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...)

Good Camping, Bad Camping

Things I like about camping:
1) cooking tea and toast outside on a ridiculous stove. In fact, it would have been quicker to cook toast and boil a kettle on a tepid stone. But a stone doesn't make the same hissing noise that a gas cylinder does.
2) the frisson of excitement knowing that there is only a thin layer of nylon between me and marauding animals at night.
3) being able to sit outside in a sleeping bag and nobody thinking it's weird.
4) the 'zuuuuuuuuuuuuppppp' sound of all the zips going up and down and up and down as one enters and exits one's cmping palace.
5) discovering what all those little bits of velcro strapping attached to the inside of the tent are used for and finding a very useful floor-to-ceiling fabric pocket storage doo-dah which I filled with all sort of camping tat for easy access. 'Darling, where are the extra-long matches?' 'In the pocket doo-dah thing, dear.' 

Things I don't like about camping:
1) screaming children
2) the air-bed collapsing during Night One in a 'ship-going-down-slowly-then-very-quickly' kind of way
3) having food poisoning on the last night and spending all night running up and down to the loos, swinging my solar lamp and avoiding marauding wild animals. The loos at the site we stayed at were about 300 metres from our pitch. And believe me, 300 meters is a LOOOOOONG way when you need to use the loo NOW!

So, the Great Camping Trip was a mostly success. The weather was good, the outings and explorations were fun and educational. It was odd being without TV and radio and newspapers for a couple of days, but I read most of 'Sense and Sensibility' by the lovely Jane Austen and sniggered in a very juvenile way over phrases like 'and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen.'

And whilst we were away, Chris proposed to Leane, so now they are engaged! And also whilst we were away, the courgettes at the allotment grew like maniacs and which meant we picked a good 30kg of them yesterday and they are now staring at me from the corner of the kitchen as if to say, 'C'mon then - whotcha gonna do about us, eh? Eh??'

More about camping later. Well, mostly stuff about an enormous flowery pot and a very exciting find of 'Limonade de Pamplemousse'. But now I have to a) decide the fate of the courgettes, and b) find out what has happened to the pictures of you, my tres bonne followers, who have disappeared for some inexplicable reason, thus requiring from me some in-depth technical expertise to get you back, or possibly a spot of shouting  'Andeeeeeeeeeeyyyyy!! Can you get my followers back for me PLEEEEEEEEEEEEAASEEEEEE???? Mwah, mwah!'

Rice and Cat in the Bag

Excitement is mounting for the Great Camping Trip which begins tomorrow!

Okay, a frisson of anticipation is mounting for the Great Camping Trip - excitement would entail the promise of slighty better weather than we've been experiencing of late, but hey, we've got wellies on the list, and the forecast looks hopeful.

Into town today, then, to amass 'supplies'. Last night, we made a list of what we thought we'd need to take with us. But once you get mooching around the shops, you start thinking, 'Oooh, shall we need one of those?' and 'Perhaps I'd better get one of these, just to be on the safe side.'
Top of the list were long matches and kindling wood. The camping pitch has a fire pit, and Andy is very keen to be lighting fires and, in his words, 'toasting crumpets.' I am making sure the blow-torch is staying at home.

And I've gone off crumpets, so we're having muffins instead. Not the giant fairy-cake bun-style muffin, but the flat, looks-like-a-roll-that's-been-sat-on type English muffin.

And I also got a plastic chopping board, a slotted spoon (I'm thinking - that'll double as a colander), a saucepan, a washing up bowl and a set of very cheap cooking knives. Actually, all these items were very cheap. No point spending a fortune on items that will likely be used only a few times a year. I'm particularly pleased with the washing up bowl because it's exactly the same shade of aubergine as the new sofas, so if I should ever need to do any washing up in the living room, I'll be perfectly co-ordinated!

Andy has been fretting about bedding. We've got an airbed, and I was planning to top it with a fitted sheet, a duvet and a couple of blankets. Andy is worried that July, although proving damp, is also going to develop sub-Arctic temperatures and that we'll get cold.

'Not a chance with my hot flushes,' says I. But because I know he is worried, I also purchased two sleeping bags.

At home I hummed and ahhhed about taking one from its packing to test it out for size and comfortability. My reticence was based memories of the many sleeping bag wrestling matches I encountered with Chris's sleeping bag on his return from camping trips with the Scouts. Oh, sleeping bags look all very neat and compact in their little carry bags when you first buy them, but once you release them - 'POOF! - they increase in size tenfold and you never get them back to their original packed size. Sleeping bags, I've learned, are deceitful items.

Well, I decided to let one free and 'POOF' it went. I got inside. It was very warm, but that's possibly because it had been toasting in my little blue car for a couple of hours in a rare burst of July sunshine. It was also quite snug. 'Hmmm,' I thought, 'no danger of waking up with a stray badger in here. ' (If Sarah is reading this, she will be laughing now - we've had a mini-banter across the interwebbly today concerning Adam Ant, leather trousers and badgers). Pandora immediately climbed aboard the bag and settled down.

'You can't stay there,' I said. 'I'm getting out now I've performed a preliminary test drive.'
'It's very comfy,' said Pandora, stretching out across my legs in a very proprietorial way.
'Yes,' I said. 'And also very hot. Get off now.'
'I don't think so,' said Pandora. 'I think I'm here for the afternoon.'

And so the sleeping bag is still spread out over the living room floor with a tiny cat lolloping across it with legs akimbo and half an eye open in case I try to turf her off in a surprise attack. So I can't tell you if it will go back into its bag or not. I suspect not. And if it does, there will likely be a cat attached.

I have discovered, however, that when one is considering cooking a la camping, one views the aisles of a supermarket in a different light. The main question to ask is, 'Can I cook this in a pan of boiling water with the minimum of mess?' and if the answer is 'YES!' then you buy it. Hence, I have stocked up on pasta, noodles, boil-in-the-bag rice and eggs. And tins of beans, jars of passatta, bags of crips and packets of bicuits. Obviously, the crisps and biscuits are not going into a pan of boiling water, but they do tick the 'mimimum of mess' box. As do apples, strawberries, peaches and cereal.

I'm in a bit of a quandary about bread. Yes, I have muffins, yes I have oatcakes, but toast is a goes-without-saying camping requirement so must be given thought. Now, since we bought our bread-maker oooh, what, four years ago now, we've baked all our own bread. Which emerges as a whole loaf, and not neatly sliced as in the supermarket offerings. And having perused the bread aisle today after a long absence, I am appalled at the prices. It seems you can either have cheapish floppy flimsy bread or expensive bread the quality of which we bake for half the price at home. My quandary is in the sliced element. Do we a) buy floppy flimsy pre-sliced bread b) make our own and take the only bread knife we own with us which means Heather will be without bread slicing equipment for four days c) take our own bread and just karate chop it with our razor sharp hands into a vague approximation of a slice for toasting and sandwiching d) pre-slice a homemade loaf and risk it drying out or e) have the faff of going into town tomorrow to purchase another bread knife?

It is all, as Lady Catherine de Bourgh would say, most vexing.

And there was me thinking camping was going to be a simple and relaxing way to holiday!

Best Laid Plans of Aubergine and A Level

Yesterday, the new sofas arrived. They are aubergine in colour. Tybalt is VERY keen on the new sofas and spent most of yesterday testing them out using various poses - cutely curled, languidly stretched, suave recline, cheeky perch, semi-buried, Zen-focused. Tybalt is a black and white cat. Which means half his fur is white. Which shows up beautifully against aubergine.

Didn't think that one through very well, did I? Investment in a hand-held vacuum for instant cat fur removal is required. Ah well. It is a LOVELY aubergine colour.

I've spent the last two days completing the schemes of work for A level literature.
'What's a scheme of work?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'It's a detailed plan of teaching and learning for each year group and topic a department teaches,' I say. 'In three phases - long term, medium term and short term.'
'Don't you just wing it?' says Mrs Slocombe. 'You know, make it up as you go along?'
'Aaah,' I say, 'you're thinking of the good old days. The days when teachers were trusted to approach their teaching with freedom and creativity. It's all prescribed now.'
'Like penicillin?' says Mrs S.
'If you like',' I say. 'Of course, a very recent training day I attended featured a key note speaker who said it was important not to plan too closely. That a teacher should be prepared to change the course and focus of their lesson at a moment's notice if a student develops an interesting point for discussion, for example.'
'So winging it, then?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'That was the implication,' I say.
'So you've spent hours and hours planning these schemes for A level, and you may end up not following them?' says Mrs S, who is starting to look a bit bug-eyed.
'Possibly,' I say. 'Education is in a constant state of flux. Fluxed up good and proper on some levels.'
'But Pride and Prejudice has remained the same for 200 years,' says Mrs S.
'Indeed,' I say. 'Which reminds me - I'm going to have a DVD day today watching Colin Firth as Mr Darcy in a wet blouse and tight trousers.'
'Is that wise, given the size of your backside?' says Mrs S.
'Not me, you fool,' I say. 'Colin Firth. Besides, I can hardly sit on the new sofas wearing wet trousers, can I? The aubergine will run.'
'It might pick up the cat fur,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'True,' I say.
'Shall I get the popcorn and Maltesers?' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Absolutely,' I say.

The Henprentice

Parallel to the BBC series 'The Apprentice' which was deservedly won last night by Tom, the HBC (Hen Broadcasting Corporation) has been running an equivalent series called 'The Henprentice'. This year was the first series - whether there will be another next year remains to be seen. Audience figures have been promising (63 in the first week, a steady 38-42 for the remaining weeks) and the winner was popular enough to earn several column inches in the international poultry business and finance magazine 'The Nest Egg - News for the Hens on the Job.'

And the winner? Well, not as you might expect either Mrs Pumphrey or Mrs Slocombe. Mrs Slocombe did enter the competition, but her business plan to set up a company that made emergency biscuits for chickens called 'Bicks for Chicks' was deemed too stupid for words by the organiser of the programme, Sir Alhen Bant-Hen. (Blimey, that was laboured...) Of course, Mrs Slocombe intends to set up her company regardless of not winning the prize offered by Sir Alhen, namely £142 plus stationery expenses and an electric bicycle. She's in the kitchen as I write, experimenting with a variety of ingredients, in manic search of a combination that is likely to break all but the most steel-like of beaks. I am thinking that I'll need a new cooker by the time she's finished.

No, the winner was actually a distant cousin of Mrs Pumphrey's. Called Mrs Bumphrey. And Mrs Pumphrey is very excited because Mrs Bumphrey has asked her to go into business with her.
'It's just what I need,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'With my egg-laying days beginning to fizzle out, I could do with an interesting project to occupy my time.'
'Sounds like a good idea,' I say. 'So, what's this business Mrs Bumphrey wants you to join?'
'Camping for Hens,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only posher.'
'Oh,' I say. 'Like glamping, you mean?'
'Glamping?' says Mrs P.
'Yes,' says I. 'A cross between glamour and camping. Glamping.'
'That's the badger!' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Apparently, Mrs Bumphrey got the idea for her business when she came to stay a few weeks ago and slept in our tent.'
'Ah,' I say. I remembered that weekend. A fine looking hen arrived at the Manor, carrying a sequinned suitcase and looking even more glam than Mrs Pumphrey, if that is at all possible. She declined, politely, the offer of bunking up with the other two in the Eglu, mostly because Mrs Slocombe was mid-way through a detox which involved hefty consumption of lentils, pulses and cabbage. Instead, she seemed quite happy to use the tent that Andy made for the girls for use during the Winter daytimes.

'And whilst she liked the outdoorsy camping aspect,' says Mrs Pumphrey, butting into my reminiscence, 'she thought the facilities were a tad, well, basic.'
'Well, yes,' I say. 'It's a length of waterproof fabric stretched over an arc of flexible fencing and lined with straw.'
'So Mrs Bumphrey had a vision,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'A vision of canopies and silk drapes, of wood-burning stoves, and camp beds with eight inch feather mattresses, and proper flush toilets and an electric hook-up for the chandelier...'
'Chandelier?'
'It was a vision...'
'Carry on...'
'And underfloor heating and a mini-bar filled with Bacardi and a delicious supply of emergency biscuits for hens from a company called 'Bicks for Chicks'...'
'Has Mrs Bumphrey met the managing director of Bicks for Chicks?' I say.
'I don't know,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I strongly advise that she does,' I say. 'So how long will it take to get the company up and running?'
'We're discussing names at the moment,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'My favourite so far is Bumphrey and Pumphrey Happy Glam-Camping Company.'
'Sounds fun,' I say.
'I think you should call it The Bump 'n Pump Mighty Pitch-Up,' says Mrs Slocombe, appearing from the kitchen covered in flour, raisins and golden syrup.
'Shut up,' says Mrs Pumphrey.

Food and Fotos

Popped into school yesterday to pick up my new timetable for September.

'Go into the Hall NOW!' shrieked Yvonne, the Head's PA. 'The photographer's in there! Now! QUICK!!'

Yvonne looked stressed which is unlike her. I could only assume she was having trouble coralling staff into the Hall to have photos done and had adopted the line of least tolerance and maximum determination in order to get the job done. I scuttled into the Hall. I was very aware my hair is due for a cut 'n' colour. I did some frantic sans mirror grooming. I thought, does this bright pink cardi compliment my pink, sun-kissed face?

'So,' said the photographer, after asking my name, rank and file, 'you're an English teacher?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Good,' he said. 'We like English teachers. Smile!'

And he took a photo.

'Course, they don't do Literature in schools now, do they?' he said. 'Smile again. You look a bit wild and squinty in that last one.'
'I certainly do teach English Literature,' I said. 'It's my favourite thing.'

He took a second photo, declared it delightful, and I was allowed to go, taking my mad hair and my squinty wild eye with me.

My timetable is packed with Years 9, 10, 11 and 12. Not a tiddler 7 or 8 in sight. This means lots of coursework to mark, but less general noise and wildness. And less tripping over tiddlers fresh from primary who still think it's all right to hide underneath desks and play with Lego.

On to the pet emporium to stock up on cat litter, filters for the cat water fountain and a new brand of cat food. VERY EXPENSIVE cat food. This is because old lady Phoebe has developed chronic diarrhoea and the Chief Cat Pooper Scooper, i.e me, is getting fed up with the yuk 'n' niff. However, a change in food to Iams Senior seems to be gelling things together, so to speak. Unfortunately for my purse, Tybalt has also decided he likes the Iams Senior. But he is entitled to eat it as he is now a senior cat himself, being 8 and a half years old. Pandora, at two, is not supposed to eat it.

'But it tastes really nice,' she says. 'I lurve it mucho!'
'I'd rather you carried on with the Whiskas,' I say.
'No,' says Pandora, who always uses one word where half a dozen mught be a little less harsh.
'Good job I'm working full-time in September then,' I say, 'to cover the massive increase in cat food bills.'
'No-one made you have three cats,' says Pandora.
'True,' I say. 'I admit my weakness for a pair of large liquid eyes and cute furry choochy-face cheeks.'
'Alpacas?' says Pandora.
'Shush! I said.