Fairies and Stories and Lions made from Wool

I am afraid I am still having little giggles of a very immature, not to say childish manner, over some bits and bobs I read in the papers yesterday. I think these silly things have been specially put into the papers to cheer up us Scorpios who are still recovering from the chaos, nay trauma, of the Grand Trine House Party Experience of last week.

The best giggle goes to the name of a mistress of a Duke of Britain, the story of whom is causing a minor scandal in the red-top rags at the moment. His name was something ordinary and dukey, like Edward, or James or something. But her name? Jeannie McWheeny! I kid you not. I'm sorry, but reading that caused me to snort into my cup of tea. And then it caused me to think of writing a children's story based on a little tiny fairy-type creature called Jeannie McWheeny-Tweeny who lives in the sporran of a wee Scottish lassie called Joanie McWoany, who, because she lives in Scotland where there is a dearth of light, warmth and sunshine, is in a constant state of depression. And that her depression lifts when fairy Jeannie McWheeny-Tweeny emerges from the sporran releasing a huge shiny ray of sunshine and warmth. A bit like having your own portable light-box.

Well, it got me thinking about focusing on writing again, which has been let slip over the last few weeks mainly due to the exhaustion of teaching all day, getting involved in after-school drama activities and being fatefully caught up in a Grand Trine. So I went to Waterstones yesterday and bought a book of writing activities to get me back in the saddle so to speak. (I also bought the follow up book to 'The Morville Hours' which is called 'The Morville Year' which is a stonking good read and makes me want to move to Hereford/ Shropshire even more.)

'What about the article on the regional celebrations of the 'Lympic Games?' says Mrs Pumphrey.

Mrs Pumphrey has come into the Manor kitchen to assist in the extracting of the honey from the supers we brought home yesterday. Her method involves sitting beneath the colander with some bread and butter, catching the honey as it drips on the aforesaid bread and butter and then eating the bread and butter in the manner of a chicken who hasn't been fed for a fortnight.

'I was coming to that,' I say.
'Tell them about the three enormous crocheted lions,' says Mrs P.
'Well, you've just spoiled the story,' I say, crossly.
'Shall I carry on whilst you de-cross yourself?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Yes,' I say.

'Well,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'Britain has been divided into twelve regions and each region has developed an arts project to celebrate the 'Lympic Games in July. And one region, I forget which, has decided its art project will be the crocheting of three enormous lions.'

'The story appears to have lost its sense of surprise and appeal,' I say, wearily.
'But you haven't heard what Mrs S and I are planning as our cultural arts event for the 'Lympics,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I think I'm going to stop eating honey now. I feel a bit sick.'
'Very wise,' I say. 'So what is the Much Malarkey Manor project going to be? Not that I care that much as I hate sport but I'll support you in your endeavours as my chickens and my friends.'
'Thank you kindly,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'We are going to...' (and she does a tinny drum roll on the side of the honey dripping colander) '...batik a thousand bats!'
'Not literally, I hope,' I say, thinking of the inevitable knock on the door and hefty fine from the British Wildlife Conservation Trust for Bats and Other Leathery Winged Creatures Like Pterydactyls Called Norbert.

'Of course not,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And if you are going to add asides, could you make them shorter, please, only they are interrupting the flow of my prose.'
'Do continue,' I say.
'The bees are going to provide the wax, and we're going to use natural dyes from the flowers in the garden,' continues Mrs P. 'And Tango Pete is donating the ball of rubber bands he's been collecting since 1983, in order for us to er...rubber band-up the fabric prior to dipping it in the dye.'
'And where is the fabric coming from?' I say.
'Ah,' says Mrs P. 'That's the cunning part. You know it's Spring?'
'Yes,' I say.
'What do cats do in Spring?'
'I daren't say,' I say.
Mrs Pumphrey gives me a stern look. 'They moult,' she says. 'And you have three cats which equals a lot of fur.'
'You're telling me,' I say, as I am in constant hoovering mode at the moment, and often leave the house with furry trousers.
'Well, Mrs Slocombe is collecting the fur...'
'Not from the hoover?'
'Might be...'
'Eeurgh....'
'And she has today begun weaving it into a luxurious fabric ready for the batiking thereof!' says Mrs Pumphrey.

I sit a few moments, in silence, pondering the wonder of it all.

'You see!!' shrieks Mrs Pumphrey. 'Everyone is contributing to the project! And by the end of July, one thousand bats will have batik jumpers made from cat fur fabric and bees wax, er...wax!'

'Do bats need jumpers in July?' I say. 'Furry jumpers?'
'They're getting them whether they like them or not,' says Mrs P. 'And I defy any of them to refuse.'

Indeed, I think. It will take a very brave bat to refuse a jumper from a chicken on a mission.

Today's blog was brought to you by Surreal Experiences.com - for all your Escape From the Real World needs.

An Apple a Day

The Much Malarkey Manor apple tree has done itself proud this year. Now in its fourth year of growth, it has shot both upwards and outwards and is positively groaning under the weight of fruit. I skip into the garden ever other day and fill up the fruit bowl. I'm going to need a ladder soon, so skipping will probably become inappropriate, dangerous and a Health and Safety issue, and quite frankly I can't be doing with all the paperwork so please don't mention this to the authorities.

Now, Mrs Pumphrey has discovered that if she stands on the fence surrounding the herb garden, she can fling herself with sufficient force at the tree and knock an apple or two from the branches to the ground where Mrs Slocombe is waiting to grab the spoils and rush off for a spot of apple chomping. This is bad.

'Well, we're fed up with courgettes,' they say. I suppose I can't blame them - I'm getting pretty fed up with courgettes, too. But they need to stand back from the apple tree. Or there will be trouble.

So, not only do I find myself rushing into the garden waving tea-towels at the pigoens to stop them pinching the chicken food, I give an extra tea-towel wave at Mrs P to get her off the fence and away from the apple tree. If only, I think, the chickens would eat the chicken food. Then the pigeons wouldn't go after it and the hens wouldn't go after the apples. If only it were that simple.

Chickens are such life-enhancing creatures.

Today I am hiding. The house is silent. There is a cat curled up asleep either side of me and I am losing myself in the writing of a short story that I started early yesterday morning and is proving to be a load of tosh. (I am trying to detosh myself by having a blogging break, but find myself aimlessly rambling instead.) I am also fiddling with my Kindle and going, 'Cor, look what it can do,' a lot. I've finished 'Northanger Abbey' and am on a mission to download as many freebie books from Amazon as I can. One of them is 'Diary of a Nobody' which is proving very entertaining ; Pooter is in the process of painting everything in his house with red enamel paint. And I am wondering at what point in the plot his wife is going to leave him, because I'd have been out the door by page 8.

Later, I may go into the garden and do some weeding. This is only because I now have in my possession a green waste wheelie bin from the council which is going to cost £30 per annum for the privilege of using, and I feel obliged to fill it up for collection every fortnight in order to get my money's worth. Luckily, the buddleia is coming to the end of its flowering and is in need of drastic pruning. And there are some pretty ropey-looking lupins in the front borders that need dealing with, too.

And I have just remembered that I have a £15 gift certificate to spend on Amazon so should I develop a sudden consumer urge I can satisfy it with some random purchase. Today, I am mostly feeling like randomly purchasing a copy of Puccini's Madame Butterfly, or the latest Paul Torday novel, or a new key ring, or a gastric band.

A man has been out this week to assess the replacement of a couple of roof tiles, and the sorting out of the boiler. He is a multi-tasker. He is also bi-polar, though I'm not sure how that helps in roofing or boilering nor why he felt the need to tell me in the first place. He is going to get back to me vis a vis costs and dates which I sometimes think is tradesman talk for 'I can't be bothered to deal with such a trivial job.' Still, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, the country being in economic straits and all so surely no job can be too small, and await his getting back to me with eager anticipation - well, okay, mild interest.

I have been assessing our finances (because we are taking out a new mortgage deal and such activities forces one into assessing one's finances) and have decided that we can at last get the upstairs shower-room done properly. And by 'properly' I mean 'professionally' and not 'bodgily' by which I mean by me and Andy, because although we are a very good vet and a very good teacher between us, we are rubbish with plumbing, tiles, lights and showers. Therefore, a bathroom man has also been out, and has said he will provide us with a quote in a week's time. I'd rather he provide us with a new shower room, but if he feels he needs to kick off with a quote or two I hope it's Oscar Wilde or Shakespeare. Or Dorothy Parker. She's always good for a laugh. Ahahahahahaha!!

The bathroom man did provide a verbal quote before he went, which didn't scare me too much, so I expect we shall go ahead anyway.

Right, back to the short story tosh. Have a good tosh-free day!

Happiness is a Chicken, a Courgette and a Taste of Adam Ant

It is said that God won't send anything your way that you won't be able to cope with. It is said that what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. It is also said that Maltesers are the lighter chocolatey treat, implying that, at ONLY 11 calories a sweet, they will not make you fat.

One of these is a lie. (Especially if you buy the bumper bags.)

I think it's safe to say it's been a trying and anxious week for a reason I cannot go into in depth. Suffice to say that this morning I am full of motherly pride and admiration for my children. And that no matter what life throws at them, they will tackle it and cope with it and come through the other side stronger, maturer and with just the tiniest of a life-battle scar which will be there to remind them, when the next crisis happens, that they got through the last one and so the next challenge will hold no fears.

My role has been limited to the usual Mum worrying, trying to maintain an air of calm and a full cake tin, and saying little prayers at odd moments during the day when I feel the Universe has a vacant phone-line to 'Life Crisis Dept ext. H.E.L.P!

And on a lighter note, I am thrilled to discover that chickens eat courgette!

Yes, it's Harvest Galore at the allotment, and I have a kitchen full of beetroot, courgettes and beans. And a fair few cherry tomatoes, but I can deal with those because they are like Nature's Maltesers only they are red and have barely 1 calorie each and probably won't make me fat(ter) no matter how many I eat.

So yesterday I am staring at this massive pile of courgettes. I have earmarked some for courgette soup supplies to go in the freezer for Winter, and touchwood, no-one has yet said, 'Oh, courgettes again,' at dinner time, so I can get away with presenting many variations on 'Courgette Surprise' and hiding them in veggie bolognaise, veggie curry, veggie pies, veggie pizzas for a while yet. Andy has said that if push comes to shove he can make some courgette wine. And then I thought, I wonder if chickens like courgettes?

Actually, I don't know why the thought hadn't occurred before given we've been allotmenteering for nearly six years and had hens for more than four of those. It seemed an obvious solution to coping with a vegetable glut. So I took a courgette - okay, let's be honest, it was more a marrow - cut it in half, and presented it to les madames. Les madames regarded it with suspicion and paced around it warily for, oh, about five minutes, and then they mooched off to the tent for a game of Cluedo and jug of sangria.

Ah well, I thought. Worth a try.

But then I looked through the window about ten minutes later and there was Mrs Pumphrey up to her shoulders in the middle of the marrow! I can't tell you how ridiculously happy this made me feel! I can only excuse my delight as a disproportionate reaction to the stress of the week, which just goes to show that if you are in the midst of a mucky life mire, all you need to lift the spirits is a chicken and a courgette.

Another spirit-raising moment this week came when my friend, Sarah, procured us two tickets to go and see Adam Ant in concert in December! Being the oldest by 6 weeks, I shall be in charge of making sure no pants are flung onto the stage, because, yes, the seats are close enough to be able to achieve successful pant-flinging without the aid of a catapult and Sarah can get very excitable when confronted by leather trousers and a pair of pert buttocks. We are very much hoping that Adam Ant still has pert buttocks, although the main reason we are going to the concert is, of course, to hear fine music and see creative artistic interpretation.

The weather forecast for tomorrow is sunshine. Good. I think a bit of sunshine is very much what is needed here at the Manor. May your weekend be light and sunny, too.

Interlopers

'Interlopers!' yells Mrs Slocombe.

'Attackers!' shrieks Mrs Pumphrey.

'Magpies,' says I.

This morning, two magpies arrived in the back garden. I declared them to be youngsters as they had a look of teenage arrogance about them. You know, the kind of surly glance you get when you are driving down a busy street and a group of youngsters just stroll across the road in front of your car without so much as a tip and a wink to the Green Cross Code or Tufty the Squirrel, God bless his fat 'n' fluffy tail. The kind of look that says, 'Who the effin' eff d' yoo fink you are, driving a car down a road that I want to cross over NOW.' The kind of look that makes you want to wind down your window and yell, 'GET OUT OF THE ROAD, YOU MORONS,' but you don't because a) you are an adult and have to be grown-up about such stupidity and b) you don't want to get your headlights kicked in.

Anyway, these two jack-the-lad-pies pitched up this morning and hopped about on the fence swinging their tails with attitude and picking bugs out of the woodwork. Mrs P and Mrs S immediately stood stock-still by the herb garden and fixed them with their beady eyes.

'They were on our turf,' says Mrs Slocombe.

'Well, they would be if we hadn't scratched it all up,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

'Quite,' says I.

And then these two magpies hopped from the fence onto the bird table - well, one hopped, the other hopped on and fell off - and then they hopped into the living willow arch (which is HUGE now - well impressed with the willow arch, we are), and then they hopped onto the little fence that surrounds the herb garden, thus putting them on a beady eye-level with the hens.

Well! What happened next I can only describe as 'hen-rage.'

'We were henraged,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

'And very hengry, too,' says Mrs Slocombe.

'And apopl-hentic?' I suggest.

'Too tenuous,' says Mrs P.

Generally, the Misses Pumphrey and Slocombe will tolerate intrusion of birds of a size, say, smaller than a grapefruit, or 'pamplemousse' as they say most amusingly en France. They will happily allow sparrows and their ilk to dust bath and hop about in a sparrowy way without giving them a second glance. And they will also put up with the wood pigeons that come into the garden to chance their wing at nicking a few pellets of chicken food. (I, however, do not tolerate the wood pigeons, but then I have to pay for the chicken food. I often rush headlong into the back garden flapping a tea-towel in order to discourage wood pigeon thievery, which I suspect only serves to make them laugh at my mis-comprehension of the whole 'we've-got-wings-and-you-haven't' thing.)

But this morning, there was no such toleration of the magpies. Every time one landed on the ground, either Mrs Pumphrey or Mrs Slocombe (or sometimes both) RUSHED at them like loons, feathers poofed out and up and eyes blazing, beaks ready for action. This subtle display of body language suggested our girls were not happy about the magpies.

'No, we were not,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

'But there were two of them,' says I. 'And you know the saying, 'One for sorrow, two for joy...'

'Oh, that's all very well in human terms,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Totally different in chicken parlance, though.'

'You do surprise me,' says I.

'Do you want to hear the chicken magpie rhyme?' says Mrs S.

'Do I have a choice?' I say.

'No,' says Mrs S.

'And be aware it may not rhyme very well, either,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'On account of some of the language nuances being lost in translation.'

'Okay,' I say. 'Carry on.'

Mrs Slocombe clears her throat.

'One for red mite, two for lice

Three for scaly leg, four for mice,

Five for dangle comb, six for moult

Seven for a fly strike and a case of bananas...'

'What?' says I.

'I did warn you,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

'Eight for sour crop and nine for weevils,

Ten for a hen-house cursed with evil,' finishes Mrs Slocombe.

'Blimey,' I say, 'that's a bit heavy, isn't it?'

'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And because there were 'two for lice' this morning, I've now got to douse Mrs Slocombe with a good shake of 'Mrs Malarkey's Miracle Lotion for the Effective Treatment of Lice, Louses, Looses and Lizards.'

'Not going to do yourself at the same time?' I say.

'Certainly not!' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I am way too sophisticated to attract parasites of any kind.'

'Are you implying that Mrs Slocombe is common?' I say.

Mrs Pumphrey fixes me with her usual 'stupid woman' stare. 'I don't think I have to imply at all,' she says.

(P.S I have, after much huffing 'n' puffing, located MMM followers again (something to do with downloading GoogleChrome and then thinking I had and then thinking I hadn't and then getting cross and then Andy saying, 'Look! There it is! You did it!' and me thinking, 'Cor, p'raps I'm not such a techno-twit after all', and as such it is my delight to discover and welcome new visitor, Diana! Of course, a new visitor now means we shall have to apply for planning permission to extend at the Manor. I'm thinking either a) a two bedroom, one bathroom and a snug extension over the library and armoury wing b) a purpose built studio cottage next to Cluckinghen Palace or c) pitching the tent in the front garden. I think a shake of the piggy bank may determine the answer...)

Waste Not Part 2

Having kicked the new food recycle bin around the kitchen for a few days, I have at last decided on its fate. It has been designated 'chicken feed bin' and becomes instantly more useful than when it was delivered a week ago. It is dry, clean and lockable, and is therefore a perfect container for layers pellets.

Problem solved.

Over the weekend, we placed an order for a fruit cage. We spent a windy half hour at the allotment making crucial measurements and decided that the best size would be 15 x 15 feet. Needless to say, fruit cages don't come in that size, so we ended up ordering an 18 x 12 feet one, which means some of the raspberry canes will have to be relocated, which is okay because they are spreading their runners well and we have considerably more canes than the dozen we planted three years ago.

The polytunnel, despite the hugely gusty winds of late, still stands proud and strong, so the erection of a fruit cage, we have decided, will hold no fear for us! (Famous last words...)

Got home from work yesterday to find Mrs Pumphrey standing on the back of the garden bench looking like someone had been at her with an axe. Blood everywhere! Ye Gods! I dashed into the garden towards Mrs Pumphrey; Mrs P dashed off in the opposite direction. Of all the three hens , she is the trickiest to catch. Despite bribes of sunflower seeds and apple, I couldn't grab her, but I got close enough to see that it looked like she'd managed to tear her comb. She didn't seemed bothered by her injury, and blood-thirsty Mrs Slocombe was leaving her alone, so I phoned Andy, informed him of the damage and waited until he got home so we could clean her up.

On closer inspection, and after a goodly mop up with warm water, cotton wool, tissue and hibiscrub, it seems she had some how lost a small piece out her comb, probably by sticking her head where it shouldn't have been. And combs, being well supplied with blood, meant a little injury spread a lot of goo, highlighted by her being a white hen and blood being red.

Andy used superglue to seal the wound (don't ask, but he and Pumphrey almost became joined for life) and she was confined to chicken hospital for the night but not before demonstrating her appreciation for my nursely ministrations by spraying me generously with bloodied water and hibiscrub.

This morning, she seems fine. The sun is shining, so sunbathing is on the agenda, and the 'got-at-by-an-axe-murderer' look has mostly faded.

Chickens eh? Who'd have 'em??

The Jury Is Out...So is The Chicken

Our local newspaper is very excited about a court case that is currently running in the town's Crown Court. So much so that it devotes many pages each week to the progress of the case, and I am following with goggled amazement as the tale unfolds because it involves a murder that happened about a mile away from MMM, and it's like The Jeremy Kyle Show only without the moving pictures.

It involves a family, whom I shall call Smith, and a crime committed two days after Christmas last year. I know Christmas can be a stressy and tricky time for families, but this one takes the biscuit. Apparently, allegedly, a man was murdered a la being run over by a Land Rover, driven by one of his two younger brothers, possibly an older brother. There are about 6 brothers involved altogether, plus 3 sisters, and their assorted wives, husbands and children. To make matters more confusing, they are all called 'Smith' and share various forms of a central name or two, for example William, Bill, Billy. Billy-Boy, Johnny, Jack, Jackie, Jack Junior and Gary etc. etc, you get my drift. The newspaper, to simplify matters, periodically prints a fact-file style family tree thing so we can keep up.

There was definitely a Land Rover involved. And a Ford Mondeo. Possibly a gun of the rifle variety. Some of the family have committed gun-related criminal offences already - they all deny the gun, if it existed, was theirs.

There was much shouting on the day in question. Various witness disagree about the name being shouted as the various accused bore down on the victim with their various vehicles and possible gun. Other things were shouted like 'Get 'im!' 'Get 'er!' 'You've got it comin' you 'ave!' 'Sort it aht, bruv!' 'You're next, you are!' etc. Apparently, allegedly, it was all about one of the brothers inheriting the mother's farm after she died and other members of the family were mad with jealousy and didn't think it was right, him being younger etc etc.

There was a pub involved, too. That's where it all started in a 'he said that she said that he said his dad/brother/ nephew/ son said that the brother-in-law/ sister said the mother said that Billy and Jack should 'get it sortid,' before she died, God rest 'er soul.' Various texts were sent between various mobiles about Billy looking for Bill, who was after Jack because Verity said they should get it 'sortid', but William answered Billy's phone and got the wrong message and thought Jack was after Billy and he told Billy who said, 'Wotsit gotta do wiv me, bruv?' and he went after Jack Junior, who's a kid and should have stayed out of it, but 'e didn't and now the barrister is saying he is lying and he ain't.

This is where it starts turning into an episode of Eastenders.

Today's best evidence goes to witness Alice, one of the sister. She told her brother, in the pub, to 'Sort it aht, and he said, 'I am not sorting it out, because it's two cartridges for big boy, two cartridges for Jack and the same for Johnny.' '

Big boy? Who the heck is big boy?? The family Staffie?? And now it seems there WAS gun, because the only other things I can think you need a cartridge for are ink pens and printers. Unless the bruvs were going to 'get it sortid' with a mass photocopy session, of course. Or exercise their copperplate technique across each other's foreheads. I can't wait to see if that's brought up in the defence case later on. 'I was just practising me italic form, m'lud, and I needed two cartridges in case one run out.'

Meanwhile, Jack Junior was on Facebook, updating his status - 'Effing barrister accused me of lying. Swear down I was tellin' the truth.'

It's all very sad, tragic, and stupid. Some Christmas that family is going to have.

On a lighter note, Mrs Pumphrey is awarded the 'Cunning Chicken 2010' award, for her magic Houdini performance yesterday. I happened to be at the kitchen window washing up and from my vantage point I could see Misses Miggins and Slocombe racing up and down the inner fence of Cluckinghen Palace like chickens demented. I thought, what's up with them? and scanned the garden for cats/ foxes/ flocks of pigeons/ Tango Pete in his Tom Jones posing pouch.

Then all of a sudden, Mrs Pumphrey hove into view, strutting with purpose across the lawn towards the asparagus bed.
'Look at me!' she called. 'I'm strutting!'

Well, she'd somehow managed to escape the run, and given that she is one big chicken and the escape hole, when located, was teeny tiny, we counted ourselves lucky we didn't have a lacerated and strangulated chicken on our hands.

Carpenter Andy set about making the run safe. He also made them a winter bivouac, which they are regarding with suspicion at the moment, but I'm sure they'll appreciate come the next rainstorm. Mrs Pumphrey continued to climb in and out of the escape hole going 'Look at me! Look at me!'

But by the end of the day, they were all safely ensconsed in Cluckinghen Palace aka 'Henditz.'

And now I must go to complete the final, final, FINAL edit of Nearly King Jimbo, my mission to flush out the tiny errors that keep slipping past mine eagle eye. In two weeks, Andy has a week of holiday and we are going into NKJ production mode. Andy the Pen is churning out magnificent illustration after magnificent illustration, I am gearing myself up to write some entertaining blurb and author/ illustrator profiles to go inside the cover.

'Shall we include a picture of us strangling each other?' I said, for 't has been a project of high stress and occasional artistic difference.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'Now, have you seen my box of cartridges?'

Is it Christmas yet?

Of course it isn't, and I shouldn't even be mentioning the 'c' word yet, because, despite the lashing rain, the swirling wind and the dark satanic clouds plus the fact I am now sleeping 'neath the duvet after weeks of sleeping on top, there is yet another week of August to go, and I'm full of hope for an Indian summer.

But the reason I mention Christmas is that Andy said at the weekend (in between bottling his vast quantities of wine and baking some rather delicious digestive biscuits) that he thought it would be a good idea to self-publish 'Nearly King Jimbo' and give copies to our family and friends as Christmas gifts. As if they haven't suffered enough.

Anyway, I said that I thought that would be a good idea, too, having come to the conclusion a while ago that it is unlikely I am going to be published through the conventional manner of being taken on by an agent, who then engages two or more publishers in a wild bidding war thereby elevating me to the higher eschelons of the writing world where I get to be driven around in the back of a Lexus and win all the best new-comer awards for the year 2011-2012.

Yes, the only way I'm going to see my work in print is to DIY it. So Andy is going to explore the various self-publishing outlets and then spend many evenings faffing about with the manuscript until something resembling a book emerges.

And this brings me to a teeny tiny problemette.

'I'll have to re-edit the script,' I said.
'Do you have a copy?' said Andy.
'Oh yes,' I said, blithely, for although my old lap top, which contains the full script is now dead and therefore has trapped the aforesaid full script FOREVER inside its flippy floppy hardly discy drive thing, I was pretty bloomin' certain I had printed off a full copy when I was touting the book around agents a couple of years ago. And I said as much to Andy.
'Did you save a copy on a memory stick?' said Andy.
'Errmmmmm....well, possibly....not....' I said, because I am notoriously bad at performing such technical tasks. Besides, I didn't expect my 5 year old laptop to go clunk and give up the ghost when it did.

Andy gave me his rebuking look. I went in search of the full paper script I was certain existed somewhere.

I found half a paper script. Up to the bit where Nearly King Jimbo is being a farmer and the pigs are discussing how nice it had been to have potato wedges with their pizza the night before. (Nearly King Jimbo wasn't terribly au fait with how to feed farm animals at this point.) I also found the synopsis.

'Pants,' I thought. I handed all my memory sticks to Andy to explore; he also searched his own computer in case by some miracle he'd downloaded the whole script when he'd put it on Authonomy for me.

It appears not. It appears that I shall have to re-write the second half of the book again. 'Pants,' I thought, especially as the second half involves a character called Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff (awkward spelling) and a scenario involving the annual Titbury Weaving and Creative Knitting Association competition (complex plot twist involving an angora goat), and Nearly King Jimbo helping Alice choose a dress (not pink) for the prize winning exhibition evening (Alice is a very difficult person to buy non-pink dresses for).

Andy didn't exactly say, 'That'll learn ya to save things on memory sticks,' but I knew he was thinking it.

Anyway, Andy is going to illustrate the book so it becomes a joint effort. He is, as you know, a very talented cartoonist, and has already done a drawing of one of the characters, a Mr Jobble, who rides a tricycle. The drawing looks exactly how I imagined Mr Jobble to be - a cross between Captain Mainwairing and Su Pollard.

So I need to crack on with the writing which I shall call editing to make it sound like I haven't really lost half the script. But still there is a niggle that I HAVE got a full copy somewhere. If only I could remember where...

'I say,' says Mrs Miggins, flicking through a hefty sheaf of neatly typed papers. 'This is quite entertaining in a simple and absurd way.'
'It's even got chickens in it,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And I like the bit where Alice teaches Nearly King Jimbo how to deal with a goose attack.'
'Yes,' agrees Mrs Miggins, 'and in theory it should work. I wonder if he'll get a chance to try it out?'
'Well, let's read on,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Digestive biscuit with your dandelion wine?'
'Don't mind if I do,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Pass me the next page and I'll read on.'

Mrs Slocombe sticks her head around the library door. 'I'm cleaning out the nest box,' she says. 'And I've run out of shredded paper for the bedding.'
Mrs Pumphrey looks around. 'Will this do?' she says, finding a sheaf of neatly typed paper in her lap.
'Lovely,' says Mrs Slocombe.

Five minutes later, the paper shredder Andy inadvertently got as a Christmas present three years ago, grinds itself into action...

Mrs Slocombe Makes Spanakopita

'Good morning, fellow cuisinaires! Mrs Slocombe here, speaking today from the kitchen at Much Malarkey Manor. I would be speaking from the kitchen at Cluckinghen Palace but for an unfortunate accident involving Mrs Pumphrey and the heating up of a leg-waxing kit in the Aga, resulting in a spot of emergency re-enamelling work. However, her Ladyship at the Manor has requested I blog a cookery spot today, so here I am, with my very simple-recipe-for-simple-hens called Spanakopita. (The recipe, not the hens. Spanakopita would be a silly name for a hen...or would it??? Hmmmmm....Betty Spanakopita Slocombe...it has a certain ring to it. 'Yes,' says Mrs Miggins. 'A stupid one.')'

'I didn't actually request you do a cookery blog today,' I interrupt. 'You just muscled your way in here with your pecky beak and told me you were cooking, so shift my ar...'
'Okay,' says Slocombe. 'Perhaps I did. Perhaps I didn't. But I'm here now, so can I just get on with it?'
'Yes, if you must,' I say. 'But make sure you clear up after yourself.'
'Has she washed her hands?' says Mrs Miggins, who co-incidentally has come to the Manor this morning for me to practise a Tarot reading on.
'Yes,' I say. 'And I've made her put on an apron, too. Look, it's a novelty one with human beings all over it.'
'Oh yes,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Lovely!'

Mrs Slocombe is seething. She has a very short attention span and even shorter temper. She has come to share her recipe for Spanokopita, and she's getting fed up with the delay in progress.

'Carry on,' I say, for fear that her angry vibrations will penetrate my newly calm spiritual aura.
'Yes,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Don't mind us. You don't usually.'

'Firstly,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'gather together your ingredients. For spanakopita, you will need some spanners...'
'Oh woah up there,' I say. 'If you're going to do a cookery spot, there's to be no messing about. I'm not having complaints from Much Malarkey visitors about how they've suffered broken teeth and irritable bowel from eating one of your more abstract interpretations of a perfectly good recipe. Do it properly or not at all.'
'That's exactly what I said to Tango Pete last night,' sighs Mrs Pumphrey, who has popped in because she doesn't like to be at the Palace alone because of the noisy plumbing.
'I don't wish to know,' I say.

Mrs Slocombe sighs. 'You spoil all my fun,' she says. 'But if you insist...ahem, you will need 1 large onion, finely chopped, some oil for frying, 1lb of baby spinach, 12oz feta cheese, a handful of pine nuts, some grated fresh nutmeg, a couple of ozzes of melted butter and a packet of filo pastry. Oh, and some crushed garlic if you like crushed garlic, but I don't so I'm leaving it out.'

'That's better,' I say, and decide it is safe to step back and concentrate on my spiritual development for the day. Mrs Slocombe continues.

'Preheat your oven to Gas 8 after checking first for the presence of leg-waxing kits and stray lambs. Cook onion, and garlic (if you're mad) in large pan for 5 mins. Add spinach. Wilt. (The spinach, not you, although in this weather I wouldn't blame you if you did.) After about 4 mins, drain and squeeze mixture and add to bowl with feta, pine nuts, nutmeg and seasoning. Pause to nibble a few pine nuts, because they are, quite frankly, one of the THE most delicious things ever. Oh, and if you find you haven't got quite enough spinach, you could do half spinach mixed with other green veggies like finely sliced runner beans, and peas and courgettes, whatever combo tickles your trout.

Brush a 9 inch loose bottomed tart.... ('That's not a nice way to talk about Mrs Pumphrey,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Concentrate,' I say. 'The Wheel of Fortune has appeared.)...tin with butter. Lay a sheet of filo across it, draping it over the edges. Brush with butter. Add a second sheet across the first at an angle. Brush with butter again. Continue to layer the filo at different angles until 6-8 sheets have been used and the base and sides of the tin are covered. Add filling.

Now, repeat the sequence of filo 'n' butter layering across the top of the pie, then roll the edges down, tucking them in to seal the pie. Remove rim from the tin. DO NOT BE AFRAID. I thought it would collapse the first time I did this, but it didn't. HURRAH!!

Sit pie on base onto a baking tray. Brush top with butter and add sesame and or poppy seeds if you don't mind flossing after dinner.

Bake for 20 minutes until crisp and golden. Eat hot, warm or cold depending on when you've cooked it and when your family arrive home from work or whether you are taking it on a picnic or using it for lunch boxes. YUM!!

'It sounds lovely,' I say.

'It is,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'But it'd taste a lot better if it had spanners in it.'

Time Store

The hens are sitting in the middle of the formal rose garden at Cluckinghen Palace, staring at each other around the Henry Moore statue. It's a statue they acquired a couple of years ago, Lord knows from where; all Miggins will say, when pressed on the subject, is that she's got 'contacts in the trade, right?', and then she gives me a menacing look and I don't like to probe further.

'All right, girls?' I call over the fence, for despite their best horticultural efforts with a honeysuckle, I can still see inside the grounds if I stand on a footstool, on a ladder, on a coffee table, on the heap of soil I dug up recently whilst trying to extricate the last of the roots from the eucalyptus tree. (Which, annoyingly, is starting to sprout again. I think the darn thing has Terminator tendencies.)

'We're fine,' says Mrs Miggins. 'We're having a board meeting.'
'Oh, really?' I say. 'Which board meeting would that be then? The Associated Chicken Society? The Peckham Ladies' Cluster? The All Feather and No Pants Guild?'
'No,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Not that kind of board. The other kind. B...O...R...E...D....bored meeting. Because we are bored.'

Well, as my children will both testify, mentioning the word 'bored' to me is like waving a red rag to a bull that isn't, unlike its compatriots, colour-blind.

I have two stock answers to the 'I'm bored...' thing. They are 1) go and tidy your bedroom and 2) go outside and play.

Neither of which suffice for the chickens because a) they have a woman that does to tidy their bedroom (i.e me) and b) they are already outside, although they aren't playing. Unless you count the game Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey play every day in trying to keep Mrs Slocombe at beak's length.

'I wish I could suggest something for you to do,' I say.
'Oh, we'll be okay this afternoon,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'This afternoon we are going on a mystery tour. On a coach. Tango Pete's arranged it.'
'How exciting,' I say. 'Any idea where?'

Mrs Miggins gives me a bit of a stare. 'It wouldn't be a mystery tour if we knew where we were going, would it?' she says.
'Lakeland Plastics,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Oooooh, I LOVE Lakeland Plastics!' says Mrs Slocombe, waking suddenly from her bored meeting meditation. Well, she's approaching that age, I suppose, where retractable feather dusters and banana holders become suddenly fascinating must-have objects.
'WHAT?' says Mrs Miggins. 'How do you know we're going to Lakeland Plastics?'
'Tango Pete asked me where I'd like to go if I was to go on a mystery tour and didn't want to be too surprised,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And I've always fancied getting one of those Ramoushka pots, you know, for those evenings when I'm on my own and want a pot-for-one-prepare-ahead-and- slow-cook-supper.'

Mrs Miggins sighs. 'He's so unimaginative,' she says.

I, on the other hand, have been anything but bored this morning. I have been to the dentist for a check-up. All tickety-boo and good for another year. I have purchased seven rolls of wallpaper for the hall, landing and stairs. There was a spot of wild shenanigins yesterday when I waved a tape measure around for a while, adding up very approximate numbers as I went, and guessing a bit in difficult places to reach like the top of the ceiling and the recess into the stairwell. And then I abandoned the tape measure and consulted my instinct who said seven rolls would be ample. And if it's not, I shall know who to blame, shan't I?

Then I came home with my wallpaper. I unravelled a roll, held it up the wall, and said, 'Oooh, lovely.'

Then I did a spot of interwebbly property surfing, hoping that 'THE HOUSE' would leap from the screen and make itself known, then I remembered I'd just spent a fair packet on some wallpaper, so best reign in that 'let's move' malarkey feeling toute suite.

This afternoon I have to meditate on a conundrum. You know how I am planning to do my Reiki degree? And that I've contacted a tutor? Well, whilst having a book tidy out the other day, I came upon a copy of a book I acquired many, many years ago written by the healer Harry Edwards. It was one of the initial motivators that got me into the whole psychic reading and healing thing. My Mum's nanny was a friend of his; I think that's how I came by the book in the first place. So, being a curious type, I typed Harry Edwards' name into Google, and to my delight, his healing sanctuary still operates today! It's about an hour's drive away, in Surrey. And they run courses and retreats where one can gain a formal and recognised qualification in healing! And they have an Open Day this Saturday!!

Well!! Suddenly, I'm all fired up about something that happened nearly thirty years ago, that, although not forgotten, had slipped to the back of my mind. Suddenly, I feel like this could be the continuation of a journey that I began back in the summer of 1982, 8 months after my grandad died and I heard him telling me the runner beans were going to be good that year. And they were.

I have suddenly realised that Time doesn't work. Time is a human concept attached to the motion of the Universe, which the Universe roundly ignores. The Universe puts elements of our life in place, knowing we'll be back for them sometime next week, next month, in five years, ten years, a lifetime, it doesn't matter when. All that matters is that we do return, and continue along the way that is meant for us, no matter how far we've drifted off to pursue other interests.

As Helen Keller said : 'When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us.'

So - Reiki or Harry Edwards? Or neither or both?

Let the dance-off begin!

What Shall I Write About Today?

I said to Andy, 'What shall I blog about today?'
He said, 'I don't know,' which was VERY unhelpful, because sometimes I need a bit of blog shove to get me going, especially when my brain is on a creative go slow, as it is at the moment.

So I went into the garden, to speak to the hens, for they are wise in all manner of the arts, their version of Rodin's 'The Kiss' still drawing visitors from as far apart as Japan and Hull, to wonder at its glory.

'What you need is an inspirational break,' said Mrs Miggins.
'I'll give her one,' said Mrs Slocombe, already sharpening her beak on a shaving strap and fixing her gimlet eye on my open-toed sandalled feet.
'Just you try it,' I said.
'You're such a spoilsport,' said Slocombe, and she shuffled off to the South Gardens to see if there were any stray feathers to be had.
'As it happens,' I said, 'we are off on an inspirational break soon, to celebrate our wedding anniversary. To Stratford -upon-Avon.'
'You always go there,' said Mrs Miggins.
'It has become a bit of a tradition,' I admitted. 'We're going to see 'As You Like It' whilst we are there.'
'And how do you like it?' asked Mrs Miggins.
'White, no sugar and considerably stronger than gnat's wee,' I said. 'With a digestive or possibly Hobnob on the side.'
'Hmmmm,' said Miggins. 'That could be the root of your problem.'
'What problem?' I said.
'Your lack of blog inspiration,' said Miggins. 'You see, you were totally non-creative in your response to a potentially cheeky-making question. So, I'll ask you again...how do you like it?'

I stared at her blankly.

'I'm sorry. I don't get you,' I said.

Mrs Miggins sighed.
'Mrs Pumphrey, would you join me for a demonstration, please?' she shouted.
'Is it urgent?' called Mrs Pumphrey from the penthouse. 'Only I'm doing my roots.'
'Wrap a towel round your head, they'll keep,' said Miggins.

Mrs Pumphrey duly appeared, turban-headed and with a suspicious-looking cerise streak dripping down her face and off the end of her beak.
'Is that one of my best Christy's?' I asked, eyeing the towel she carried atop her pin-head.
'I found it in the garden,' said Mrs P hotly. 'It blew in with the wind. Finders keepers, losers can't look after their property.'

'Mrs Pumphrey,' said Mrs Miggins. 'I am going to ask you a question and I want the first response that comes into your chicken brain, okay?'
'Oh, goody!' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'I love games like this. Fire away.'

Mrs Miggins coughed.
'How do you like it?' she said.
'Topped up with gin, served in a pineapple with Lionel Blair on the side,' said Pumphrey, without missing a beat.
'You see!' said Miggins. 'Creativity in bucketloads. You're thinking too much, that's your problem. See what Pumphrey came out with straight away. She doesn't think about it, she just says.'
'I tried that once,' I said, 'and almost got punched for my troubles.'
'Learn to duck quicker,' advised Miggins.
'Try again, try again!' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'Okay...how do you like it again?' said Miggins, keen to prove her point.
'With a chintz half-curtain, a parlour palm and a barely warm waffle iron,' said Mrs Pumphrey, triumphantly.

Well, of course, it was all too much for me. I left them to it. I mean, I only popped out for a quick bit of inspiration for a blog. And where did it leave me? Back at square one.

I'll let you know if anything worth writing about happens before today drifts into the past.

Holistic Hens

The hens have got wind of my plans to develop a career in holistic therapy.

'We can help!' they said, when I went out to greet the sun with them yesterday morning.
'Oh really?' I said, filling their water bowls and topping up their food, as yet another heatwave day presented itself over the horizon.
'And what are you wearing exactly?' asked Mrs Miggins. 'They're very distracting.'
'They are my new jimjams,' I said. 'Do you like them?'
'You look ridiculous,' said Miggins.
'Oh, I don't know,' said Mrs Pumphrey, who lives, as you know, at the cutting edge of fashion. 'I rather like the huge pink and blue dots on the trousers. And the massive bow on the left bosom is rather fetching in a Danny La Rue kind of way.'
'More like Coco the Clown,' snorted Miggins. 'Aren't you afraid you're going to choke on it in the middle of the night?'
'No,' I said, hotly. But secretly I was.

'Anyway,' said Mrs Miggins, once she had partaken of a handful of breakfast cereal followed by a goodly pile of dandelion leaves (good for the bladder, don't you know), 'about our holistic therapy
business...'
'Our holistic therapy business?' I said.
'Good, I'm glad we've got that settled,' said Miggins.
'You have a blob of dandelion leaf on your beak; shall I peck it off?' said Mrs Slocombe, helpfully.
'Come near me with that beak and I'll break your wings,' said Mrs Miggins, 'but do tell our holistic therapy partner about your beak related therapy.'

'Well, 'said Mrs Slocombe, 'it's quite revolutionary...'
'I'll bet it is,' I said.
'It's called Pecku-puncture,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Don't tell me,' I said, 'you get to peck people silly with that naughty feather pecking beak of yours.'
'Oh, you've already heard of it?' said Mrs Slocombe, somewhat surprised.
'Lucky guess,' I said. 'And I'm not so sure it's going to be very relaxing or therapeutic for my clients to be pecked to within an inch of their sanity by a chicken.'
'Well, there's always the slightly gentler form - acupeckture,' said Slocombe.

'I want to tell her about my ideas,' said Mrs Pumphrey, who was already wandering around in a mystical way in her Madame Arcarti outfit.
'Tarot?' I said.
'Yes,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'but with a subtle twist.'
'And that twist would be?' I said.
'Gin and tonic,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Very relaxing, and I should know.'

'Right, I'm going in for breakfast,' I said. 'And I'm taking my pyjamas with me.'
'But wait!' called Mrs Miggins, as I beat a hasty retreat. 'We haven't told you about the special herbs we're growing behind the South Wing gazebo.'
'I don't want to hear anything about special herbs,' I said, sticking my fingers in my ears. 'Tra-la-la-la-LA!!!!!!!!'

Anyway, I have located courses on aromatherapy, reflexology, diet and nutrition, Indian head massage and Reiki. I think that will do for starters.

Chickens not included.

Have they gone yet?

'Have they gone yet?'
'I don't think so. I can still hear the wails of an angst ridden soul emanating from the bathroom.'
'Why does she do that do you think?'
'Blowed if I know. She should try eating a few worms. Then she' d know true suffering.'
'And do I have to type this with a cat on my lap?'
'No. Kick her off...'

Yooowwllllllllll............pfffsttttt....pffttt....

'Look,' says Miggins. 'If you two are going to hijack the Manor blog for a week whilst Andy and Denise are on holiday, you've got to be subtle.'
'Subtle? I don't do subtle,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'So I see,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Your hat says it all. Who kicked the cat?'
'She did!' say Pumphrey and Slocombe, pointing accusatory wings at each other.
'Or possibly Mrs Bennett from beyond the grave,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Don't you be dragging Mrs Bennett into this. She would NEVER kick a cat,' says Miggins. 'Her legs were far too short for a start.'

An awkward silence ensues. Upstairs, the wailing has stopped and been replaced by the far more cheerful sounds of someone singing 'Dancing in the Moonlight,' and going into the loft to retrieve suitcases.

'Talk about mood swings,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'When are they going?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only Tango Pete called. He wants to know when he can arrive to start setting up the portaloos for 'HenFest 2010.'
'Not until mid-day tomorrow,' says Mrs Miggins. 'They're supposed to be leaving at 10, but you know what she's like. Reckons she's all organised, but then spends an extra half hour running around doing pointless displacement activities like hoovering the cupboard under the stairs or repointing the chimney.'
'Okay,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'I'll call him back and let him know. '
'And you've bribed our chicken sitter?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'All inclusive week to see Michael Buble in concert seven times,' says Miggins. 'The muck will hit the fan only when the credit card bill arrives, and then I say we meld into the background until the shouting is over.'
'She'll never suspect us,' sayd Slocombe. 'After all, it's a well known fact that chickens have no idea about how to use a credit card.'
'Quite,' says Miggins.
'Actually, I'm surprised at how well I can manage this keyboard,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Especially now I've got rid of the cat.'
'It's because you've got nimble toes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I have nimble toes, too, but they are more suited to the ballet.'
'Perhaps I should develop a career in keyboarding,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'There's no such thing,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Really?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'What am I thinking of then?'
'Snowboarding?' suggests Mrs Pumphrey.
'Ironing boarding?' says Mrs Miggins, who, quite frankly, would like someone else to do the sheets and duvet covers every once in a while.
'No, no,' says Mrs Slocombe. She pauses in her typing to have a think ...

............


...........


'You'll have to start again,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Or we won't get any further.'
'Sorry,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Well, whatever it is I'm trying to think of, I'm sure it will come to me soon. So, HenFest 2010, here we come, eh?'
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I'm very excited. I've got a new head scarf in Parisian Pink chiffon, and a tambourine.'
'And I've left the outside tap running so we'll have a good pile of mud,' says Mrs Miggins.

Upstairs, the sound of suitcases being dropped fromt the loft hatch has stopped.

'What's she doing now?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Decanting shampoo, conditioner, shower gel and moisturiser into handy travel-size bottles,' says Mrs Miggins.

'The sign of a deranged mind in need of a good holiday,' sighs Mrs Pumphrey.
'Exactly,' says Mrs Miggins. 'But at least they can go away knowing Much Malarkey Manor will be in good hands. Or rather wings.'
'Is that a good thing?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Of course!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Just you wait and see.'

The Trainee Chicken Keeper

Not everyone at Much Malarkey Manor is keen on our livestock expansion programme. And by 'everyone' I mean Heather. On discovering that bees were on the way, she said, 'I suppose I shan't be able to have my bedroom window open now.'

Quite what makes her think that 50,000 bees would suddenly want to access her bedroom I do not know. I suppose she has a good selection of DVDs and some interesting theatrical-type posters to peruse. But given the choice of staying outside and roaming the skies for pollen and nectar, and sharing a room with someone who would be screaming loudly at their appearance, in order to watch 'Michael McKintyre Live at the Apollo,' I think a bee would probably opt for the former.

Added to this trauma, Heather has been designated Chief Chicken Keeper for the next week whilst Andy and I have a holiday in Devon. In order to keep the chickens to my exacting standards (i.e make sure they don't drop dead) I took Heather to Cluckinghen Palace yesterday afternoon to run through the 'putting the chickens to bed' routine. I thought I'd sneak in the 'getting the chickens up in the morning' routine as we went along, as it involved getting up at some ungodly hour in the morning.

'So,' I said, 'firstly you will need to enter the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. You cannot get away with flinging food and stuff over the fence at them.'
'Right,' said Heather. I glanced down and noticed she was wearing totally unsuitable footwear, i.e not wellies.
'You will need to excavate the front of the pod or the door won't shut properly,' I said. 'This is because during the day the chickens dig all the bark chippings up into a heap in front of their front door. They do it to annoy me. I've left a shovel by the door with which to excavate.'
'Right,' said Heather.
'I will clean the pod out before we go tomorrow, which will be okay for the week. But you'll need to empty the bottom tray mid-week so there isn't a build up,' I said.
'A build-up of what?' said Heather.
'Poo,' I said. 'Although mid-week poo clearing isn't too bad during the spring and summer as the girls don't spend so much time in there pooping.'
'Why's that then?' said Heather.

Here we go, I thought.
'Because they get up at 6 a.m and go to bed at 8 p.m, thereby spending around 6 hours a day less inside than they do in the winter,' I said quickly.
'I'm sorry,' said Heather. 'But what time did you say they get up?'
'6 a.m,' I said.

I don't know why Heather needed telling this. She knows what time they wake in the summer because she sleeps with her bedroom window open and there's been many a time when she's complained about clucking hens waking her with a dawn chorus. Still, this won't be a problem when the bees arrive as I suspect the bedroom window will remain firmly shut.

'So how do I get the poop tray out?' said Heather.
'If you put your hand under the pod, you will feel a metal catch,' I said. 'Press it up and it will allow the tray to slide out. Pull out the tray and shovel contents into compost bin. You'll need to take the lid off the bin beforehand because it's a tricky operation to hold a poopy tray with one hand and try and get the bin lid off with the other.'

'I HAVE POO ON MY HAND!!' said Heather. Still, she gamely followed my instructions and managed to get poop into bin with no further ado.

'And in the morning,' I said, 'I hold a double hand of pellets for the hens to eat first because they sometimes take a while to realise they have two feeders in the run and don't really need my help. It's a bonding thing.'

Heather is not good with hand-feeding hens. I think it's the sharp pointy beak meeting soft flesh she objects to. Still, she got a handful of pellets and held them out. Mrs Miggins approached, because she is the most human friendly.

'Aaaaargh!!' said Heather, as Mrs Miggins, usually a very gentle pecker, ignored the food and went straight for Heather's thumb nail.
'It's because you're wearing red nail varnish,' I said. 'Chickens go for red spots because they think it's a nice bloody wound they can pick over. It brings out their cannabalistic tendencies.'
'Nice,' said Heather. 'That's coming off this evening, then.'

'Change their water twice a day, especially if the weather's hot,' I continued. 'And collect eggs, and change their bedding a couple of times a week, especially if it rains.'

'Anything else?' said Heather.

'Did you tell her that Tuesday night is curry night, and that on Wednesdays we'll need her to make up a four for bridge?' said Mrs Miggins.
'And that we're half way through 'Bridget Jones' Diary' for our bedtime story?' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And if we miss a week we'll forget what happened and have to start all over again?'
'And that we go to yoga on Fridays and will need a lift this week because Tango Pete's campervan's off the road with its head gasket?' said Mrs Slocombe.

'You're joking?' said Heather, staring at the chickens, who were staring back, no doubt wondering if it was worth another lunge at those nice shiny red bits on the ends of her fingers.

I gave a shrug. It's all part of chicken-keeping to me. I'm used to it.

'So, do you think you'll be okay?' I said.
'Yes,' said Heather, because one of her finer points as a human being is that she is determined never to let anything beat her.
'Good,' I said, as we went back indoors so Heather could disinfect her hand of poop. 'Now, about the cats...'
'I'm not doing bees if you go on holiday next year,' Heather said. 'No way. Never.'

Ah, I think. Never say never. It's a dangerous thing, tempting Fate.

Help!!

So, I arrived home from work today, thinking I ought to get out and dig the snow from the driveway before Andy gets home. Our drive is on a slope which can be tricky to negotiate when there is snow and ice around. Our neighbour across the road was out with his shovel freeing his driveway, and when I mentioned that I was about to dump my school and shopping bags and do the same, he said 'I'll do it for you,' and before I could stop him he'd shot across the road and started clearing the snow. He brushed aside my protestations. 'It's what neighbours do for each other, isn't it?' he said.

Bless him!

Off I went to the back garden, to do a pre-sunset chicken check.

'Hello girls!' I said. 'I've brought you a bed-time lettuce.'
'That's nice,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'I like a bit of bed-time lettuce.'
'It's the tryptophan,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Helps get you off to sleep.'
'Where's Miggo?' I said, looking around the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. 'Laying a late egg?'

I opened the pod. No sign of Miggo.

'Mrs Miggins!' I called.
'Bok, bok,bok!' called Mrs Miggins.

I looked around. I could hear her. I couldn't see her.

'Bok, bok, bok,' she called again. 'I'm over here!'

And there, at the far end of the garden, where the snow was at its deepest and where no hen dared to tread, sat Mrs Miggins, stuck up to her wing pits in a snow drift and looking mightily cheesed off.

'What on earth possessed you to venture up here?' I said, wading through the drift to rescue my best girl.
'I can't turn around,' said Mrs Miggins, her beak squished up against the fence. And neither could she, for she was well and truly wodged into the snow like a well and truly wodged in thing. 'And I can't feel my feet,' she added.

Anyway, I lifted her from the drift and carried her to safe ground. 'Have some lettuce,' I said.
'Thanks,' she said, digging in like a good 'un. She wobbled a bit when I put her down, and I had a heart-stopping moment because I thought she'd been attacked by something, but no, by the time she went to bed she was fine.

'Are your nethers frozen?' I heard Mrs Slocombe ask as I shut the door to the pod for the night. The smell of eucalyptus and Vicks vapour rub permeated the air, and I could hear Mrs Pumphrey flipping pancakes, her cure-all for any shocking experience.
'My nethers are no concern of yours,' said Mrs Miggins. 'But my tush is very frosty.'

Of course, now I shall lie awake all night fretting that Mrs Miggins will come down with cold, or pneumonia, or a raging desire to go on an Artic expedition. I'm not sure how she got into the drift in the first place, or why she took it into her head to venture forth thus. But I have been keeping chickens long enough now to know that there is no rhyme or reason to these wonderful creatures and if nothing else, they keep us humans on our toes.

Oh, and I would like you all to know that my very mature, grown-up and responsible veterinary husband, aka Andy, made a snow willy at work today and left it on top of one of the other vet's cars. He had a partner in crime whose identity I shall not reveal, but really Andrew! How old are you???

All Behind Like a Cow's Tail

Although I feel I have been churning out much content for 'Poulet Nous' and NaNoWrimo, it's all been in my mind and I haven't actually committed much of it to actual written blog. In fact, this weekend has been so busy I found myself at least 4,000 words behind schedule this morning. However, I've spent the last two and a half hours writing Chapters 7 and 8, so may have caught up with myself a bit by now.

The thing is, I got distracted with Christmas this weekend, which, in my defence, is late for me, who usually has it all sussed by the end of October and is shouting 'Bring it on, Santa.' But then I realised yesterday that I haven't even got my Advent Candle yet, and Advent starts in barely three week's time. So then I got distracted into making Christmas lists - things to do like ordering the goose and making the cards - and things to buy, like almost everything bar my Mum's pressie which I got back in September and is currently gathering dust in the bottom of my wardrobe.

And then 'The Wizard of Oz' was on telly yesterday afternoon, which is one of my favourite films from childhood. Followed by 'The Aristocats', so no writing got done after lunch, other than a few Sudokus and Crosswords during the commercial breaks. All this time, Andy was drawing the designs for our Christmas cards and scanning them onto computer for the adding of colour and the printing onto shiny photographic paper thereof. The designs are very good and I am thrilled with them all, especially the 'God Nest Ye Merry, Gentle Hens, ' and 'Good Queen Henselas,' which I think might be the two final selections to actually send to people. So sometime in the next week or two, I need to finish the final cards, with Andy's drawings as the central feature, and some Christmas tat by me in the form of ribbons and stars and stuff around the edges.

And talking of hens (now there's a rare thing in this blog!), all three girls have survived the pops and bangs of Bonfire Night, with little more than a couple of days of wrinkly eggs to show the effect of them being startled by the experience. Poor things. A good case for campaigning for silent fireworks, I think.

Back to writing 'Poulet Nous,' now. I hope you are enjoying the read so far, those who are coming along for the ride with me. I am enjoying writing it, so might just have a copy printed at the end of the whole malarkey for my own entertainment and to remind myself that I have made someone laugh with my writing, even if that someone was only me!

Going Postal and NaNaWriMo

I've suddenly realised that NaNoWriMo starts on Sunday and I've barely given a thought to what I'm actually going to write during the month of November. Yes, I've had other things on my mind like moving people into flats, job interviews, trying to sell a house and other such malarkey, but I really ought to have a couple of ideas with which to hit the keyboard at the midnight hour on 1st Nov. I'm thinking I might start the project at midnight because other NaNo-ites across the world will be doing so and it will be entering into the camaraderie of the writing frenzy. But then I might not be able to stay awake, being a lark, not an owl. We'll see...

I did try a plot starter exercise a week ago with my 'It was a dark and stormy night...' plan. I got to 600 words and an embryonic plot began to form; indeed it bounced along merrily and I thought, hmmm, this may have some legs. But does it have the legs for 50,000+ words in a month? Unlikely. Not without me mentioning Snoopy at some point, anyway.

And then, yesterday, I had A MAGNIFICENT THOUGHT! I could write a novel about the chickens. I mean, they always seem to get a good response here in the blog, and I enjoy writing about them, as their voices and personalities come across very clearly to me.

('Is she STILL thinking our activities are a product of her over-active imagination?' says Mrs Pumphrey, who has just this week started making Christmas puddings, after all, only 8 weeks to go and there's got to be at least one pudding option for people to turn down in favour of a double chocolate Yule log. 'Yes,' says Miggins. 'But we might make it into a novel at last, so ssshhhhh. If she wants to think we don't actually behave and talk like this, let her. Our chance of true fame looms large at last.' 'Madness,' says Betty Slocombe. 'Absolute barking madness.')

And then I thought, I could set up a NaNoWriMo blog! So fans of the chickens could have a 50,000+ words dose of their heroes over November. Or would that be a bit like stuffing your face with unlimited Jaffa Cakes? The thought is tempting, but after the first three packets you start feeling nauseous with the excess. Of course, I am very much of the opinion one can never have too many Jaffa cakes, but then I've never actually tried eating 3 packets on the trot.

So, a chicken novel blog. That will be my plan for today. Will it work? What shall I call it? What about plot? So many things to decide in the next 36 hours.

Now, about this postal strike. I'm not happy about it because it's my birthday on Monday and I demand the right to receive cards through the post. It's not good enough. I mean, if I'm getting fretful about it at the age of almost forty four, then what about all my fellow Scorpios who are under the age of, say, ten, who won't be getting their cards if they have a birthday either today, tomorrow or Monday? Poor little things. Can you imagine their little faces, pressed against the window, waiting the arrival of the postie, only to be told 'There's no post today,' by their parents. It's like having a part of your birthday cancelled.

Nonetheless, I am a very lucky birthday girl. My friend, Jane, is making me a birthday dinner tomorrow night, and Andy is taking me to see 'La Cage aux Folles' on Monday. (It's starring John Barrowman - Heather is v. jealous!) And hopefully, I shall be so wrapped up in the NaNoWriMo project that I shan't miss the non-arrival of the postman.

Sofits and Fascias and Dalek Supreme

Another fine day dawns over Much Malarkey Manor. Really, it's like Summer is feeling guilty for short-changing us on the weather front during August and has come puffing back shouting 'Sorry about the poor service last month - here, have a freebie Summer extension for a couple of weeks.'

And as the back garden farming community hate to see a day of good weather go to waste (it's pretty much on the same level of sin as wasting food), Mrs Miggins is on the doorstep pretty sharpish this morning, catching me in the act of eating a wholemeal multi-seeded bagel.

'Sofits and fascias?' she says, trying not to stare too hard at my breakfast plate.
'Sofits and fascias,' I agree. 'Would you like some bagel before we start? Save you dribbling on mine?'
'Please,' she says.

After breakfast we head for the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace. Mrs Miggins has expressed a desire to repair and repaint the sofits and fascias before Winter sets in and I have agreed to help her in return for her assistance in cleaning the 'conservatory' roof of Much Malarkey Manor whilst we've got the ladders out.

'Wouldn't you rather get a man in to do the work for you?' I asked when Miggins first broached the subject.
'Certainly not,' said Miggins. 'The recession is biting at the coffers of the Palace, too, you know. Besides, if a hen can't managed her own sofits and fascias, what use is she to the rest of the world?'

I wasn't really sure how to answer that one, so we struck our mutual maintenance deal and agreed the work to be done on the next fine day.

Which is today.

Once up the ladders we strike up an easy conversation. We discuss the Liberal Democrat Party Conference which kills a minute and half and then Mrs Miggins agrees that if the Manor freezer becomes over run with passata I can put the over flow in the second chest freezer in the South Wing larder.
'I'll get Mrs Pumphrey to remove her badger,' she says. 'She should have stuffed it ages ago.'
I vaguely remember Pumphrey taking her Level 2 Taxidermy Exam last Winter.
'Wasn't the badger supposed to be her final assessment piece?' I ask
'Yes, it was,' says Miggins, 'until Tango Pete put a wild boar her way. So the badger went into the freezer for future stuffing projects. And then she got distracted into macrame.'
'I can see a wild boar might be a more impressive piece to present to an examiner,' I said.
'It's the tusks,' agrees Miggins.

And then we got onto the subject of Doctor Who. As Miggins and I both enjoy Radio 7 we have both noticed a sudden influx of new Doctor Who malarkey in the evenings. I have to say we don't approve because when Doctor Who starts taking over the airways it generally means something funnier and more entertaining has to give way. Which is a shame.

'What I don't understand,' says Miggins, pausing in her sandpapering, 'is why the Daleks are supposed to be the most fearsome creatures in the Universe. I mean, they're little more than motorised wheelie bins really.'
'I know,' I say. 'In fact I posed the same question to Andy last night.'
'And what did he say?' says Miggins. 'MRS SLOCOMBE, STOP JIGGLING MY LADDER IMMEDIATELY OR I'LL POOP ON YOUR HEAD!!'
'He said that it was what the BBC wanted,' I say. 'AND YOU CAN LEAVE MY LADDER ALONE TOO, BETTY SLOCOMBE. MY MULTI-CHEERIO THREAT STILL STANDS, YOU KNOW!!'

I feel my ladder give a shudder as Mrs Slocombe gives it a final kick and mooches off muttering something about how much a broken limb or two would really have brightened up a potential dull-on-the-action-front day.

'And also,' says Miggins, 'I heard a Dalek announcing on the radio yesterday evening that they were a Dalek Supreme. Is that anything like a Chicken Supreme?'
'I imagine you'd have to cook it for longer,' I say. 'What with metal being a bit on the tough side.'
'And if you added three Dalek Supremes to Diana Ross, would they make a Mo-Town singing group?' asks Miggins, her brow wrinkled in deep and complicated thought.
'Ah now,' I say. 'That is a common misconception in the world that isn't fixated on the whole phenomenon that is Doctor Who. It's Davros Ross, not Diana Ross, that worked with the Dalek Supremes.'
'Davros Ross and the Dalek Supremes,' muses Miggins. 'Doesn't exactly trip off the tongue, does it?'
'They only had one hit record,' I say.
'Which was?' says Miggo.
'When Will I Exterminate You Again?' I say.
'And that was a hit?' asks Miggins.
'There are Doctor Who fans out there who will buy anything,' I say.

We continue to sandpaper in companiable silence. Occasionally, I whistle and Miggo crows but luckily there are no cocks or men around to hear us.

'And the Dalek standing in the corner of the garden over there?' asks Miggins.
'Is a compost bin,' I say.
'Good,' says Miggins. She seems oddly relieved. 'Just checking.'

Mind over Magic

Whilst out gathering tomatoes this morning, Mrs Miggins calls me over with all the world-weariness of a chicken who has tolerated sharing her space with two idiot companions for nearly a year now and that year is turning out to be eleven months too long.

'What's up, Mrs M?' I say cheerfully, because I am feeling cheerful; picking tomatoes does that for me, I've no idea why, perhaps it's because they are red which is one of my favourite colours.

'Would you come and see if you can sort out Mrs Slocombe?' says Mrs Miggins. 'Only she watched that Derren Brown 'I'm Going to Paralyse You to Your Sofa using Subliminal Thought Processes' malarkey last night and she appears to be still under the influence.'
'Oh,' I say. 'Which sofa is she stuck to? The Chesterfield or the Linda Barker?'
'Don't be ridiculous,' snaps Miggins. (It is at this point that I realise she is a chicken on the edge.) 'Subliminal thought process doesn't actually work, you know.'

This is true. Andy, Heather and I all played along with the game last night and all three of us managed to rise normally from the sofa at the given 'up-you-jump' moment, although Heather admitted her legs felt 'a bit heavy.' Mind you, I don't think we helped the experiment by getting a fit of the giggles half way through and taking the mickey out of the studio audience who were wrestling to free themselves from their seats as though someone had stapled them to the upholstery when they weren't looking.

'So what is the problem exactly?' I say to Miggins as I open the gate of the North Wing of Cluckinghen Palace.
'Oh, you know,' sighs Miggins. She pauses to take some washing off the line as we pass by. 'The usual hypnotism problem.'
'She's stopped smoking?' I say.
'She thinks she's a chicken,' says Miggins.

I stop in my tracks.
'Hang on,' I say. 'What do you mean, 'she thinks she's a chicken?'
'Do I have to explain everything to you?' says Mrs M. 'You know, a hypnotist will get a susceptible volunteer to go onto the stage, put them under the 'fluence, wake them up and then every time the hypnotist clicks their fingers, or says a trigger word or phrase like 'froghopper' or 'would you like a biscuit with that?' the volunteer will start flapping their arms and strutting about making noises like a chicken.'

'But...' I begin.
'So when I did the Saturday early-morning-tea-in-bed-and-Guardian-newspaper duty today, and I said to Mrs Slocombe, 'would you like a biscuit with that?' she leapt out of bed and started behaving like a chicken. It's quite sad really and very embarrassing. I wouldn't want the neighbours to see her in this state.'

And she beckons me to the South Wing and opens the door.

Mrs Slocombe appears and tips her head to one side, giving me a beady-eyed look.

'Morning, Mrs Slocombe,' I say, brightly.
'Bok, bok, bok,' says Mrs S.
'How are you today?' I venture further.
'Bokkity, bok, bok, bok, bokky, bik, bik, bok,' says Mrs S.
'See,' says Miggins. 'Can you understand a word she's saying? I can't.'
'Hmmmm,' I say. 'And this is all from watching Derren Brown on the telly last night?'
'Yes,' sighs Miggins. 'I left the room for five minutes to make hot chocolate. I said, 'DO NOT follow Derren's instructions. You know how mad you are. If anyone is bound to fall for his trickery pokery it'll be you, you crazy bint. And when I stuck my head round the door to ask if she wanted cream on her chocolate she was behaving like...like a farmyard animal.'

I can see this is an upsetting experience for Mrs Miggins. She is a creature of very high standards and won't even entertain having a goldfish in the Palace let alone a mucky thing like a chicken.
'Right,' I say. 'Don't panic. I'll sort it out. You go and put the kettle on and I'll deal with Mrs Slocombe,' and I roll up my sleeves and fix Mrs S with a steely stare. To give her credit, she barely flinches at my look and continues to bok and bik whilst digging up the ground in pursuit of Lord knows what kind of horrendous bug.

As Mrs M disappears, I swoop on Slocombe and hold her firmly by the shoulders, or at least the place where chicken's shoulders would be if they had shoulders.
'Now look here,' I say. 'Stop this ridiculous behaviour IMMEDIATELY or I shall cease your supply of Multi-Cheerios forthwith.' (Mrs S likes her Multi-Cheerios. She enjoys seeing how many she can loop onto her beak at once.)

There is a very brief silence.

'I was only having a laugh,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Well Mrs Miggins is not amused,' I say. 'She's very upset. You should have more respect for your elders.'
'She should get a sense of humour,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Well sometimes, as you get older, you lose your sense of humour,' I explain. 'Especially the peurile part. It's called growing up and being responsible.'

Mrs Slocombe gives a huff, but I can see that the threat of a Multi-Cheerio famine has been enough to bring her to whatever senses she does have.
'I want you to go and apologise to Mrs Miggins now,' I say. 'And then go to the shops and buy her something nice like a bunch of flowers or a lace doily. Where's Mrs Pumphrey by the way?'

'Stuck to the Chesterfield after watching Derren Brown on the telly last night,' says Mrs Slocombe.

Chicken!

I wonder when the word 'chicken' became synonymous with 'cowardice'? Having been a chicken keeper for a year and half now I think I can say with some authority that a chicken would not be top of my list of 'words-used-to-describe-cowardice'. In my opinion through my close observations of the girls and their behaviour I believe them to be inquisitive, sassy, bold and racy.

'That's not how Mrs Pumphrey behaved this morning when you served up those cauliflower leaves,' said Mrs Miggins.
'I thought she was lobbing a hand grenade at us,' said Mrs Pumphrey, defensively.
'That was because the wind was blowing a gale and I mis-judged the trajectory,' I said. 'And Mrs Miggins is right. There was no need to make all that fuss. No-one ever got blown up by a cauliflower. Or any food stuff come that.'
'You are always telling people you don't drink coffee because it blows you up,' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'Not in a fatally explosive way,' I said. 'Just in a water retentive manner.'

The cauliflower leaves were a present from the chicken's Auntie Jean, who also made me a present of some large kilner jars in which store my passata. I'm becoming a dab hand at passata making, mostly because it is an easy peasy thing to do. Cut tomatoes in half, place cut side up in a roasting tin, drizzle with oil (olive if you like it, sunflower if you don't), sprinkle with sea salt and freshly gound black pepper, roast in oven for 40 minutes until starting to char, then shove through a sieve to extract skin and pips and there you go! Seemples!!

Anyway, the chickens have been brave this week in the face of an interloper in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. A previously unseen tabby cat made an appearance and seemed to think it could jump over the back fence into Cluckinghen Palace and stalk about a bit like it owned the place. Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe told the cat firmly but politely that he was not welcome by a) yelling at the tops of their voices b) running around him in order to instil a sense of confusion and finally c) sending Mrs Pumphrey to charge at him like a lion bowling for vultures (only in this case a reverse of the cat/ bird scenario). The cat came back twice more, received the same treatment on both occasions and hasn't been seen since.

And also, I think you have to be pretty brave to pass an egg through your lady bits on most days. I mean, I've had two babies and that was enough. Last week, Mrs Miggins did three eggs in 24 hours.

'I didn't mean to,' she said. 'The middle one caught me by surprise.'

I know this because I found it lying out in the middle of the grounds of the North Wing.

And Mrs Slocombe is pretty brave when she tries her feather plucking mischief on the other two. Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey are very much comrades in arms so any act of stealth attempted by Mrs Slocombe is usually fended off by a two beaked retaliation. She keeps trying, of course, but then she is mad. However, I would like to report that the Slocombe is back up to full featherage (hurrah!) so perhaps she is calming down a bit.

(As an aside, I am currently listening to 'La Traviata, Prelude to Act III' and Pandora is sitting on top of the cat scratching post, eyes closed, swaying slightly, in a complete trance. She looks both cute and funny at the same time and I don't want to make any sudden movements in case she falls off. I have a cat that appreciates classical music!)

So in conclusion, m'lud, I believe chickens to be no more chicken than any other creature and demand the association between 'chicken' and 'cowardice' be removed forthwith and attached to the word custard.

Baby Face

Today I saw the first photos of Baby Bun Grand-child! Scan photos, of course, in glorious monochrome, but photos nevertheless and it was very exciting!

There were four altogether, strung in a line like the ones you have taken in a photobooth for your passport. Head facing towards us, then in profile, bum in the air and then casual recline position. Little hands, little feet, little head. Actually, the face one was a bit scary, being like a shadowy skeleton, but it was fascinating to see the nose, eyes and mouth and the way the skull bones are joining together at the top. I liked the profile one best - it looked like a broad bean with a retrousse nose.

Anyway, all is well and Baby Bun Grand-child is 16.8 cm tall. Quite a handful already.

I was at the allotment at just after 7.30 this morning. Things are starting to die back now but I was surprised to see the runner beans throwing up more flowers so perhaps there will be a secondary bean crop. I did some tidying, some digging and some weeding. And then I noticed I was being pursued by half a dozen wasps. I thought, I wonder what it is that's attracting them and then I realised that I was digging the area next to the raspberry bushes and every now and again I was pausing in my digging to nibble on a raspberry or five and they were being drawn to the scent I was making by picking the fruit. I picked cauliflower, broccoli, cabbage, beans, carrots, tomatoes, onions, peppers, chard and spinach and came home with two full bags of produce, the sun in my face and a feeling of oneness with vegetables.

Back home there was a fracas occuring in the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. I went to investigate and found the Misses Miggins, Pumphrey and Slocombe seeing off a tabby cat that had wandered haplessly into their domain.

'And don't come back!' yelled Mrs Miggins, dusting her wings together in a 'Job Well Done,' kind of way.
'Everything all right, ladies?' said I.
'It is now,' said they.

Chris and Leane popped around for lunch hence my viewing of Baby Bun Grand-child photos. At one point during their visit Chris said, 'Why do I feel like I'm being ganged up on when I come round here?' Bless him! He was in the company of his girlfriend, his mother and his sister all at the same time- how else does he expect to feel? But he got a cheese panini and a jam doughnut so it couldn't have been that bad an experience.

Ah doughnuts! I haven't had a proper jam doughnut for well, must be well over a year. When you make your own cakes you don't tend to get involved in the shop bought stuff but as my oven is still out of commission following Sunday's explosion and as I happened to be in Sainsbugs this morning I thought, I'll get some fresh jammy doughnuts as a treat. They were delicious. Mmmmmm...mmmmm....mm!

And Andy texted to say the operation he had to do on a cat's willy this morning went well and was only mildly traumatic. He showed me pictures in a text book last night of what he was going to do today and I never realised a cat's willy was such a complex organ. Fiddly, too, with lots of tiny, tiny component parts all flopping and dangling over each other.
'You really need delicate fairy fingers for this kind of malarkey, don't you?' I said.
Andy nodded. 'And patience.'
'Shall I come and mop your brow for you?' I said.
'If you like,' said Andy. 'As long as you promise not to take over.'

I wasn't sure if I could make this promise. It all looked very fascinating and as I pointed out, I am very nimble fingered, what with all the needlepoint I do.
'I bet I could give it a fair shot,' I said. 'You could stand at the side and call out the instructions.'
'Hmmmmm,' said Andy with a barely disguised air of uncertainty.
He's very clever, my husband.

And that's about it for today.