Hello!

Hello! My name is Flora Bijou Mybug. I am three weeks old and I have come to live at Much Malarkey Manor after being abandoned. I am very tiny (184 grammes) and I am very cute. Last night, at my three o'clock in the morning feed, I did a wee on Denise's jimjams. Andy is better at feeding me because he is a vet and he knows the Kitten Head Grip. So far I have had my head licked by Phoebe and been ignored by Tybalt. Auntie Heather squeals a lot at me but I think it is because she likes me. Lots of people on Facebook and Twitter suggested names for me (and quite frankly some of them were just weird - Dave???) so I have been named after Flora Poste and Mr Mybug from Denise's favourite book, 'Cold Comfort Farm' and Bijou because I am small. Could have been worse. Could have been Gwendolyn Cecily Tiddleface. Or Kate, because I was found under a bush. 

Got to go now. Time for another feed! Byeeeeeee!

Noises and Bees and Naughty Hens

A few months ago, our next door neighbour put his house up for sale and annoyingly sold it within a week. He has taken a while to move out, but last Friday off he went with his life possessions in a very tiny van.

And two days ago, the new neighbours moved in. They are a young family of mum, dad and two girls aged around 4ish and 9ish I should say. The parents are heavy smokers and have been sitting in the back garden chain smoking which means I can't have my window open all day as I like to because I really cannot abide the smell of cigarettes. They are also prone to shouting very suddenly and very loudly in Polish or Latvian or Lithuanian, or whatever is their mother tongue, I don't know because my language skills are limited to un peu de francais, a bit of sprechen sie Deutsch and Borra Da. They have loud and fast conversations on their mobile phones. Their youngest child is a screamer. They are certainly going to give their neighbours on the other side a run for their money in the Loud and Shouty Family Stakes.

Last night I went to sleep quite quickly, as I am wont to do. I was woken very suddenly by the sound of one of those buzzy waspy mopeds screeching into the road and squealing to a halt and then...

'What the eff are you doing on that effing thing?' shouts a woman's voice.

'Mmmmmmfff....mffff....mmmfffff...' came the helmeted reply.

'Get off it! Switch the effing thing off!' shouts the woman.

'Mmmmmmmmfffffpppppphhhhh!' shouts the helmet.

There is a mild scuffle and the moped is rendered silent. Then...

'I told you to effing walk home with it!' shrieks the woman, as the moped fires up again. 'You effing effer.'

'Nice,' I thought. 

And then peace.  I drifted off to sleep...

'Weee.....weeee.....wee............weeeeeee......weeee......'

Nope, wasn't me being woken for a wee. It was what I could only describe as the sound of a random but persistent whistle. I got up. It wasn't coming from inside the house. Not Phoebe performing one of her selection of interesting nasal snores, then. No, it was coming from somewhere outside, up the other end of the road.

'Oh, good grief, ' I thought. I went for a wee anyway as I was up, and surveyed the pimple on my chin which I can now confirm is, officially, a chimple. I returned to the bedroom and hung out of the window as  getting up had brought on one furnace of a hot flush. After a few minutes both the flush and the whistle abated.

'Thank goodness,' I thought. I climbed back into bed. A car alarm went off. 'Wheee-ooooh, wheeee-ooooh, wheeee-ooooh........' Ad infinitum and forever and ever and ever and ever....

Needless to say I have been a la zombie mode today. Zombie with a chimple. I have tried to remain spiritual. It has been hard.

On another note, when I went to cut some lavender this morning in an attempt to pretend I was living in a lovely country cottage surrounded by fields of lovely calming lavender I saw what I thought were two bumblebees hitched together in an episode of high-jinkery but which, on closer inspection, turned out to be a single bumblebee of enormous proportions. Honestly, it was the size of a horse! Well, okay, not a horse maybe, but if the Borrowers were after a joint for their Sunday Dinner, they could have served up that bee and had enough leftover for a Monday Beeherd Pie. 

And then, when I continued my pretence at The Bucolic Idyll by letting out the hens and doing some 

a-scattering  of the corn, Primrose did a very convincing impersonation of a Chicken Who Is About To Drop Dead, but then, equally as quickly, reverted to her normal Chicken Who Is Going To Live One Hundred Years. I do not know what that was all about. Constipation, maybe? Some form of transcendental yoga?

'Joke,' says Primrose. 'Just to keep you on your toes.'

'Not funny,' says I.

'Very funny,' says Primrose. 'Now get me some grapes.'

And talking of fruit, Andy has been eyeing up our apple tree which is positively groaning with apples this year, possibly to make up for the poor showing last year.

'When will they be ready to eat?' he said.

'Not just yet,' I said.

'But they are going red,' he said. 'How do you know they aren't ready to eat now?'

'I just do,' I said. 

'Well,' said Andy, who can be very persistent when the occasion arises, 'how can you tell when an apple is ready?'

'When you can cup it in your hand, give it a gentle twist on the stalk and it plops off,' I said.

Andy looked disappointed. He is convinced the birds and the insects are going to snaffle the apples before we can.

'You can try one if you like,' I said. 'But don't blame me if it takes the skin off your teeth.'

So off Andy went. He returned shortly thereafter.

'That was quick,' I said.

'It wouldn't plop,' said he.

Calling

When I was 15, my Grandad died quite suddenly. It was a shock, especially as he had been a big part of my childhood. And then, the Summer following his death I was walking around the edge of the small market garden that he and Gran ran, and a voice remarkably like his said in my ear, 'The beans will be good this year.'

And they were. 

Now, I wasn't sure at that time whether the voice I heard telling me about the beans was the product of wishful thinking because I missed my Grandad, or that is was actually him, speaking from beyond the veil, as it were. Anyway, it was a comforting experience and I thought not much more on it and life continued.

By the time I was 22 I was expecting my second baby and moving to a new town with my then (not Andy) husband. And my new neighbour took me under her wing. She was, still is, a writer, medium and healer, and in the years we were neighbours I learned a lot from her. I sat in a spiritual development circle with her and she was a source of great inspiration and spiritual teaching. We also, I seem to remember, got through a lot of cake together!

Anyway, she taught me well, guided me through the use of Tarot and crystals as spiritual tools, and even better assisted the start of my training as a channel for healing. It was the healing experiences that I really loved being a part of, and over the last 25 years I have, on and off, continued to do bits here and there, including absent healing and conducting the occasional reading as and when needed by friends and family. And occasionally getting a message through for random people which is a bit embarrassing if they are the person in front of you in the queue at Sainsbugs. Hey ho!

And here is the thing. All has been quiet around me these last few weeks. All has been still. Hello, I have been thinking. I've had this feeling before. This is the feeling that presages a Shift in My Universe. At times like this I try and be still, and listen. I don't look for clues, per se, but then I find I notice things more clearly. And today a random page appeared whilst I was surfing da net ( as you do when you should be doing other things like cleaning out the chickens and sowing more rocket because your rocket supply is fast dwindling). It was a page linked to the Harry Edwards Healing Sanctuary. 

I visited this place two or three years ago. I thought about doing a formal healing qualification then, but then, as it transpired, was not the right time. But now it seems the right time is approaching. I have been nudged. I am being called. At the moment it is a Whispered Call, but it is a Very Definite Whispered Call. 

Why am I telling you this? I do not know, other than it is Suddenly VERY Important and p'raps I need to  make a public declaration of my intent. I realise some of you may not approve of such activities. Or that some of you may poo-poo the whole concept. But that is okay. I am still me, you see?

And so today, other than fostering an ENORMOUS pimple on my chin, the like of which has not been seen since one day in 1979 (I was a rare and very lucky teen who remained virtually spot-less of face) I have dragged out and re-read many of my old spiritual teaching books, dusted off my absent healing record diary and my several sets of Tarot,  and found a teaching and healing retreat about half an hour's drive away that offers formal qualifications in both spiritual healing and Reiki. I am on the verge of rearranging my arty-crafty writing room to accommodate a different set of energies. I know that art and craft will be an integral part of this Shift in My Universe. (If only I could get to grips with that darned sewing machine!) 

What else do I know? Not much else at the moment. I suspect I shall be going with the flow. No planning. Just letting things happen.

And now I have to go because Tybalt is on a Fly Hunt and the fly is determined to hide behind Receptacles Containing Fluid (tea cups and vases) and Tybalt is determined to get the fly!

9 Years

I forgot to mention that last week that, whilst waiting in the queue outside Buckingham Palace and feeding myself with an egg and cress sandwich, that (in accordance with my approachable face theory) a complete stranger chose me out of a crowd of about 200 or more people, to direct a question at. Me. The only person in the crowd of 200 plus people who, at that VERY moment, had a face full of sandwich. To wit, therefore, my reply to her question was, 'Mm....mphhhh...mpffffffh....' 

Why choose me? I thought. There are more than 199 other people here who are not, at this very moment, consuming of an egg and cress sarnie. You could ask them, you foolish woman. It would be better all round if you did. And I don't even LIKE London. 

Anyway, I digress. Today was mine and Andy's 9th wedding anniversary. And in keeping with tradition, we bought each other gifts linked to the theme of the anniversary year, the ninth being either pottery or willow. At least I did. I bought Andy a kit with which to make willow lanterns. I was well pleased with my pressie find. Practical, requiring some skill enhancing input and aesthetically pleasing all at the same time. They'll go beautifully in our revamped garden, I thought. (Although I am a tad anxious about what will happen when one adds the candle to a construction of very thin wood  + very thin paper.)

And my gift from Andy? Something willowy, also? Something pottery-ry? No, my friends! It was far more subtle than that! It was a textile art picture of a deer in a field full of poppies! ( The field, not the deer. Although the deer might have been full of poppies, too, if deer eat poppies. Do deer eat poppies? I don't know.) 

And what, are you thinking, is the relevance to the 9th anniversary? Well, I shall tell you. Plunged into a fit of panic because he couldn't find anything he deemed suitably willowy or pottery-ry, Andy researched what flower was associated with 9 and it is the poppy. You see?! Thereby is the link, albeit loose, to the anniversary. It is a lovely picture. Tres bonne!!

Global news - I have received two postcards this week for my new Post Crossing hobby. One from San Diego and one from Saint Petersburg. A lovely American/Russian alliance which is delightfully ironic given the news about the American so-called spying chappie who has been granted asylum for a year to stay in Russia. 

Chicken news - Primrose has taken to tap-dancing in the hen water bowl. Four times I had to fill it up today. As soon as it is full, in she hops and does a pretty impressive impression of Gene Kelly in 'Singing in the Rain.' It is very annoying, and I have told her thus and so has Daisy who does not appreciate having to drink water from a container that has had Primrose Feet jiggling around in it. I do not know why Primrose does this, and neither does she. But she needs to stop it. NOW. Because if she doesn't she is going to have a bit of a shock come the first freeze of Winter. 

Allotment news - beans, potatoes, basil, shallots, courgettes, lettuce and more cucumbers than you can shake a stick at. Many, many tomatoes but not one of them red yet. Baby aubergines forming beneath aubergine flowers. Swedes coming on at a very pleasing pace, ditto broccoli, carrots, parsnips, chard, radish and beetroot. Still beating mare's tail into submission. Eager anticipation of autumn raspberries. Very bold Robin resident on da plot. 

And that is about it, really. Nothing wildly exciting. Nothing wildly hilarious. A time of calm and reflection. Of enjoying being at home, pottering in the garden, catching up with 'just' jobs. Reading and knitting. Listening to good stuff on the radio. 

Peace.

Knitting

So this is what I spend my Sunday afternoon doing. Very therapeutic, very enjoyable. Feeling a bit bug eyed now as it was a very fiddly, tiddly project, so off to cook a spot o' dinner before the excitement of the new Doctor Who reveal takes over.

Happy Christmas!!

Fidgety Tybalt and Thank You!

Tybalt is a lovely cat. He is a solid and dependable cat. He is a good-looking cat, with impeccable white paws and a particularly well-proportioned face. He started life, ten and a half years ago, as a Stray Scouse Kitten, who travelled down to Kent via train (and with Andy, I hasten to add - he didn't just take it upon his teeny kitten self to hop on the Virgin connection at Liverpool Lime Street, underground it from Euston to Charing Cross and thence to Maidstone where I was waiting with the limo to transport him home. Gosh, that was a long, bracketed interlude).

Anyway, he is a Northern Cat by birth but has adapted remarkably well to living in The South. No-one would know he wasn't southern born and bred. He even waxes his Gallagher eyebrows and trims his McCartney Mop Top to disguise his less than auspicious roots. (That was a joke, by the way, before I get lynched by Liverpudlians, and yes, I know that The Highly Attractive Liam and Noel Gallagher are from Manchester. I went to Manchester once, for the Commonwealth Games. It rained buckets and a then some. I have never been so drenched in my LIFE, not even when swimming in a proper swimming pool. Sodden, I was. Travelling on a Park and Ride bus in wet pants is not a happy experience.)

Back to Tybalt. One of the endearing things about him is his Celebratory Wee Run. In the morning, after he has eaten his breakfast, and rubbed my feet down with his face ( I suspect in lieu of using a flannel and some nice soap like a normal cat) he trots off to the litter tray to perform his Enormous Daily Wee. No wasting time doing a series of little wees during the day with Tybalt. Oh no, get it all over and done with in one big tiddle, that's the thing. And once he has performed his Enormous Wee, which can take a while, time enough to do an easy Soduko, he celebrates it by LAUNCHING himself from the litter tray like a rocket, and racing through the kitchen and up and down the hallway making a racket not unlike a small horse galloping on heavy going turf at Ascot. 

And sometimes, if it has been an especially long Wee, he gallops up the stairs and back again as well! It is very, very entertaining. (Especially this morning as he returned with a cobweb on his head. Lord knows where he'd stopped off to collect that, but I must have a word with the maid.)

And this has become known as The Celebratory Wee Run! 

And as tomorrow is the start of National Thank You Week, I'd like to say Thank You to Tybalt for giving us a smile with which to start each day.

Today's blog was brought to you by Random Ramblings -For All Your Stream-of-Wee-Consciousness Needs.

(P.S Tybalt has asked me to say that he IS the new Doctor Who, but please don't tell anyone as it will spoil the grand reveal on the BEEB this evening at 7p.m.)

A Jolly Day Out In London Town

Firstly, I should like to say that Her Maj the Queen keeps a jolly good gaff. Bit ostentatious, bit bling, and too many gold snakes creeping out of the top of what would otherwise be a jolly nice pale blue vase, but hats off, Buckingham Palace is a top crib and I guess HM doesn't have that much say over the day to day interior design.

Anyway, I should now like to report upon the Day as a Whole, so excuse me for a second whilst I place my tongue firmly in my cheek...

'We alighted on the platform of the small countryside railway station, having deposited five and one half of our finest English pounds for the honour of parking our horse and carriage for the day. Already the station was bustling with fellow travellers - business men, elderly ladies, young women with their many, many off-spring who, despite the earliness of the hour, were already giving full vent to their lungs.

The train arrived at three minutes past its due time, but what is three minutes in the aspect of time, unless one is boiling an egg? We climbed aboard, receiving only mild jostlings from the gathered crowd whose ebullience we put down to the excitement of a visit to our glorious Capital City. Alas, it soon became clear that the train of eight carriages was fully seated, mostly, it transpired, with the school children of our Continental Friends, Les Francais. I remarked to my Husband that maybe it would have been wise of the train company to make the train of more carriages, it being rush hour and the season of general holiday. But then I remembered to add, 'What do I know about manly subjects such as trains, since I am a mere lady?' and so we resigned ourselves to a bracing hour and ten minutes standing in an increasingly crowded corridor, by the lavatorial facility.

I attempted to distract myself by the Reading of a Novel, but then, what better entertainment could there have been than the Jolly Party of French Children taking it upon themselves to sing loudly and vigorously a goodly medley of obscure French ditties, interspersed with snippets of Abba, Justin Beiber and One Direction? Again, I remarked to my Husband that perhaps this could be the reason why our Gallic Neighbours never win the Eurovision Song Contest, and why their poetry is so lacking in scansion and finesse. Yet immediately I realised the unkindness of my comment, it due solely to my feeling of discomfiture at travelling standing, by a lavatory, with a stranger's armpit in close proximity to my nostrils. And for this honour a mere twenty English pounds a ticket, a bargain when cheese is so dear.

Later, as we approached the vicinity of London Bridge and its delightful array of local graffiti art,  a young couple standing nearby struck up a conversation about the demise of a family cat. Such sad occasion seemed to cause much mirth to these young people, and brought threat of a tear to my own good eye, the conversation raising as it did memory of the recent demise of my own dear Pandora Kitten. My wish was to shout 'Shut up, you heartless, arrogant b*****ds!' but my Husband, who is wise and devoid of confrontation, counselled me against this course of action, declaring it to be both unladylike and inviting of verbal retribution from the aforesaid couple, and so I contained myself and in due course we disgorged from the train and into London itself.

It seemed the Whole of The World was visiting London! Pavement space was at a premium and queues were lengthy. I confess to being mightily shocked at the price of refreshments, their cost being more than adequate to cover our annual household electricity bill. We had fancied to dine well in one of the finer local eateries, yet time conspired against us as we made our way to the Palace, and thus we sufficed our appetite with an egg and cress sandwich from (keeping up the French theme) Pret a Manger whilst standing in the queue for our entry to the Palace. 'Tis lucky,' I quipped to my Husband, 'that I am well versed with standing today...ahahahahahaha!' 'Indeed, Wife,' rejoined my Husband, 'and think of all the calories we have spent by standing and walking and dining on a sandwich.' 'Are you saying I am fat?' quoth I? 'Heaven forfend,' said Husband, taking a quick step backwards.

Our Palace visit over, we began our lengthy promenade back to the railway station for the journey homewards. I confess, dear reader, that my demeanour was not at its fragrant best at this point in the day, but justified my uncharacteristic crabbiness by having worn my second best comfy shoes in favour of my first best comfy shoes, having previously been assured that standing and walking activities for the day would be kept to a minimum. Nonetheless we boarded an earlier train than anticipated thus securing ourselves of a seat.

Our journey home was comforted by chocolate and relative peace. Our arrival home was comforted by banoffee pie and relative pizza. 

Whatever that is.

And thus, as the dusk drew on and I tucked the hens to bed, weary from the Exertions of the Day (me, not the hens - they had spent the day crocheting antimaccassars and drinking elderflower cordial) I declared NEVER to visit London, ever, EVER again.'