Make Your Mind Up Time

It's a bit unsettling, all this election/ government/ have we got a new Prime Minister yet malarkey, isn't it? Fascinating stuff, of course, despite the maths, but I can't help thinking that the longer the main parties are taking to sort themselves out, the more their 'cordial discussions' could be disintegrating into petty squabbling.

'I know,' says Mrs Pumphrey, who is true Prime Minister, but no-one of any intelligence ('cept me and Andy) has yet recognised her as such. 'I keep telling them. I keep saying, 'Dave, Nicky, calm down. I'm sorting it out, okay? And Gordon - get back in your box and count your fingers. But will they listen? Will they cocoa.'

This morning, when still no news was to be had, I thought, I bet they're arguing over billing rights. You know, the tricky negotiation that theatre stars undergo when deciding whose name goes at the top of the poster when it comes to joint appearances. It used to be that the biggest crowd pulling star would go first. The Royal Shakespeare Company list everyone alphabetically, no matter the star status.

And thus, I think, goes the current conversation behind closed cabinet doors.

Nick: So, Dave, with both our surnames beginning with 'C', whose going to get top billing on the posters at the joint party conference in the Autumn?
David: Well, Nick, I am more famous than you, so I really ought to be on top.
Nick : But I am a fresh young thing, and also slightly taller than you, so I think I should go near the top.
David: This is true. And I understand your argument completely. But, I should also like to point out that the letter 'D' for David comes before the letter 'N' for Nicholas in the alphabet, so I have double the right to be top of the poster.
Nick: Actually, Davey, my real first name is Aardvark Alfonso. And Clegg is an Anglicanisation of my true surname...'
David : Which is?
Nick: No, let me finish...
David: ...I am...
Nick: Oh, right. Er....yes, Clegg. Anglicanisation of 'a la Clegge,' from the French you know. With a soft, elongated 'g'.
David: Whilst I don't doubt for one moment that your true name is Aardvark Alphonso a la Clegge, I would wish for you to provide sustantial proof. Until the evidence if proven, I would like you to consider also that the second letter of my name is 'a', whilst yours is 'i'.
Nick: Now you're being petty.
David: I think not. I think you started it by being completely incapable of accepting that I am more famous than you. Before the first leaders debate, it was 'Nick? Nick who?'
Mrs Pumphrey: Bok, bok!
Nick : Who let that chicken in here?
David: Don't change the subject.

Well, it's either that or they're arguing about what biscuits to have during tea-break.

Big Bangs and Invisibility

A couple of nights ago there was a loud bang, somewhere in or around the vicinity of Much Malarkey Manor. And because I was being entranced by the smiles my grand-daughter was directing directly at me, yes me, her Granny, like she was saying 'Hello Granny! I know who you are...smile, smile!', and Andy was being entranced by a jammy flapjack, the bang went uninvestigated. I think we both figured that as no car/bus/lorry/ yob in low slung joggy bottoms had come bursting through the front wall of the house, then we were, as a little family community, safe for the time being.

Later, after grand-daughter had gone home and jammy flapjack had been consumed, Andy went to investigate the source of the bang.
'It's okay,' he said. 'It was the lid blowing off the dandelion wine brew. I've cleaned the resultant mushed raisin concoction from the bathroom walls as best I can.'

Yes, it's that time of year again, when the bath is decommissioned as a place of private ablution and becomes a place for storing barrels of fermenting alcoholic beverage. Dandelion wine this year. Andy is also keeping an eye on the imminent emergence of local elderflower as he is determined to have another shot at elderflower champagne, only this time he says he won't add extra yeast.

Meanwhile, I've been infected by a touch of invisibility this week. Twice I have nearly been runover. Five times, adults at work have asked me a question, or engaged me in conversation and then walked off mid-response or mid-sentence, leaving me open-mouthed and looking a bit idiotic, like I'm Cary Grant talking to Harvey, the Invisible Rabbit. Hundreds of times I've been ignored in the class whilst I am trying to teach, by children who have far more important things to discuss, like what's on telly tonight, or who said what about whom (the bitch).

Which got me a bit worried. Not about the who said what about whom, because teenagers these days always seem more interested in interfering in business that doesn't concern them, rather than interfering in business that does concern them like gaining good skills in the English language. I wasn't even concerned about my near-death pedestrian versus maniac-in-a-car experiences because God knows I am way to busy to be summoned to Heaven just as this moment. No, it was the invisibility to adults thing that bothered me. I mean, do I need to work on my personality? Am I that boring that people have to wander off mid-conversation for fear of falling into a Denise-induced coma?

I thought, but they started the conversations. They asked me a question. Surely, SURELY, they should finish what they started? But no. Apparently not. One of the worst experiences was when I was dumped, and yes I do mean dumped, with five interviewees one break time. I avoided showing my displeasure at having my lesson prep time disrupted (break times don't mean tea and a biscuit to me - they mean trying to get ahead for the next lesson), and became hostess with the mostest, sorting out coffee, and asking how their interview day had gone so far. And in the middle of me talking to one of the younger applicants about the lesson she had just taught as part of the interview process, she actually GOT OUT HER MOBILE PHONE AND STARTED TEXTING!!!

I thought, I'll just stop talking then, shall I? I'd hate to interrupt your texting frenzy with my clearly banal interest in your fledgling teaching career. But what I really wanted to do was slap the mobile from her hand (and probably stomp on it for good measure) and tell her how rude she was being.

Ah well. It's all down to manners, I suppose. I was taught to listen to someone when they were talking to me, to show interest no matter how boring or irrelevant the subject matter might be. If I was reading, I was to put down my book and pay attention. One did not interrupt, especially if the person you were talking to was older. Oh, what was it called? Ah, that's right - social interaction!

Mind you, they teach social skills in schools these days. Which is sad in some ways. But not so surprising in many others.

A New Prime Minister

'The exit polls have suggested that I am the new Prime Minister,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'So I'm going to bed now. Lots to do tomorrow - running the country and all that.'
'Oh really?' I say. 'And what exit poll would that be?'
'The one where Mrs Miggins agrees I'd be a good Prime Minister and then pecks Mrs Slocombe until she agrees, too,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And of course I voted for myself, which means I have received one hundred percent of the electoral goat.'
'Surely you mean vote?' I say.
'No, I mean goat,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'His name is Percy and he's in the back garden tied to the washing line. He's all right for now because we got him a vegetable dhansak and pilau rice from the takeaway, but you might want to consider moving him before you hang out your next lot of smalls.'
I know I ought to look in the garden, to check on the goat status of Much Malarkey Manor, but it has been a long day and I don't think I have the courage or the strength.

'So,' I say, changing the subject, 'what will be your first act as Prime Minister Pumphrey?'
Mrs Pumphrey leans against the fridge where she is currently rooting for a Dairy Lea Cheese Dipper.
'I thought I'd get a new cabinet for the dining room,' she says. 'Something in oak. And then I was going to have a holiday. It's been quite exhausting, this campaigning lark.'
'Nothing more global, then?' I say.
'Like what?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Well, like sorting out the economy?' I say.
'All ready sorted,' says Mrs P. 'We've printed more money.'
'I'm not sure it works like that...' I begin.
'Of course it works like that,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'If you need something because you haven't got enough, then you make more. Like you making shortbread,' she added.

Ah, I think. I can understand an analogy that ends in biscuits.

'And what about education?' I say.
'Wasted on the young,' declares Mrs Pumphrey. 'So I'm banning it for people under twenty one. Keep children in boxes until they show an inclination to learn, then release them into schools. '
'Health care?' I venture.
'Go to work on an egg,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Make me a mug of cocoa, will you? I'd do it myself only I'm Prime Minister now, and I'm going to claim your services on expenses.'
'You can't do that,' I say. 'It's immmoral.'

Mrs Pumphrey fixes me with a beady eye.
'You are assuming that chickens have morals,' she says. 'And that is a very dangerous thing to do.'

So I make Mrs P a mug of cocoa because I don't want to go to bed with holes in my knee caps.

And there we go. No need to sit up all night waiting for the results to come in. Mrs Pumphrey is the new Prime Minister and it sounds like she's already on top of things. And however you voted today (you did vote, didn't you?) , just be thankful you won't wake up in the morning with a goat called Percy tethered to your washing line.

One Hundred Thousand Big Ones

Andy came home from work yesterday (like he does) and he said, 'I HAVE A PLAN!' (I write his words in capital letters not because Andy was shouting, well, he was a bit, but because he was excited and I want to convey his excitement without resorting to 'Excitivision TV -for all your exciting television needs.)

'What is your plan?' said I. I thought, we need a plan, because I've had a bit of a narky, aimless day.

'Right,' said Andy. 'Here is the plan. It is a business plan.' He would have done well at my previous school of employment, I thought, where we were Business and Enterprise status, which led to some very tenuous links on the old lesson plans I can tell you. (Once, when I was teaching 'Romeo and Juliet' (the play, not two students called the aforesaid names), it was suggested by the member of senior management who was observing me, that I could link my lesson to business and enterprise by telling the students they could get a package holiday to Verona to see Juliet's balcony. Hmmm...needless to say I didn't heed his advice, nor did I say that actually, Dave, (coz that was his name) no balcony was mentioned in the original script by W.Shakespeare esq., merely a garden. I didn't want him to think I was a pretentious know-it-all.)

'Are you paying attention?' said Andy.
'Yes,' I said, laying aside my washing up gloves, for I was washing up at the time.
'It's a great plan,' said Andy. 'I'm very excited about it.'
'Continue, mon brave,' I said.

'We go to a bank and say we want some money because we are going to buy a bed and breakfast property from which we can run courses in self-sufficiency slash arts and crafts skills slash chicken slash bee keeping and other stuff like that,' said Andy. 'And we can provide conference facilities for outside speakers and you can run educational courses and creative writing retreats and bake cakes...'
'And you will be...' I interjected
'Mine host!' said Andy. 'And running the make a sausage slash hedgerow wine slash elementary carpentry courses.' To his credit, mine host did not mention running sci-fi conferences but I suspect they hover somewhere on the periphery of his keen business mind.

Now, I have to say I, too, was very excited about this business plan. So much so that I have spent a lot of today mulling ideas over in my mind and, more importantly, trying to work out how much extra money we shall need to acquire slash borrow slash steal. I reckon one hundred thousand should do it. Which sounds daunting in some ways, yet oddly achievable in others because I think that once you become driven by a plan, anything is achievable. Also, we have some savings already so we are, actually just over ten per cent of our way towards the target. Plus the two five pound notes I found last week. Minus the thirty pounds I spent yesterday on buying two of the cutest little dresses you've ever seen for Granddaughter Kayleigh who is now 7 weeks and two days old and weighing 11lbs 4 oz.

I said to Andy when he came home from work this evening (like he does) and whilst he was eyeing the vegetarian chilli sans carne with a modicum of suspicion, 'I reckon we'll need one hundred thousand pounds.'
'For what?' said he.

Oh, how quickly they forget, these mine hosts.

'For our business plan,' I said.
'Ah, yes!' said Andy. 'So how are we going to get this money?'
'Well, ' I said, 'if we stop buying newspapers, that'll save £5.50 a week. Which is £286 a year.'
'That'll take us a smidge under 350 years, then,' said Andy, who is sometimes a little too quick in the Maths department for his own safety.

'Obviously we'll have to work out additional savings plans,' I said.

Which is what I'm working on now.

For there must be a way. There must.

Bank Holiday Malarkey

I am glad it is a bank holiday today, because no way was I going to work when I woke this morning. I had far more important things to do than educate the young, who, quite frankly, often don't realise how lucky they are to have a free education.

For a start, Andy and I had to get the back garden ready for Bee-Hive Number One (the hive will be given a witty and topical name once I can think of one). The back garden has been looking a right old tip, so some heavy duty tidying was called for, so that once our hive is sited we won't do any unnecessary bee enraging by having to move it once the colony is settled. Also, I had a pile of summer bulbs to put in - gladioli and irises. The chickens came and helped dig the bulb bed; Mrs Miggins indulging in the sport of extreme digging i.e clambering atop the fork for prime worm viewing position.

It's surprising what can be achieved in three hours. The weather threatened to spoil our fun a couple of times, but we held out and managed to create the illusion of more space than we've actually got by the time lunch started calling.

'It looks okay now, doesn't it?' said Andy, standing back to admire our handy work.
'Indeed,' I agreed. 'But now I am pooped so am going inside for a Bank Holiday afternoon slump.'

And so far this afternoon I have caught up with some letter writing, nearly finished another book by my new favourite writer, Marina Lewycka, read a bit more about bees, and drawn a plan of how I imagine our dream-house-and-garden-smallholding-combo to look. I have tidied out my knicker drawer, and am about to continue sewing the picture I started when Kayleigh was born which is for her nursery and if I carry on at the rate I am going with it so far, she'll be able to hang it on her wall when she is about 13 years old and drooling over some vacuous, floppy-haired boy-band.

And then I am going to scour my cookery books for some good vegetarian recipes that in no way, shape or form involve tofu. Have you ever eaten tofu? Can I suggest you don't? You might just as well eat slivers of bath sponge dipped in a soapy water solution. Yuk! I believe tofu is derived from soya bean curd, and to be honest, the words 'soya' and 'curd' in the same sentence should be enough to put anyone off trying this poor excuse for a meat substitute. It's supposed to be tasteless and will therefore take on the flavour of whatever else you soak it in or cook it with. Well, all I can say is that the stuff we had last night in our Chinese takeway must have been soaked in molten playdough. Double yuk!

And this evening I am off out with Mrs Pumphrey to do some last minute canvassing before the election on Thursday. She wants to kiss some babies and I have to be on hand with the beak muffler. The latest polls suggest she is in with a good chance of becoming Prime Minister, thank goodness, because she can't do any more harm than the current shower, can she?

Although she did call Tango Pete a fascist gigolo the other day. And abusing your electorate is never a good idea. Is it, Gordon?

Stairway to Henven

So Andy spent yesterday after crafting a genuine artisan, rustic- type ladder for the new chicken penthouse.

'There,' he said, placing it against the platform upon which the Eglu pod is now perched, I mean, securely attached. 'Now all we need to do is get the girls used to going up and down it. What does Hugh F-W say about the issue of enticing chickens up ladders?'

'He says,' I said, because I have consulted Hugh's book upon the matter, 'that it might take them a week to get used to using the ladder, that we might need to physically place them up on the platform each night for a few days and that food is a good bribery tool. And that Mrs Miggins said that appropriate food will be hors d'oeuvres or those little French fancy cakes.'

'Mrs Miggins can think again,' said Andy, and he scattered some layers pellets up the ladder. He looked around the grounds of Cluckinghen Palace. 'Now, what I need is a decoy.'

He spied Mrs Miggins. 'Come on, Miggo,' he said, 'you can be the pioneer ladder climber.'

So he caught Miggins, who is the tamest and most catcheable, and placed her on top of the platform. Mrs Miggins stood there, looking down. Then she looked at the Eglu. Then she went inside the Eglu. Clucked a bit. Realised she wasn't going to suffer from altitude sickness (nose bleeds, dizziness, oxygen deprivation etc), and came out again to admire the view.

By this time, Mrs Pumphrey had appeared at the bottom of the ladder.
'What are you doing up there?' she called.
'He put me up here,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Him. Over there. The one with handfuls of splinters gleaned from crafting a chicken ladder.'
'Waste of time if you ask me,' said Mrs Pumphrey, and in one vertical take-off leap, jumped straight onto the platform, by-passing the ladder. She stood and admired the view.
'It's taller up here, isn't it?' she said.
'Yes,' said Miggins.
'And Mrs Slocombe looks somehow smaller,' said Pumphrey.
'That'll be perspective,' said Mrs Miggins, who did GCSE Art at evening school.

Within twenty minutes all three hens had jumped up and down from the platform several times. The ladder was roundly ignored. Miggins and Pumphrey had both made one attempt each to walk down the ladder, but when that attempt had resulted in something akin to the extreme sport of ladder skidding/ surfing they went back to jumping.

'I think they'll be okay going to bed tonight,' I said. 'We clearly have highly intelligent hens.'
'Hmmmm...' said Andy.

So, as night fell, we ventured into the garden to check that the hens were safely installed in the pod. The hens were safely installed under the platform against what remained of the eucalyptus stump.

'Good grief,' said Andy. He went into the run, picked up Miggins and put her on the platform. Into the pod she went. Mrs Pumphrey soon followed. Mrs Slocombe looked confused, but then she is mad. Then she flung herself onto the platform and she, too, retired for the evening.

And today they jumped down from the platform, and at some point all three of them jumped back up to lay eggs because there were three eggs in the nest box when we checked on our return from Bee-Keeping Part 4.

A week to get used to the change? Ha! What does Hugh know? Week-smeek!

Additional news 1)- Bee-Keeping Part 4 went very well today. No bee handling, because it was hissing it down with rain, but much interesting learning took place.
Additional news 2) Grand-daughter Kayleigh pooped on my trouser leg last night and it went right through the fabric and turned my leg a funny shade of yellow. Pretty impressive for a not-quite seven week old, I reckon. She is also doing little smiles which is enough to make a Granny's heart melt.
Additional news 3) - I continue to be 100% vegetarian; Andy is running at about 80% on account of a full-English breakfast times two when he was on a course in Swindon at the beginning of the week. And some sweet and sour chicken balls. But that could just be the way he is sitting.
Additional news 4) - The author would like to know if there is ANYONE OUT THERE? PLEASE??? She is beginning to worry, due to lack of comments for ages, that she is losing her entertaining writing touch. Just wave your hand if you are still reading...

Lucky Stars?

Now here's a funny thing. You know how spontaneous acts of luck rarely pass my way? I'm not complaining, you understand, because I know how fortunate my life is in many, many other ways - I am blessed with a happy, healthy family, a nice home, a job, a good brain and the capacity to enjoy my life in lots of fulfilling ways. (And chickens, says Mrs Miggins. Don't forget the chickens. As if, I say.) No, I'm talking about little spots of unexpected good fortune. Like finding a five pound note on the pavement. And then finding ANOTHER five pound note the next day on a different pavement. And then being gifted a huge sack of onions by a kindly neighbour.

You may have gathered that these three spots of fortune have all happened to me in the last 24 hours. Yesterday, on my walk home from work, I found a fiver. No-one around, looking like they were searching for a lost fiver. And then, this morning, when Andy and I were on a first thing in the morning dash to town to run some errands, I found another fiver on the pavement, again with no-one else in sight.

And then, on popping out to the recycle bin with some recyclables just after lunch, our neighbour across the road dashed over and said, 'Do you use onions? Only I've got two sacks and we'll never get through them all.' So, because I do use a lot of onions, especially now we are being vegetarian, I accepted the gift with a grateful smile.

I can't help thinking how odd is this sequence of events? There must be a reason for it. The only thing I can think is that I've been given the title of an international best seller - 'Two Lost Fivers and a Sack of Spare Onions.' So if I do NaNoWriMo again this year, that's the title sorted.

Anyway, the rest of the morning has been filled with running errands and buying bee-suits and cot beds.

Here is me in my bee suit. It's very comfy. Light-weight, many pockets, many zips, much velcro. I did start to write this blog whilst wearing my bee suit, but the gloves kept getting in the way of the keyboard. We've had to order Andy's bee suit as his size was out of stock. Norman of the bee farm phoned to say that Andy's suit would be three weeks in arriving. 'That's okay,' I said. 'We're not collecting our bees until the end of this month, so we've got a few weeks to spare. And I've got my bee suit, so I can always wade in as the Lone Bee Keeper, and Andy can watch from the safety of the kitchen window.'

'Or he can just run very fast,' said Norman. And we had a bit of a fellow beekeeper jolly laugh moment.
And after the purchase of bee suit and bee gloves, we zipped across the countryside to the retail park and Grandad Andy bought Baby Kayleigh a cot bed. It's a very nice cot bed a la sleigh bed style. And after it has been used as a cot, then a junior bed, it can be converted into a little sofa! With underneath storage space. AND the brochure declared it to be 'a lovely piece of furniture that will become an heirloom for generations to come.' So I suspect, that once I start shrinking in height (as ladies are wont to do when they grow more aged) the cot bed will come back my way for use in my dotage when my children consign me to a shed at the bottom of the garden. Good job we got a foam mattress, then. I understand they are easy to wash.

Now I was under the impression that this here cot bed would need to be ordered for home delivery a couple of weeks later, given that it is a hefty piece of furniture. But no. Andy paid, and the cashier said, 'Just wait over there and the cot and mattress will be brought out for you.' Andy said, 'I'd better go and rearrange the car then,' on account of the fact that not only had we been and bought a bee suit and gloves, we had also done a dash around Wilkos for a bag of bits and bobs and another dash round Sainsbugs for four more bags of bits and bobs, and Andy had done a dash around Pets at Home for cat litter the day before, sacks of which were still in the car and therefore space was at a premium.

The cot and mattress were huge. But we got them in the car, along with all the other stuff we'd amassed. Hurrah for the people carrier, I thought as we trundled home. And the cot and mattress are even larger now they are stacked in our hallway, preventing access to the stairs.

So there we are. Another busy Saturday morning. This afternoon Andy is out in the garden putting the finishing touches to the newly revised Cluckinghen Palace penthouse suite, I am faffing around in a bee suit but I shall be making jammy flapjacks any moment now. The chickens are still arguing about the whole ladder leading up to their pod thing. But I reckon they'll be okay when they feel the blunt end of my welly boot nudging up their derriere.