Pumpkin Chickens, a Stag and an Octopus

I felt I caused Andy undue stress last night when I demanded that this year's Hallowe'en pumpkin be carved in the form of a chicken. Or a bee. He plumped for the chicken and set about the largest of our allotment pumpkins with his Dremmel tool after making a couple of preliminary design sketches for my approval. I rejected the first sketch entitled 'Evil Chicken' in favour of one that looked like a more cheerful version of the Kellogg's chicken, which in hindsight was probably more complex a beast to carve.

Anyway, Andy sat at the kitchen table carving and I was at the stove making mincemeat. Which involved a tad of ground cloves. And what with Andy's Dremmel sounding like a dentist drill, we soon created the ambience of the local dentist surgery.

The final effect was, indeed, a chicken. Andy said, 'But I'm still going to carve a traditional face on the other side,' and I felt that he would have preferred to go with the traditional face in the first place and not faff about with chickens. I have, therefore, made a note in my diary to keep out of the pumpkin carving for 2011 and I apologise unreservedly to my very accommodating hubbie for causing him undue angst.

Now, there has been a story in the newspaper this week about the demise of the Emperor of Exmoor, the biggest stag in Britain who apparently was shot for his head and antlers by some git of a human. I say 'apparently' because no evidence of the stag's death has been forthcoming. As the week has progressed it seems that reports of the Emperor's death could have been exaggerated as someone has reported they've seen him in someone's garden. And now it seems there are rumours that the Beast of Exmoor (a large, black wild cat of the puma/ cougar/ leopard type persuasion) has got the stag.

Well! This all seems very suspicious, especially when you are me and you start factoring in the suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of Paul the Psychic Octopus. You remember Paul? He successfully foretold the stages that Germany would take through the World Cup this Summer by using the art of Mussel-mancy. And then, this week, his death was announced. But was it he who was dead? Because a writer from China, who has written a book about a psychic octopus (I ask you - what was she thinking?? That kind of drivel will NEVER get published), has claimed that the original Paul died BEFORE the World Cup Final, and because the Germans didn't want to lose face in the dawn before victory, they substituted him (see how I got a bit of football- related vocab in there?) with another octopus because ALL OCTOPUSES LOOK THE SAME!! So this writer is saying that the octopus that has just died was not Paul at all, but some psychic imposter.

Now, I think these two stories are related. I think that Paul may indeed have been substituted for another look-alikey Paul, but not until AFTER Germany won the World Cup. Fearful of a life of celebrity, especially as some suspicious looking writer had been hanging around plying him with sushi and crispy seaweed, the original Paul decided to go into a life of hiding in Spain, where he could mingle freely and unnoticed with other octopuses (although he would have to be careful of not ending up in a paella). And on his way to the ferry port on the South coast (I don't know which one, Portsmouth, Southampton, whichever one goes to Spain or thereabouts, you'll have to do the research yourself if you really want to know), he met up with Emperor the Stag.

And Paul had a premonition that Emperor would be hunted to death during October.
'Get away from Exmoor!' he said to Emperor. 'Get away now, for I see you are doomed to end up on the wall of some over-stuffed wazzock who will pay many thousands of pounds for your antlers.'
''E don't 'ave' to pay for 'em,' said Emperor. 'I shed's 'em every year. I can put 'is name down for this year's pair now if 'e likes.'
'He wants them attached to your head!' sooth Paul. 'Oh, flee and be gone, Great Stag of the Moor. You are doomed. Dooooooooooooomed!!!!!'

And so it was that Paul the Psychic Octopus persuaded Emperor the Stag of Exmoor to flee with him to Spain. And there they went into the mountains, to a secret location known only to the likes of Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and JFK. And possibly a few others like a local taxi driver and Sainsburittos Home Delivery Service.

That's what I think anyway.

Am I in the Way?

RANT ALERT!! RANT ALERT!! PLEASE REMAIN BEHIND THE SAFETY BARRIERS; CRASH HELMETS AND EARPLUGS HAVE BEEN PROVIDED FOR YOUR COMFORT AND HEALTH!!!

Excuse me, but am I in the way? I ask this only because whilst I was in the MIDDLE of teaching a Year 7 lesson this morning, a caretaker burst into my classroom wielding a sack barrow, onto which he proceeded to load a filing cabinet, before dragging it noisily from the vicinity, leaving a gaping hole, an old biro, a crisp packet and two dead spiders in its wake.

I stared, the children stared, our books poised mid-air. Casey, who was reading out loud at the time, paused. The caretaker disappeared. I looked at the children, they looked at me. I marched across the classroom, SLAMMED the door. Casey took this as her cue to continue reading.

This has been happening since last Friday. Last Friday, being the day OFSTED were officially off our backs for another three years, all sense of professional decorum flew from the window. I was informed I needed to clear my classroom by THIS Friday, as Modern Foreign Languages were moving onto my territory. 'Empty your cupboards, filing cabinets, shelves and walls,' I was told. 'And your desk. Here are some bin-bags.'

'Where will I be based for the last three days of term?' I asked.

Shrugged shoulders met my question. And, with three days to eviction, I still don't know.

I mean, I know I'm leaving the school. I know I've been there only two terms. But I do have standards, and I intended to maintain them until the last minute. But now I feel like saying 'Sod you all; if I'm in your way, I'll leave NOW shall I?'

I won't, though, because I am practising being Reiki about it all. ('Ha!' says Andy, who has been living with the fall-out for the last few days.) And, to be fair, the two MFL teachers are very embarrassed about the whole thing, feeling that the whole shift around could have waited until the afternoon of the last day when all the kiddiwinks had left for the summer.

RANT ALERT OVER! RANT ALERT OVER!!

I had a haircut at the weekend. A radical haircut. This was following on from Friday, when I got home from work, looked at myself in the mirror and was appalled to discover I had actually walked through town looking like a deranged and sweaty spaniel.
'Chop it all off!' I declared to my hairdresser the next morning, who lives for moments when I say things like that because there is nothing he likes better than giving someone a good cropping.

So Monday, I was met with comments like,' Oooooh, Tinkerbell!!' and 'Love the pixie look!' and 'Very elfin. Nice do!' If I had a pound for every time a child said, 'Have you had a haircut, ma'am?' (talk about stating the obvious), I would have £58. And once I had got over the shock of seeing my cropped reflection every time I passed a mirror/ shop window/ back of a spoon, and convinced myself my head didn't really look like a pea on a drum, I quite like it, too.

Of course, it's done nothing but rain every since. Trust me to miss the heatwave zeitgeist.

We have two pumpkins expanding in the garden. One is the size of a marble. One is the size of a fifty pence piece. On Saturday, the one that is the size of a fifty pence piece was only the size of a marble. I reckon that's doubling its size in 3 days. So by October, when we are destitute because I am not earning and Andy is still part time, at least we shall be able to camp in a pumpkin when the house is repossessed! Heather can have the slightly smaller one.

That's all for today. I am off to cultivate my elfin Tinkerbell look by attempting to shrink by five feet and loose 95% of my total bodyweight.

And please, whatever you do, keep on believing in fairies...

Pumpkin Palaver

The chickens eyed me with new suspicion this morning when I presented them with a pumpkin.

'What's this?' asked Mrs Miggins, standing well back in case of explosions.
'It's a pumpkin,' I said, placing the halved squash on the chicken sushi bar (you know, the paving slab where I sacrifice snails in the spring for the girls, to save the pain of them trying to bash them death themselves. My one shot is more humane than their 57, I think.)'I thought you might like it for a change.'
'What on earth gave you that idea?' said Miggins.
'It's orange,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Shouldn't it be an orange then?'
'Or perhaps it's orange squash,' suggested Mrs Pumphrey.
'I hadn't thought of that,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'We can't have orange squash, it's bad for our teeth.'
'Hens don't have teeth,' I said.
'Wanna bet?' said Mrs Slocombe, baring a magnificent set of pearly whites. 'I inherited them from my great-great-great Dane. He was a dog, you know. On my father's side.'

'Look,' I said. 'It's just that I've read a few chicken blogs and it seems that other chicken keepers have given their chickens a pumpkin to play with and they've quite liked it, that's all.'
'Oh, you want us to play with it?' said Mrs Miggins. 'You should have said.'
'When I say 'play', I mean eat,' I said.
'We could attach handles to it and use it for a space hopper,' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'I could draw a face on it,' added Mrs Slocombe.
'It won't bounce,' I said.
'Won't it?' said Mrs Pumphrey, looking a little comb-fallen.
'We'll that's no good, is it?' said Mrs Miggins. 'Bringing us a space hopper that won't bounce. What kind of chicken enrichment programme are you running here anyway?'

To be honest, I'm not sure. I mean, I try my best. Andy and I have been chicken keepers for more than a year and a half now. Twenty months to be exact, and we like to think we know a fair bit about the craft now, because it is a craft, chicken-keeping. At least, chicken are crafty.

'I'll leave it here and you can do what you like with it,' I said, because sometimes giving up and backing down is the only way with hens. As I returned to the Manor, all three hens appeared to have lost immediate interest in the pumpkin sacrifice and had gone to excavate the compost bin, which is their current favourite project.

But later, as I passed the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace to visit the greenhouse to reassure myself that it is indeed the Christmas tree ensconced there within, and not, as I keep thinking, a giant hedgehog, I heard the hens chattering about things like pumpkin pie, pumpkin meringue, pumpkin curry, pumpkin and nut bread and other such squashy delicacies.

Sounds like they're planning on eating the pumpkin after all.

Hallowe'en and Stuff

Okay, so I didn't wait up until midnight to start NaNoWri as I had planned. Mostly, this is because we went to our friend, Jane's, for dinner and she fed us well on cobbler and pudding and cake. Much cake. And my system went into digestive mode which required all other bodily systems designed to keep me awake to go into sleep mode. So I was spark out by 10.30. I make no apologies - the eating of much cake was GREAT! Thank you Jane!!

And last night was Hallowe'en, too. Whilst I'm not averse to the private celebration of the date itself, I am averse to being harrassed in my own home by bunches of marauding children demanding sweets/crisps/financial recompense for doing nothing more than dressing up in a 'Scream' mask. Yes, I am a 'Trick or Treat' grouch. I do not like it, no I don't, not one jot. When I am an old lady, and if this 'custom' still persists, I am going to sit on my porch with a shaky hand on an air rifle, or spud gun, and see off the local youth in defence of all little old ladies who are left in terror from these intrusive door knockings every 31st October. And when I am brought up in court, which is bound to happen because despite my apparent shaky hand I'll be a darned good shot, I shall plead insanity on account of my being 83 years old. I shall dress head to toe in purple, too, to ensure my acquittal.

Andy made a pumpkin lantern. It was like pumpkin massacre in the kitchen afterwards but, as you can see by the pictures, I'm sure you'll agree the pumpkin did not die in vain. And now I've got a massive bowlful of more slimey pumpkin seeds to deal with.

Back to NaNoWriMo. I haven't been lax on this front this morning. I have been trawling the interwebbly to try and find an alternative blogging site on which to start my month long writing frenzy. I don't have to publish my efforts; I can write everything on Word in the privacy of my own laptop if I so desire, but I don't see why I should have to suffer this artistic endeavour alone, so you lucky and devoted followers of Much Malarkey Manor are coming along for the ride, too! And guess what? After hunting for alternative blog sites, I came full circle to Blogger.com. So I am now signing off in order to create another blog spot for NaNoWriMo.

I'll let you know the details by the end of the day so you can join me on the writing rollercoaster should you so desire. Sick bags will be provided. The management will not be held responsible for the quality of the in-flight entertainment.

Revamping the 'conservatory'

After I'd finished painting the technohub yesterday evening, there was a third of a tin of paint remaining. Hhmmmm, I thought. I could repaint the 'conservatory' with that.

Those of you who know Much Malarkey Manor will be aware that the 'conservatory' is a very grand term for what I would describe, if I was an estate agent, as a 'sun room' or 'lean-to'. I think calling a room where you can stand at the kitchen door and leap into the back garden in one enthusiastic bound a 'conservatory' is pushing the limits of description a little too far. However, that is what the estate agent who sold us this house called it, and so it has remained. (We added the inverted commas ourselves as a point of irony. No planning permission required.)

Re-painting the 'conservatory' however, required a bit of shifting and moving. This little space has become home to 2 cat litter trays, bags of chicken feed and cat litter, a desk, a kitchen trolley loaded with all sorts of gardening equipment and chicken potions, welly boots, bubble wrap and other things that we didn't quite know what else to do with. Andy was planning on taking the desk to the technohub to place with the desk already there thus creating an uberdesk, a bit like a Star Trek control panel. (If a picture of deep space appears in the window, I'll know that this was his motive all along.) The kitchen trolley I thought could go into the greenhouse, along with its assorted gardening equipment. Everything else I would deal with as I went along, mainly by shutting my eyes and chucking it in a bin bag.

All started well. Andy removed the desk, so I was able to clean one end and paint that with no problem.

And then the cats started taking an interest.

'What ya doin'?' asked Pandora, appearing around the corner of the kitchen door.
'Painting,' I said. 'And speak properly, please.'
'Is it like wallpapering?' said Pandora.
'No. It's much, much messier,' I said.
'In what manner?' asked Pandora. She was now sitting next to me on the floor where I was lying next to the skirting board trying to get a straight line with a much too big paint brush.
'In the manner of it being wetter and stickier and more attractive to cat fur,' I said.
'I can help if you like,' said Pandora.
'Thank you for kind offer,' I said,' but I can manage.'
'Ooooh, no need to get all huffy,' said Pandora.
'What's she doing?' asked Tybalt, appearing around the kitchen door.
'Getting all huffy,' said Pandora.
'I'm not getting huffy,' I said. A spider shot out from beneath the radiator and made me jump.
'SPIDER!!!!' yelled Tybalt and Pandora, and went in pursuit of it at the same time, caring not upon whom they trampled in their efforts to secure a piece of living protein.

I turfed the cats into the kitchen; a pointless pursuit as there is no door twixt it and the 'conservatory'. Pandora was back in a nano-second.

'What's that?' she said.
'It was the outlet pipe to the old tumble dryer,' I said. There is a hole the size of a saucer in the corner of the 'conservatory.' It is sealed from the outside but open from the inside. I'd had a quick look earlier on. It was full of dust, brick debris, dead spiders and hair. I'd quickly painted it over and left it.
'Ooh,' said Pandora,' does it go anywhere? Like Banarnia?'
'It's Narnia,' I said. 'And no,it doesn't its just...'

Too late. Pandora was into it head first.

'It's a bit dusty,' she shouted. 'And full of dead spiders.'
'Will you get out of there now,' I said.

And so she did. Covered in dust and debris and dead spiders and hair. And on her way out, she added a nice circle of wet paint, just to complete the look.

I stared at her and sighed.

'What?' she said. She looked like some raddled creature from the jungle. 'WHAT???'

And finally, a question to ponder over the weekend - 'Pumpkin - as big as my head? Or as big as Andy's?'

Rubba Dub Duck 'n' Pumpkin

It seemed a bit unfair to keep our duckling lodger in the bathroom all weekend, what with ducks being used to living in and around ponds and lakes and stuff, so yesterday, with the weather still glorious, we built a duck lido in the back garden. This was constructed from the cage that was the Pumphrey Wing a.k.a the Slocombe Psychiatric Ward a.k.a the Miggins Convalescence Unit a.k.a the Pandora Kitten Isolation Play Pen. (I am soooooooooo glad we're getting our money's worth out of this purchase!) AND an old cat litter tray lined with left over polythene from the polytunnel that I was planning to grow watercress in (and still might).

A brick was placed in one end of the litter tray as a faux river bank and Andy and I spent a very entertaining two hours sitting on the garden swing seat reading, having lunch and watching Rubba diving in and out the water, sunning herself on the brick, drying out, preening, falling in the water and getting wet again (ducklings, we have discovered, have dubious balance skills), and running around the grass peeping. She sat on my lap and had a snuggle and a swing and then she went back into her lido for another swim.

All the while the hens were watching her with beady eyes. They looked like they hadn't had duck a l'orange for a very long time.

When we were all 'cute ducklinged' out, we went indoors - Andy to do some computery stuff and me to make a marmalade cake. I thought, I can keep an eye on Rubba from the window.

Within two minutes, Rubba had escaped her lido and was running up and down the outside of Cluckinghen Palace sending the hens into a complete frenzy. Mrs Poo had a meat cleaver between her teeth and Mrs Slocombe was juggling oranges and shouting 'They'll never fit!'

We shot back into the garden, rounded Rubba up and took her back to solitary confinement i.e the bathroom.

So this morning, I said to Rubba, 'I am taking you for a supervised swim in your lido but you must behave yourself' and she said, 'Okay,' and then tried to escape immediately, so ended up having her morning dip and dabble in the bathroom sink instead.

I make no apologies for the cute duckling pictures. Rubba has been a highly entertaining addition to our weekend and I've tried to prevent her imprinting on me by wearing a bag on my head when handling her. She is going to her permanent home tomorrow and the lido will be redundant until the next stray creature comes along.

And what about this?? Our first ever pumpkin which we discovered at the allotment this morning. It's gonna be a WHOPPER!

Pumpkin Delivery Time

Apparently, there is a scheduled outage at 12.00 PDT today on Blogger. What does this mean? I'll tell you what it means because it happened to me once before and caught me out. It means that if I write a blog and publish a blog at the wrong moment i.e outage time, it might disappear forever, never to be seen again, which would cause me no end of angst as I hate to see hard work go to waste, especially mine.

Andy says, 'write your blog in Word and then cut and paste it to Blogger, then you won't lose anything.'

Ah, but hubbly has much misplaced faith in my cutting and pasting ability. I can cut and paste, I know I can, but every now and again I have a touch of the idiot mist descend over my IT skills and things go AWOL in the ether. So I prefer to blog straight onto Blogger. Andy reckons it's because I am stubborn. Ridiculous thought!

And now it is 4.23 p.m British Summer Time and I am thinking, 'How does that equate to 12.00 PDT and am I safe to blog? What does PDT stand for anyway? Are we ahead of America or behind America? (I mean in time, not in anything else. Clearly us Brits are streets ahead in terms of historical value, culture, manners and general finesse!) 'T' must stand for 'Time'. But 'P' and 'D'? 'Pumpkin Delivery,' maybe? Americans like pumpkins. But it isn't pumpkin season yet and I know this because my three pumpkin plants have only 4 leaves each, no sign of a pumpkin yet (but I DID find my first two baby tomatoes today whilst on watering and side shoot pinching duties this morning!)

Or maybe it means 'Panda Dancing Time.' Perhaps the pandas are being outed, perhaps their houses need cleaning and the panda keepers have scheduled today at 12 in order to do this? Or perhaps it is 'Pringle Dipping Time!' Oh yes! But I have no Pringles because, well, you know me and Pringles, so they don't even cross the threshold of Much Malarkey Manor.

Last time there was a scheduled outage and I got caught out, I carefully made a note of the time differences and filed the carefully made note away for future reference. Can I remember where I filed the note? Can I heck! I've had about 4 tidy-ups since then.

Anyway, enough burble, what have I done today? I have done some swimming, I have done some writing. I have done some housework, I have done some gardening. I have done some 'I no longer require this material possession' therapy and am thinking maybe a boot fair would be in order to turn these possessions into cash for my 'buy a pair of piggies' fund. I'm not keen on boot fairs. I've only ever done one before and was alarmed at the way people SWOOPED on my boot before I'd even got the trestle table out. If I decide to do a boot fair, a big stick for beating back the crowds will be in order. And I won't be haggled with, either.

Stubborn, you see.