It was a bit scary because a) the roads were very narrow and steep and full of locals who drove like lunatics because, presumably, they knew their roads well and were unafraid of heights and narrowness and brushing the bottoms of Heaven's clouds and b) we didn't know quite how and when we were ever going to find our way back to the cottage because we kept having déjà vu moments as we went round and round in circles. But eventually we did. Phew!

And the only not quite nice thing about the day was witnessing a cyclist whizzing down a steep hill, all togged up in Lycra and stupid goggles and pointy helmet pretending he was all that, and being most rude and shouty towards some pedestrians who weren't quite quick enough in getting out of his way because they were (how DARE they!) crossing the road at the time. This isn't the first time we have witnessed such bad behaviour from these togged up 'look at me - I'm a Bradley Wiggins wannabee' cyclists. Ordinary cyclists seem fine, but add Lycra and shorts and elbow pads and ta-dah! You get a moron who thinks he has the right to cycle down the centre of the road at high speeds, swearing at pedestrians and generally behaving like a lout. Well, it ain't clever, big or funny. It is wazzock behaviour. Get over yourself. Grow some road manners. And stop riding three abreast on roads with your mates like you are a car. Rant over.

We visited Malvern Abbey, too, and a National Trust property which shall remain nameless only because I do not wish to embarrass them by nominating them as having the worst set of tea room staff ever, who did a lot of faffing around in a very disorganised and faffy way and the words 'p*ss up' and 'brewery' kept springing to mind. And that a spot of watching how the efficient staff at Worcester Cathedral managed their tea room would probably be of some benefit. Just a thought.  

On Tuesday we went to Worcester. Lovely city. Lots of swans on the river. Magnificent cathedral. Interesting museum at the now sadly defunct Worcestershire Porcelain factory. They once had a factory cat called 'Pudding.' Great name for a cat, Pudding. No ego-cyclists. Marvellous cathedral tea shop. And no, I do not have a new job working for the Worcester Tourist Board! But their website did cause mild anger issues with Andy because of its general inadequacies. They might want to brush it up a bit. Oh, and on Tuesday we were almost hit by a small cow who jumped out of a ditch at us as we drove by, and we almost ran over an entire family of squirrels. But you will be pleased to know that no animals were damaged in the making of this short break. Phew! Oh, and Andy threw a bottle of wine all over a shop floor in quite magnificent fashion. But not as magnificent as the lady in the petrol station today who threw a whole crateful of Red Bull all over the floor.

Yesterday, we went to one of my favourite ever places - Ludlow. We didn't stay long because it was freezing cold and a bit rainy and mucho windio, and all I had with me was a flimsy cardie because I stupidly thought I wouldn't need my Winter coat in almost June, would I? Anyway, Ludlow was every bit as good as I remember it from our last visit. Did a spot of retail therapy in the form of a lovely floral jug (for flowers), a lovely shiny pink handbag (for lady writer accoutrements) and fluffy blue ballet slippers (for feet.) 

And today, we came home. Good journey. No hold ups. The cats were not cross with us for long for our blatant desertion of their constant animals needs and I don't think the hens were even aware we had been missing. The house was still standing, the postman had delivered nothing but junk mail and within two hours I had taken two cold calls - one from British Telecom who are well getting on my nerves at the moment, and another from a website I had visited about taking a Tefl qualification and whose website box I DEFINITELY remember ticking in order to prevent receiving cold calls...sigh...

But it is good to be home! I feel refreshed and dynamic, and my rant reserve is fully topped up. Andy felt so refreshed he immediately went out and bought a new law mower and mowed both front AND back lawns. 

And now I shall go and rustle up some dinner from holiday leftovers, which could be interesting...

For English Teachers Everywhere

Found this during an Interwebbly perambulation. Cheered me up no end. Being an English teacher and all...

Great English Teachers Are...

...passionate about many things

...people to be reckoned with

...people with opinions

...people you can't ignore

...reading mad - they couldn't live if they didn't read!

...work too hard

...don't pretend to know all the answers

...love individualism

...balance spontaneity with structure

...have high expectations and ideals

...love the process of teaching for its creative opportunities

...are undervalued

...have a powerful emotional impact

...get nervous on exam results day

...more important than they realise.

Grannie Blows Her Trumpet

Good evening,all!

I am briefly hijacking the blog from Primrose and Daisy (and I had to wait until this evening, Mondays being their 'Samova and Samosa' night out) to tell you quickly about what I did this afternoon.

This afternoon I attended a Celebration Tea at Kayleigh's school, to see her being awarded with a certificate, citation and book prize in recognition of her 100% effort in everything she does, her excellent academic achievement and her being an all-round fab little girl who is kind, and cheerful and caring and well behaved! 

Fair brought a tear to my eye it did! What a brilliant recognition of her first year in formal education! 

Well done, Kayleigh! Grandpa and I are very proud of you! And well done, Chris and Leane, for doing such a good parenting job that allowed Kayleigh to make this grand achievement. 

I am blowing my trumpet and I don't care who hears!

Right, back to the renovations of Much Malarkey Manor.

Daisy and Primrose will be back forthwith...I just hope they haven't over-indulged the samosas. Curried chick pea wrapped in fried filo, plus a chicken's digestive system is never a good combination. 

Up, Up and Away!

Daisy is looking very pleased with herself. She has the kind of look on her face which suggests she has just made a discovery. A discovery like finding a lone biscuit in the tin which you thought was empty. Or that you are related to someone famous like James Pimm who invented Pimms. Or you can fly...

'How did you get over there?' demands Primrose. Primrose is standing on one side (also known as 'the correct side') of the chicken run fence, and Daisy is standing on the other side (also known as 'the green-and-lush-and-chicken-poop-free side') of the chicken run fence.The four feet high barrier betwixt the two is still standing, and the gate in the fence is shut fast.

'I flew!' says Daisy. 

'You what?' says Primrose.

'Flew!' says Daisy. 'You should have a go. Flying achieves instant access to the whole garden without having to want until Denise and/or Andy decide we can have an hour or two of wanton lawn destruction time and let us through the gate.'

At that moment Denise appears. 'You are a naughty hen,' she says, and, sprinkling a trail of sunflower seeds up the lavender walk, leads Daisy back to the gate in the fence and secures her on 'the right side.'

Daisy hoovers up the sunflower seeds and waits until Denise has retired to the Manor to continue supervising the builders who are continuing the transformation of the blog. This sequence of flying events has already happened three times this morning. Daisy is getting fed up of sunflower seeds and is wishing Denise would tempt her back to barracks with some other tasty tidbit, like, oh, brioche or smoked salmon or a few peeled grapes. 

'Now,' says Daisy. 'Watch this...'

And she paces up and down the fence a few times, and then stands back as though she is judging the height of the fence, and then she steps back a few paces as though she is assessing a bit of a run-up, and then, from pretty much a standing start, she leaps into the air, flaps her wings and lands...PLOP!... In the middle of the lawn some eight feet away. 

'Freedom!!!' she yells, as she flies through the air. 

From an upstairs open window a voice of resigned tone shouts, 'She's done it again!' and this time Andy appears, captures Daisy and dumps her back in the chicken run.

'It's a bit of a lark, isn't it!' says Daisy, who is very excited by the whole shenanigans. 'I only wish I had discovered this flying business ages ago. It is most liberating, both in the physical sense and the 'chickens shall not be slaves to the egg market' sense.'

'Perhaps I should give it a go,' says Primrose, although she is a little more reticent because she is considerably shorter in the leg and body than Daisy. 

'You could try,' says Daisy. 'Although you are a bit of a short-arse. Perhaps if you climbed on top of the new dust bath Andy so kindly provided for us the other week, you might achieve the extra height you need.'

'You mean like the extra height it gave you to destroy all the leaves on the bottom branches of the damson tree?' says Primrose.

'Exactamundo!' says Daisy. 'And most delicious they were, too.'

'I'm not sure,' says Primrose. 'I mean, I'm not great with heights. I'm getting a bit dizzy in these espadrilles,' and she waggled her feet at Daisy. Daisy ignores her, because it is her belief that espadrilles are a ridiculous item of footwear, especially when there are flip-flops to be had for half the price.

'And something else I have discovered,' says Daisy, by means of temptation,'is that I rather like lemon balm. See those holes?' and she points to the lemon balm which is looking a bit raggedy round the edges. 'That wasn't slugs, you know. It was me!'

'Really?' says Primrose. 'But Denise was very careful in her herb garden planning. She deliberately chose plants that caused repulsion in hens. Like lemon balm.'

'Well I say never be repulsed by anything unless you've given it a try,' says Daisy.

'Perhaps I'll try later,' says Primrose. 'When I've finished decoupaging this stationery box. Oh, by the way, we have a new guest at Much Malarkey Manor.'

'How exciting!' says Daisy.

'Her name is Joanne,' says Primrose. 'And I think we should mention other guests who have recently arrived, too, like Catherine and Sarah and Allan.'

'Where are we going to put them?' says Daisy. 'I mean, once the builders have finished with the renovations there will be plenty of space, but what with Olly taking up pretty much the whole of the West Wing with her knitting we are getting tight for space.'

'It's okay,' says Primrose, 'Tango Pete is arriving this afternoon to erect his Yurt.'

'Oh really?' says Daisy. 'I don't see how that is going to help...'

'A yurt,' interrupts Primrose, before the tone of the conversations starts plummeting into the gutter, 'is an enormous Mongolian tent. It has a proper floor and woodburning stove and everything. It is essential glamping equipment. A glampers is someone who needs their hair straighteners EVERY day, before you ask.'

'Riiiiight...' says Daisy, who is only half-listening because she is contemplating another flying excursion but can see Denise watching her from her arty-crafty writing room window with her best 'don't you dare' teacher look on her face. 

'So I think we are all right for accommodation,' says Primrose. 'And I am also glad, as temporary writers in residence, that we have attracted another guest with our witty banter. It means we can't be doing that bad a job.'

'Of course we aren't!' says Daisy. 'We are fab, we are.' 

And she disappears over the fence...

Hollywood or Bust!

'So where did Lord and Lady Malarkey get to last night?' says Daisy. She and Primrose are having a rest from their recent literary exertions and are lolling on the verandah with tequilas and a half packet of Hobnobs sequestered during a raid on the Manor kitchens the previous evening. The sun is blazing down, there is a lot of sky and very little cloud, and all in all it is way too hot to be doing anything. 

'They were out gallivanting,' says Primrose. 'Which is why it was so easy to sequester these here Hobnobs.'

'That's a good word, isn't it?' says Daisy.

'What, Hobnobs?' says Primrose.

'No,' says Daisy. 'Sequestered. In fact, I shall add it to my writing note book.' For she has read that ALL good writers ALWAYS carry a notebook with them wherever they go, in case the muse should strike. Daisy's notebook is especially hefty, so she can give this muse a good wallop back in case it strikes her.

'Apparently,' says Primrose, 'they went to Margate, which is an odd thing for a Lord and Lady to do because by all accounts it is a bit rough these days. Certainly not the cheerful centre of innocent family fun it used to be in the Fifties, anyway.'

'Nowhere in Kent is like it was in the Fifties,' sighs Daisy. 'It's all concrete business jungles and housing estates and massive traffic jams. Apparently, the air pollution in our town is one of the highest in the county.'

'Hack, hack....cough!' says Primrose, to prove a point.

'So why did they go to Margate?' says Daisy, wiping a blob of cough spit from her tankini. 

'To see Paul Hollywood in his baking show,' says Primrose. 

'Paul who?' says Daisy.

'That is what I said,' said Primrose. 'He is also known as 'The Silver Fox.'

'Ooooh, we don't like foxes,' says Daisy, doing a bit of a shudder. 

'No, we don't,' says Primrose. 'But he isn't a real fox. Just has a bushy tail and the habit of emptying dustbins all over the road in the middle of the night.'

'Well,' says Daisy, 'I can't see that travelling all the way to Margate in the middle of the week to see someone emptying dustbins all over the road is a very entertaining proposition.'

'They went to see him bake stuff,' says Primrose, patiently, and thinking if it wasn't so hot she might have the energy to get off her sun lounger and bat Daisy round the noggin with cocktail umbrella. But as it was, she didn't, and peace was sustained.

'They went to see someone bake stuff?' says Daisy. 'They could stay at home and do that for free.'

'That is what they are planning on doing,' says Primrose. 'The next time Heather has a baking evening, they are going to station themselves in the kitchen with a bag of popcorn and STARE! And probably make helpful comments. And demand an interval with icecream.'

'Aaah,' says Daisy. 'That'd be Extreme Danger Baking then?'

'Anyway,'says Primrose, 'this Paul Hollywood chap is a bit of a TV celeb. So part of going to see him last night was to exorcise a ghost for Andy, because Andy is just as good at baking but has neither a TV show nor great wodges of cash nor a massive house in the countryside. And Andy must not become a bitter baker because he has other talents as well, including drawing. I bet Paul Hollywood is pants at drawing.'

'But Andy could become a better baker if he used a bitter butter,' says Daisy, and promptly enters the alliteration in her writer's notebook.

'Bitter butter?' says Primrose. 'What ARE you waffling about? You don't want butter to be bitter, you Muppet.'

'When I say 'bitter,' says Daisy, carefully, 'what I really mean is a cunning play on words, or pun, on the phrase 'bit of.'

'Well saved,' says Primrose.

'Thank you,' says Daisy. 'So was it worth their trip, do you think?'

'I think so,' says Primrose. 'He was quite entertaining - kept making double entendres about nuts apparently, and holding up his floppy dough so it made comedy shapes of an 'oo-er, Missus' variety. But they were late back and are thusly tired and crabby today because they are both working PLUS Denise has lost her voice which she thinks is a chakra thing and Andy thinks is a germ thing picked up from school.'

'Best stay out of their way, then,' says Daisy, looking wistfully at the now empty packet of Hobnobs and wishing they could do another raid on the Manor kitchens this evening for some Jaffa cakes, maybe,or even a spot of toast and marmalade.

But then we can't always have what we want, can we? 

A Novel Experience

Following her triumphant debut yesterday as temporary Writer In Residence at Much Malarkey Manor, Primrose has spent today sitting lightly on her laurels looking as smug as a mug without an 's'. She has decided she is well into poetry now, and psychoanalysis, and is flicking through the pages of an Open University prospectus because she quite likes the thought of doing a spot of study and becoming a Doctor of Literary Prowess. Daisy, meanwhile, has poo-pooed poetry. She is aiming for the dizzy heights of novel writing...

'I am going to write a novel,' Daisy announces, emerging from the pod in a sprigged muslin frock and velvet bolero jacket. She is also wearing a short, lightly curled wig topped with a perky bonnet.

'You remind me of someone,' says Primrose, shifting on her laurels because laurels are quite spiky on the chicken tush despite their lush and smooth appearance. (The laurel leaves, not the chicekn's tush.)

'Really?' says Daisy. 'Whom, pray tell?'

Primrose squints. 'Well...' she begins.

'Would it be someone like the celebrated, highly regarded and some would say finest lady romantic novelist England ever produced?' interrupts Daisy.

'What? Barbara Cartland?' says Primrose, looking slightly startled. 'She wasn't who immediately sprung to mind, no, but now you mention her...'

'Oh, tish and pho!' says Daisy, and taps Primrose lightly on the wing with a closed fan. Only it isn't  that light a tap and Primrose ends up in a heap in the lemon balm which is going great guns this year and is threatening to reach an overall mass equivalent to a small elephant.

'Ouch!!!' says Primrose. 'Was that entirely necessary? Who are you talking about?'

'Why,' simpers Daisy, 'Jane Austen, of course.'

'Humph,' says Primrose. 'In that case, I think you should dispense with the simpering. I don't think Jane Austen was a simperer. I think she was a feisty gal with a good left hook.' She rubs her wing. 'You got that bit right, I suppose.'

'Okay,' says Daisy. 'I shall cut the simpering. To be honest, I can't do with simpering. But I can cope with being a feisty gal, and I have been reading about novel writing in the 21st century, and feisty gal is what you have to be if you are going to get even a sniff at being published.'

'Quite right,' says Primrose. 'Feistiness, good characters, seamless plot and knowing someone in the publishing business are all integral ingredients in being a published author these days. Do you know anyone in the publishing business?'

'Sadly, no,' says Daisy. 

'Then you are doomed to fail,' says Primrose.

'But I have drawn up a list of some excellent names for characters,' says Daisy. 'Of which I shall share with you now. Are you ready?'

'As I shall ever be,' says Primrose. 'Regale away.'

Daisy clears her throat. She has clearly given a lot of thought to the naming of these characters.

'Trilby Lukewarmer,' she begins, 'Smatterly Bumfluff, Nancy Pants and Stoately Harris. Partly Nantwich, Weasley Binton, Lobelia Tonguegroove and Tuppy Broadweed...'

'I had a cousin called Tuppy Broadweed,' says Primrose. 'He was in MI5. Of course, he didn't use his real name when he was incognito because he didn't want to draw attention to himself.'

'Most wise,' says Daisy. 'What was his incognito name?'

'Monty Aardvark-Vidayo,' says Primrose.

'Ah, yes,' says Daisy. 'Far more discreet.'

'So,' says Primrose, 'have you a plot to go with these characters? Of course, all good plots are character driven, so personally I think it is best to be flexible with your storyline and see where the characters take it.'

'What?' says Daisy. She hides the folder marked, 'Detailed and Intricate Plot Notes' beneath her Regency muff. 

'Oh yes,' says Primrose. 'Personally, I would give one of your characters a simple situation, a line of introductory dialogue and let them get on with it.'

'You would?' says Daisy.

'Yes,' says Primrose. 

'For example?' says Daisy, who is suddenly realising that perhaps dashing off a best selling novel by the weekend is probably unlikely to happen. 

'Well, for example,' says Primrose, 'you could put Trilby Lukewarmer in, say, a street in London, called, oh, I don't know, Bakers Street, and he could step suddenly from a foggy corner into the path of a small coach and horses and confront the evil Smatterly Bumfluff with the words, 'I knew you wouldn't stay away for long, Bumfluff. How was your aunt in Weston-Super-Mare?'

There is a moment of stillness. It is as if a nugget of genius has been released like a rare butterfly into the air, and Daisy is looking like someone who has a net and is frantic to catch it before it is ripped to shreds by the beak of a passing pigeon, because pigeons are ruthless like that. 

'Right!' says Daisy. 'I see what you mean. Right! Good! I have to go. Now. Important...er...pudding to make.' And off she scuttles to the pod. 

Primrose counts slowly to ten. The sound of crazy typewriter clacking soon fills the air.

Poetic Henalysis

Primrose and Daisy have been up since dawn flexing their writing muscles. The writing muscle is located just off-centre of the point directly between the eyes which accounts for why writers often find themselves pulling odd faces, like they have a bumblebee resting on the end of their nose and they don't want to startle it because we must be kind to bumblebees as they are kind to us. 

'Are we ready for our first blog?' says Daisy. She has dressed for the part, deciding upon Regency style with a hint of Steam Punk to make her appear 'edgy.' (If you are unaware of steam punk style, have a Google and be surprised.Or not, if steam punk is already your a la mode fashion of choice.) Primrose, conversely, is still in her jim-jams because it is a well known fact that 1) writers never bother to dress 2) eat meals at socially acceptable times or 3) accept rejection with a light-hearted 'Fa-la-laaaaa! Never mind! There is always tomorrow!'

'I think so,' says Primrose. 'I have done some research and...'

'Research?' says Daisy. 'I thought we were going to wing it? You'll be telling me you've been doing planning next.'

This wild and crazy idea elicits a look from Primrose which suggests that is EXACTLY what she has been doing. She is taking this writing malarkey SERIOUSLY. She has already planned a shopping trip to Paperchase in order to purchase suitable and relevant notebooks 'n' pens 'n' stickers 'n' stuff. She is even wondering if she can get away with conducting her shopping trip dans jim-jams. 

Daisy sighs. 'You know we are only temporary writers in residence, don't you?' she says. 'Because once Denise has had the builders in and the Manor has been revamped, she will take back the reigns of creative direction until...well, until she has another writerly crisis. And then it will be the cats' turn to step unto the breach, dear friend.'

'But we don't know how long that will be,' says Primrose. 'And as such I intend on doing this properly. And I thought, in order to mark us with some intellectual gravitas we could start with a bit of poetry analysis. And I have found a poem. About chickens. It is by Jack Prelutsky...'

'Never heard of him,' says Daisy.

'Me neither,' says Primrose. 'But it is the best poem about chickens that I could find, so shut up and listen...ahem....

Last night I dreamed of chickens,

there were chickens everywhere,

they were standing on my stomach,

they were nesting in my hair,

they were pecking at my pillow,

they were hopping on my head,

they were ruffling up their feathers

as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,

they were on the chandeliers,

they were roosting in the corners,

they were clucking in my ears,

there were chickens, chickens, chickens

for as far as I could see...

when I woke today, I noticed

there were eggs on top of me.

And Primrose finished with a dramatic pause and meaningful stare.

'Okay,' says Daisy, adjusting her miniature top hat, the one with the lace veil and blue pheasant feather, 'what does it mean? In poetic terms?'

'Well,' says Primrose, whipping out an important looking notebook marked 'Writerly Thoughts and Analysis.' 'I think it is a reflection of the poet's inner psyche. The excess of chickens represent the troubled thoughts that crowd his mind during the daytime hours, and when he goes to sleep at night, these thoughts are released from the confines of rational thought and are allowed to manifest themselves in terms of chaos, noise, hyper-activity and er...chandeliers. The poet has tried to repress his angst, i.e 'the chickens' and in order to achieve peace of mind he must learn to release them from the 'coop' of restraint during the day, or his nights will ever and thus be haunted.'

'Have you been reading Tango Pete's copy of 'Freud Chicken' again?' says Daisy. 

'No, I have not,' says Primrose. 'Although I did find his thoughts on the 'Egg' most enlightening.'

'The Ego,' says Daisy. 'Really, you must get your eyes tested.'

'Ego, schmeego, whatever,' says Primrose, all casual-like. 'Regardless, that is what I think the poem is about. What are your thoughts, oh fellow guardian of the blog.'

'I have only two thoughts,' says Daisy. 'One is that the poet forgot to shut his chickens away properly at night and they went on a midnight rampage, and the second is that he ate too much cheese before bed.'

'You're not going to take this analysis wholly seriously, are you?' says Primrose.

'Probably not,' says Daisy. 'But tomorrow it will be my turn to present the subject of the blog.'

'Any ideas yet?' says Primrose.

'No,' says Daisy. 'But at least it is going to be funny.'

The Last Post

'Par...paaaaaarppp!' comes the sound from the back garden of Much Malarkey Manor.

'Par...pa...paaaaaaaaaa,' it continues in rising crescendo or some might say 'a bloody racket.'

'What ARE you doing?' shouts Primrose at Daisy, who is the cause of this unholy hoo-ha first thing this Sunday morning.

'I am playing my trumpet!' shouts back Daisy. And this, dear reader, is no mean feat for a hen, for it is well known that combinations involving beaks and brass instrument mouthpieces are tricky things. 

'Why?' shouts Primrose.

'Well,' says Daisy, resting the trumpet end on her hip. 'I am marking the end of an era.'

'And what era would that be?' says Primrose. 'Unless you count the era which is an anagram of 'ear' of which both of mine are suffering through your unnecessarily loud trumpet playing.'

'The end of Much Malarkey Manor,' said Daisy.

There is a moment of silence as Primrose takes in what Daisy has said, and also removes a piece of nutty muesli from her back teeth. 

'The what???' says she. 'For one moment I thought you said 'the end?'

'I did,' says Daisy. 'Well, maybe 'the end' is being slightly dramatic. More like 'closing until further notice.'

'But why?' says Primrose. 'Is everyone all right? Phoebe...?'

'Still sleeping, eating and maintaining the shape of a cat who's swallowed a basketball,' says Daisy.

'And Tybalt?' 

'Still suave, sophisticated, talking in voce falsetto and the best natured cat ever to live on planet Earth,' says Daisy.

'And Flora Bijou Mybug?' says Primrose.

'Continues apace with being a right royal kitten pain in the backside with a stupidly bouffant tail,' says Daisy.

'Well,' says Primrose,'we two are okay, too, so it can't be us. What about them up at the Manor? Him and her indoors?'

'It's Andy's birthday today,' says Daisy. 'He is happy because he has a new computer to play with which I understand is the ultimate accessory of joy and wonderment for a man in his early forties. And he is also being taken out for a posh lunch, too. He is okay.'

'What about her, then?' says Primrose. 'She can be a bit peculiar sometimes.'

Daisy sighs. 'I know. I blame her eggs running out.'

'We could lend her some,' says Primrose. 

'We could,' says Daisy. 'But I am not sure it would help. She has decided a Much Malarkey Manor renovation is long overdue. She has got the builders coming in.'

'That'll cause a lot of dust and disruption,' says Primrose, who remembers only too well the chaos caused when the oubliette and grotto were constructed back in the Great Winds of '87.

'Quite,' says Daisy. 

'What's she having done?' says Primrose.

'Oh, this and that,' says Daisy. 'This and that. The point is that the Much Malarkey Manor as we know it is closing down. And this is the Last Post.'

'Hence the trumpet?' says Primrose.

'Indeed,' says Daisy. 

Another silence descends.

'But we can't have that,' says Primrose, if only to stop Daisy restarting her trumpet playing. 'We have to keep Much Malarkey Manor going some how.'

'I've tried to persuade her,' says Daisy. 'I even made her an Eton Mess on toast with butter and marmalade but it made no difference. She is all written out, she says. And some other drivel about fizzle and pens and inspiration which I didn't understand at all, but then I was ear deep in meringue at the time.'

'Then WE must take over the blog!' says Primrose. 'We must pick up the baton of the pen and regale the guests with our many tales of...of...'

'Feathers?' suggests Daisy. 

'Yes!' shouts Primrose. 'No! Yes! Oh, you know what I mean. We can do it! We can be amusing and entertaining.'

'How are you with a keyboard?' says Daisy. 'Only my typing is about 6 words per hour. It could be a slow process...'

'No matter!' cried Primrose, who is already half way back to the pod to dig out her 'My Little Printer Printing Press' which she is sure is in the cellar somewhere behind the barrel of cherry brandy. 

Daisy lays her trumpet carefully on a passing pigeon, which makes it swear a bit because pigeons are like that. She coughs.

'Well,' she says, addressing an MMM guest (namely Olly, who will know why) who is sitting beneath the apple tree knitting a pair of socks. 'It seems that Much Malarkey Manor is being taken under the capable wings of me and Primrose...'

'No-one said anything about being capable!' shouts Primrose who, it appears, has remarkable hearing.

'Well that takes the pressure off!' says Daisy. 'See you all tomorrow!' 

Snoozy Sunday

Elizabeth Jane - four days old!

Discoveries

This week the following discoveries have been made:

1) that new babies are actually 20% baby and 80% poo

2) that you can't climb Mount Everest in a single morning and come back down by train. This discovery was made by a student who wrote about it in a mock exam paper, handed it in and then realised, too late, that he was in fact thinking of Mount Snowdon. Still, made me laugh.

3) new big sisters who insist on helping with nappy changes suddenly change their minds when they see what is actually involved (I refer you to point 1, m'lud.)

4) some of Pan's People in the 1970s had fairly sizeable a*ses. Most comforting.

5) some people are confused by the meanings of the words 'geezer' (bloke) and Giza (pyramids) resulting in more entertaining reading for the mock exam marker aka moi.

6) some people (like, well, my son Christopher) find out that the lady cat he sent to the vet's for spaying today turned out to be a boy cat in need of castrating. Cheaper though. Luckily, the cat is called Darcy so is probably the least confused of everyone.

7) you have to fill out a Customs form to send a lavender bag to Texas. You have to describe it AND declare its weight. I am expecting arrest by the FBI any moment now. Especially as I included a flower fairy mouse, too. 

8) allow a couple of bluebells to stay in your garden and a few years down the line you will have a veritable bluebell forest! 

9) chickens really aren't that keen on swings.

10) kittens called Flora Bijou Mybug who cover their faces in lily pollen will not necessarily become poisoned but they will throw their vet owner into a frenzy resulting in a trip to the surgery for emergency blood test. And they will walk around with an orange-stained nose until their face has been thoroughly scrubbed. The kitten, not the vet.