Hearth and Home

Today is St Osyth's Day. We should all be invoking St Osyth tonight, in order to keep our hearth and homes free from calamity for the coming year. That would be good. There's been way too much calamity chez nous this year.

So, last thing before bed, we have to rake the ashes from the grate and mark them with a cross. We don't have ashes in our fireplace here at the Manor; we have an ENORMOUS round bottomed jug covered in pretty pink roses which is generally home to a pot plant except the current pot plant is on its last legs and may be usurped by a different pot plant of the non-dying variety any day now. Anyway, I've scraped some dust from the vacuum cleaner in lieu of ashes - well, it's all household crud, isn't it?

Next, you have to offer a prayer to St Osyth to protect the house from 'fire, water and all other calamities.' I have been wondering what 'other calamities' I could specify, because I always think it's important to be exact in these things. So I shall also be asking St Osyth to protect us from Bank Holiday electric appliance breakdowns, clunky boilers, wasp invasion and anything at all to do with the upstairs bathroom which is sorely in need of a re-do.

Prayers said, you can then rest in easy, peaceful and protected sleep. Does that mean I can cancel the contents insurance, I wonder?

St Osyth was an Essex girl. I don't know if she had a fake tan, a pierced belly button, hair extensions and false nails, but I do know she was captured by pirates and beheaded. And she must have had a certain core of steel to her character because she refused to die until she had carried her head to the place she wished to be buried which was 3 miles away, and to be honest, I'd have put more distance than that between me and bunch of blood-thirsty pirates.

I'm sorry Mrs Pumphrey wasn't able to deliver the Saint's Day story, as is her usual wont. Only she's at the Bingo. I did ask her if she'd be back tomorrow to tell you all about St Keyne, but she said that apart from being able to turn snakes into stone, St Keyne was a bit of a boring woman, so no, she wouldn't, especially if she wins tonight's jackpot.

Finally, I'd like to say 'hang on in there' to my friend, Janet, who's been through a bit of an ill-health marathon these last few months, and that I'm lighting a candle for her and sending healing hugs.

And finally finally, 'Hello and Welcome!' to Alexander, the latest house guest to arrive at MMM. Good to meet you, and I hope all is well in Oklahoma. And I apologise now, but Andy and I sang 'Oklahoma!' from the musical 'Oklahoma' in your honour, and we scared the cats.

But the thought was there!

Ghostly Reminder from Mrs Pumphrey

Ooops! In my excitement to dispense with the myth of St Patrick and the snakes and the cakes yesterday, I omitted to mention that 17th March is also St Withburga's Day, and she's been on the Phone of the Ethereal Connection (sponsored by Virgin Media) voicing her displeasure at being over-looked by the Irish Saint. Her exact words were, 'Just because he's got a shelaylee, doesn't mean he's all that.'

Now, I have no idea what a shelaylee is, or even if I've spelled it correctly. I asked Tango Pete. He said, 'You want to know what a shelaylee is? I've got a shelaylee you can have a gander at...hurr, hurr, hurr...' and then he passed out in a pool of Guinness with half a slice of soda bread stuck to his cheek. So he was no help.

Anyway, I have returned to regale the story of St Withburga even though she has nothing whatsoever to do with cake, because she has threatened to haunt me if I don't and even though I have trained at the Madame Arcati School of Paranormal and Psychic Activity and the spirit world holds no fear for me, I need to keep up my beauty sleep and an irate ghost is not a good bedfellow.

Ahem... presenting the story of St Withburga (but Without Cake...ahahahahahahaa!!)

In Norfolk, in the 7th century, St Withburga saved the locals from a drought by magicking up a couple of deer to give an endless supply of milk to her nuns. I think these were the nuns belonging to St Withburga, and not the nuns belonging to the deer. One day, a hunter with mush for brains chased after the deer, fancying a haunch of venison for his dinner, I expect, and God smite...smote...smoted...smit....him dead with a bolt of lightning.

St Withburga's unique party trick is her ability to manifest as a dead ghost. Pretty clever, eh? A dead ghost appearing as dead. Actually, this is evidence that she was a bit of a one trick pony. No wonder she comes second to St Patrick on the 'let's-name-a-day-after-a-Saint' malarkey. In Ely, Cambridgeshire, her ghostly corpse can be seen being carried by monks in an open coffin. The monks themselves are doing penance for the Bishop of Ely who stole St Withburga's body in order to bring honour and pilgrims to his church. Quite frankly I can think of better, less smelly ways to draw the crowds. A nice tea room, maybe. Selling homemade cakes. Maybe a gift shop, too.

And why wasn't the Bishop of Ely doing his own penanace, that's what I want to know. That's typical of people in authority - getting the lesser minions to do their dirty work. Still, all was well, literally, because St Withburga's original grave turned into a healing well, thereby ensuring that the town where she lived and did the deer-with-the-milk thing remained forever her shrine. The well is inscribed with the story of the opportunistic aka lazy Bishop of Ely and his body-snatching monks. It's a bit of a dull story. Not much plot development and barely character driven at all.

I hope this enough to appease St Withburga. I don't want to have to get out my smudge stick, incense and bell just to get a good night's sleep. Personally, I'm looking forward to 20th March and St Cuthbert's Day. There's shrieking goblins in St Cuthbert's story. And I bet if I look hard enough, I can find a cake reference, too.

Lucky Day

Firstly, a big Malarkey welcome to new a new visitor to the Manor - Staci! Thank you for hopping on board and I hope you enjoy the atmosphere.

Secondly, I've just had a book clear out (only a minor amount of sobbing on the stairs, clutching precious tomes to my chest before consigning them to the box-to-take-to-the-charity-shop), thus a message for Cousin Richard - the whole range of Philippa Gregory(one careful lady owner) if you want them. Let me know. Perhaps Auntie P can pick them up in her (dented!!!!!!) car on Wednesday????

Thirdly, Mrs Miggins has ONE tail feather left. She looks like an idiot.

'I do not!' says Mrs Miggins. 'I look like Minnie-Haha. I look like a coquettish squaw with a cute feather in her head-band, standing on the banks of the Shenandoah River waiting for Hiawatha to come along in his bear-skin.'
'Who's coming along with a bare skin?' says Mrs Slocombe (who laid an egg yesterday after a good 2 months lay-off). 'Not Tango Pete, I hope. I've only just had my porridge.'
'A b-e-a-r skin,' says Mrs Miggins. 'From a b-e-a-r.'
'Are you sure it's M-i-n-n-i-e, and not m-i-n-i as in car?' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey has heard of my plans to construct a chicken winter gazebo from Wilkos plain shower curtains. She is not, as Malarkey follower Di predicted, happy with the 'plain' aspect. She wants either a) giant pink gerberas b) giant yellow daisies or c) Rennie Macintosh roses.
'If it was m-i-n-i,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'she would be Mini-car-car!!'

And Misses Pumphrey and Slocombe fall about laughing at the expense of poor, semi-naked Miggins.
'Come into the kitchen, Mrs M,' I say. 'And I'll measure you up for a long cardi.'
'Could I possibly have a liberty bodice, too?' says Miggins. 'Only as I get older, things seem to be heading south a bit too readily. As you know from your own experiences, of course.'

I am not offended. Us birds of a certain age with dubious egg production must stick together.

And fourthly, today is the 10th of the 10th of the 10th. Which is supposed to be very lucky.

Here are the lucky things that have happened so far today.
1) The chickens got to have free-range of the garden, now all edible produce has been harvested.
2) Andy climbed a ladder and changed three light bulbs without falling off.
3) There isn't a 3.

That's it. I suppose it's only Archer's Omnibus time, so plenty of the day left for more lucky happenings. But it got me wondering. Does luck just happen or, as many people believe, do you have to make it happen? I know that sitting in a chair staring at TV makes nothing happen except eye strain, brain muffling and constipation. But does going out and doing stuff, or taking risks actually perpetuate 'luck.'

Some people don't believe in luck. I do.

'So do I,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Listen...luck, luck, luck, kcluckluckluck..cluck, cluck,cluck...ouch!'
'Well, stand still then,' I say. 'I can't possibly measure you for a liberty bodice if you keep fidgeting like that. You know what they - many a slip twixt pin and chick.'
'Do they say that?' says Miggins.
'Well, I say that,' I say.

It is also Old Michaelmas Day. Yesterday, the Michaelmas daisies in the garden bloomed. How's that for timing? Or was it just luck? It is also St Paulinus of York's Day. Apparently, St Paulinus was riding his ass (like you do) across Lincolnshire, when he realised his ass was hungry. He spotted a farmer with a full sack of grain.
'Mayst I have a handful of lovely grain from your very full grain sack for my hungry ass?' asked St Paulinus of the Farmer. (I'm paraphrasing here.)
'Sack?' said the Farmer. 'This isn't a sack. It's a stone.'

This was because the Farmer was a) a meany and b) a smug git who was much too happy with his ample grain store c) possibly mad for thinking he could mess with a saint.

'A stone?' said St Paulinus. 'Then a stone it shall be!'

And he turned the grain sack into a stone, because saints can perform pointless miracles like that.

Unlucky for the farmer. Or was it stupidity. Or meanness?

Unlucky for the ass because he was still hungry.

'Why does no-one ever think of the ass?' says Miggins. 'That's what I want to know.'

Anyway, the Sack Stone still stands in the middle of a field in Lincolnshire. Attempts to move it have resulted in either death for the movee, or global disaster, like the onset of World War One.

You see? You try and generate a bit of luck for your ass, and this happens.

But ever the optimist, I wish you your own spot of luck on this, a lucky day.

Grottoes, Scallops and Dancing With the Devil

Today, if today is 25th July (you see, I've lost track of time already), is St. James' Day, Grotto Day and St Christopher's Day. It is also the day, back in 1688, when a Richard Dugdale, whilst attending Lancashire's Whalley Rushbearing feast, decided to sell his soul to the Devil.

(I hope this isn't typical Lancashire behaviour, given I am myself married to a Lancashire lad. Andy assures me it isn't, but then he is very easily distracted and we all know what an opportunist the Devil can be.)

Anyway, in exchange for his soul, Dugdale got to be the most terrific dancer this side of the Great Dancing Kingdom of Dancedom, in the Universe of Dancelot. He performed his dance before an amazed crowd; I suspect they were more amazed at the fits, talking in tongues and vomiting of stones that accompanied the dancing rather than the dancing itself. And the fact that as Dugdale danced, a boil travelled from his leg up to his chest where it began to supperate in quite magnificent fashion. The Devil drives a hard bargain, methinks.

Dugdale was duly exorcised by a group of men who went about their task by ridiculing the Devil with such pithy and cutting witticisms as 'Canst thou dance no better, Satan? Is this the top of skill and pride, to shuffle feet and brandish knees thus, and trip like a doe, and skip like a squirrel? And wherein differs thy leapings fromt the hoppings of a frog, or bounces of a goat, or friskings of a dog, or gesticulations of a monkey? Dost thou not twirl like a calf that has had a turn, and twitch up thy houghs like a spring-haught tit?'

Well, such insults would have had me crying in my boots, that's for sure.

St James, on the other hand, who had been dead a few days, managed, whilst being transported to his funeral, to rescue a man from drowning by covering him with scallops. No mean feat for a dead dude, don't you think? In honour of St James, pilgrims collect a scallop shell from his resting place in Compostella in Spain. Possession of a scallop shell means favourable treatment on Judgement Day. Who'd have thought it, eh?

Failing a trip to Compostella, one can collect a scallop shell from a shell grotto with the rhyme 'Please to remember the Grotto, it's only once a year; Father's gone to sea, Mother's gone to fetch him back, so please remember me.'

No, I wasn't sure either. But I think I'll manage a trip to Whistable next oyster festival and see if I can pick up a shell or two there. Just to be on the safe side.

Tomorrow is St Anne's Day, which is not for the faint-hearted apaprently. I wouldn't know, because tomorrow I am going to the dentist for a check-up, and then I'm going into Laura Ashley to get some wallpaper for the stairs. It's in eau-de-nil, don't you know, which will be quite a change from the roasted red pepper shade that currently dons the walls.

All I need after that is to find a good painter and decorator. I am having enormous problems securing the services of one at the moment, which is partly why I refuse to believe the recession is as bad as people are making out.

It's going to be a busy week: I can feel it in my aura.