Well, you wood, woodn't you?

Last year I bought Andy a sausage making machine for an anniversary pressie. Not that the 4th year equates to sausages, though. I think it was metal or electrical equipment. Anyway, since he had an unsettling experience with 120 feet of sausage skins made from pig's innards, which then languished in brine in the fridge for slightly longer than I could abide seeing them there, I decided this year to get something that wouldn't clutter up the kitchen sideboard and that didn't involve the slaughter of any innocent creatures. (I am still edging towards vegetarianism but am holding off until we've been to our posh hotel tonight as there will be a scrummy full English breakfast in the offing tomorrow).

So, something to do with wood. That 'woodn't' take up too much room in the house. That 'wood' appeal to Andy's charitable nature. That 'wood' be educational. And interesting. And 'wood' allow me to make many pathetic puns through the course of the day.

So I got him a membership to...

...THE WOODLAND TRUST!!

You see - wood -woodland - trees- paper?? It all dovetails rather nicely!

Andy was thrilled! (Weren't you, darling??)

And quite right too. He got a newly planted tree dedicated to him in a woodland near to where we live. (So I have got him a piece of woodland, albeit in the form of a single adopted tree). He got a woodland guide to woodland he can visit throughout Britain, a car sticker and a subscription to the Woodland Trust magazine which brings you up to date news about wood and trees.

And he got a handy pocket guide to the leaves of native woodland trees. It's even shaped like a leaf! And it fits easily in your pocket. So handy for taking on walks and using to identify mysterious trees.

What more could a man want? (Andy, this is your cue to strike a manly pose and go 'Aaaarrrrrhhhhh.')

And now we are getting ready to go to Dorset. Heather is in charge of chickens and cats. Yesterday I gave her a crash course in how to pick up a chicken.

'You'll need to pick up Mrs Poo to bring her indoors in the evening,' I said, when Heather gave me a look like I'd suggested she pick up dog poop with her bare hands.
'I have to PICK UP A CHICKEN?' she said.
'Don't get hysterical,' I said. 'It's very simple.'

And I gave a demonstration.

'One hand either side, like you are grasping a rugby ball,' I said, gripping Mrs Poo like a rugby ball. 'And then lift her and place her firmly under your arm, making sure you keep her wings tight against her side.'
'What happens if I lose grip on her wings?' said Heather.
'She will sense freedom and flap like loon. And you may suffer feather lacerations to your face which will scar you for life,' I said.
'Oh goody,' said Heather.
'If you like, you can then support her feet with your spare hand,' I said, balancing Mrs Poo's feet on my spare hand. 'It depends how you feel about chicken feet.'
'Right,' said Heather, who looked like she wanted to stay away from the feet of chicken as much as possible.
'And then when you put her down, keep her wings snug against her body, resume the rugby ball hold and release gently,' I finished, putting Mrs Poo on the ground. 'Now you try.'

So Heather repeated the process of picking up Mrs Poo, tucking her under her arm and then putting her down again.

'What the heck are you doing?' said Mrs Poo.
'Practising chicken lifting,' I said.
'Well, can you stop it only I'm feeling nauseous,' said Poo.

'What happens if I can't catch her?' said Heather.
'Well,' I said, 'in a way that would be a good thing because it means she is feeling fully fit again. However, she's not moving very fast at the mo so this is unlikely to be a problem. If it is, then you need to loom over her thus,' and I raised my arms over my head in a looming fashion, 'and she will think you are a cockerel and duck close to the ground in the assumed mating position.'

'Then what?' said Heather, who by now was probably doubting her wisdom in returning home after 3 years of chicken free freedom in Norwich.
'Pat her on the back and grab her,' I said.
'Like a rugby ball?'
'Exactly.'

So, off to River Cottage now. And a posh hotel in Chard.

Well, you 'wood', 'woodn't' you?

Anniversary thoughts

In less than two weeks it shall be mine and Andy's fifth wedding anniversary. We are going to River Cottage for an anniversary treat. I thought, I'd better start looking for a suitable gift for Andy, especially as he has been so nice this year by letting me off work to faff about with writing.

The fifth wedding anniversary is represented by wood, apparently. Well, that's exciting isn't it? A bit of creative thinking is called for, methinks.

Right, what comes to mind when you think of 'wood?'

Trees. Sticks. Garden fences. Tables. Hardly inspirational so far.

'Here darling, I got you a stick for an anniversary present.'
'Thanks, dearest. And I got you a trip to River Cottage for a four-course meal.'

Think out of the box. Wood=trees=leaves=paper=books. Hmmm, potential there. Books always go down well. But a book on what? Something wood related maybe? Carpentry. Would Andy be safe with carpentry equipment? Well, he uses operating equipment at work and it's only once or twice a week he comes home with some surgery related injury. And it's been ages since he stapled himself to a rabbit.

Or a book on whittling. Andy has often mentioned he fancies a whittle. And you need a stick for whittling, so that would tie in nicely with the wood theme.

What about a wooden toy? Andy likes toys. Whatever he tells you he would like for Christmas, what he really means is that he wants toys. I try and get him something juvenile for Christmas but I don't like to encourage any potential regression into childhood.It's bad enough there's all that Doctor Who and Star Wars stuff from the 70's clogging up the attic without adding plastic crap from the 21st century into the equation.

I did toy with the idea of buying Andy a piece of woodland. I was assured (wrongly it turned out) that small pockets of woodland can purchased quite cheaply. Not for under £50 they can't. Unless you go to Bulgaria. Or Croatia. But it would be nice to have a bit of woodland, wouldn't it? Somewhere to encourage wildlife to flourish, to go for walks amongst the bluebells on sunny spring days, to build a little camp fire in winter and sit around it toasting muffins and singing 'Ging-gang-gooley.' One day, maybe. One day...

We have a ginormous piece of wood in the back garden in the form of our eucalyptus tree. Sometimes I stare up at it and think, how tall exactly do eucalyptus trees grow? Do they stop before they reach the moon, for example? We've had it cut back once in the five years we've lived here, and it just shot away into the sky within 6 months. It's an expensive thing, having a tree lopped back, and not something we can afford to have done again at the moment. But it serves as a useful shelter for the South Wing of Cluckinghen Palace. Mrs Poo and Mrs Slocombe are 'neath it as I write, because it is raining, has been raining all night and looks like it will continue to do so for the next week.

And I'm hoping that once a tree reaches a certain height it becomes impervious to force ten gales and thus will not go crashing into Heather's bedroom window during a high storm (especially as Heather is coming home on Thursday and something like a crashing tree might make her jump.)

So I'm still stuck for an original anniversary present idea. I think the person who decided how anniversaries should be represented had a distinct lack of imagination when they thought, 'Five years? Wood. That'll do. People like a nice stick.'

I may have to invent my own anniversary list. Five years?

Nintendo DS!!