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?
Friday, 7 August 2009
Thursday, 6 August 2009
Picture a Wedding
Tomorrow it is our fifth wedding anniversary. Five years already! The weather promises to be the same as it was five years ago i.e very hot and sunny, only tomorrow I shan't be swanning about in a big sod-off wedding dress with a twinkly tiara. Not that I wouldn't like to, you understand. I've still got my wedding dress. I can't bear to part with it. It is a reminder of the most magical day of my life, of a day I thought I would never have the privilege to own. People who came to our wedding still remark about what a fab day it was.
IT WAS GREAT!!!!
I am looking at the big group photo taken of everyone before we had our wedding feast. Set in rolling countryside, surrounded by trees, a mix of people ranging in age from their eighties down to a fit to burst pregnancy bump. There have been many changes since that picture was taken. Sadly, there have been two deaths, two people called to Heaven well before their time. There have also been 3 splits of long-term marriages and relationships.
However, there have been 10 babies born. 10!!!! 9 girls and 1 boy. Including a set of twins! The babies in the photo are now starting school, the little girls who swarmed around my son are now young teens. My son is to be a father.
There has also been a transgender re-alignment (I think that's what it is called although it does make it sound like something you find in a car engine). There have been more two weddings. And no doubt many, many more life changing happenings in the lives of our guests that we know little or nothing about.
And tomorrow, we are off to River Cottage, to have a meal chez Hugh F-W, our hero! At the allotment this morning I picked a massive sack of french and runner beans, most of which are shortly to find their way into our freezer as there is no way we are going to be able to eat them all in the next week. Well, not without the cry of 'Oh, no. Not beans AGAIN!' going up as we start turning green. I thought, I wonder if Hugh has enough beans. I could take him some, as an offering to his self-sufficiency greatness. And then I thought, no, he can grow his own bloomin' beans, because these beauties are going to provide us with a taste of summer through the winter.
Oh yes, and there is now officially a pumpkin as big as my head! In fact, there are 5 pumpkins as big as my head. I have no idea where the other 4 sprang from as they were the size of marbles last week. I have no idea what I am going to do with them. I feel they are part of the courgette revenge plot. I'm keeping up with the courgettes - but now the pumpkins and squashes are taking up the surplus crop baton. Luckily, Auntie Pollie and Mum both requested a pumpkin as they have pumpkin recipes they want to try out.
Mrs Poo is also looking perkier. This morning she made a bee-line for the raised bed and savaged a lettuce. And she bit me when I offered her some sunflower seeds. And then I caught her in the greenhouse eyeing up my cucumber plant which currently sports 7 cucumbers in various stages of length and girth.
'You can take your beady eye off those,' I said.
'What are they?' asked Poo.
'Cucumbers.'
'Oh I can't eat those,' she said. 'They repeat on me something chronic.'
And I have got Andy a cunning anniversary present, connected to the theme of wood. And I didn't have to resort to buying him a stick, either. I can't say what it is, in case Andy reads this and it spoils the surprise. But I was quite pleased with my lateral thinking and Andy had better brace himself for more than one suspect pun tomorrow!
IT WAS GREAT!!!!
I am looking at the big group photo taken of everyone before we had our wedding feast. Set in rolling countryside, surrounded by trees, a mix of people ranging in age from their eighties down to a fit to burst pregnancy bump. There have been many changes since that picture was taken. Sadly, there have been two deaths, two people called to Heaven well before their time. There have also been 3 splits of long-term marriages and relationships.
However, there have been 10 babies born. 10!!!! 9 girls and 1 boy. Including a set of twins! The babies in the photo are now starting school, the little girls who swarmed around my son are now young teens. My son is to be a father.
There has also been a transgender re-alignment (I think that's what it is called although it does make it sound like something you find in a car engine). There have been more two weddings. And no doubt many, many more life changing happenings in the lives of our guests that we know little or nothing about.
And tomorrow, we are off to River Cottage, to have a meal chez Hugh F-W, our hero! At the allotment this morning I picked a massive sack of french and runner beans, most of which are shortly to find their way into our freezer as there is no way we are going to be able to eat them all in the next week. Well, not without the cry of 'Oh, no. Not beans AGAIN!' going up as we start turning green. I thought, I wonder if Hugh has enough beans. I could take him some, as an offering to his self-sufficiency greatness. And then I thought, no, he can grow his own bloomin' beans, because these beauties are going to provide us with a taste of summer through the winter.
Oh yes, and there is now officially a pumpkin as big as my head! In fact, there are 5 pumpkins as big as my head. I have no idea where the other 4 sprang from as they were the size of marbles last week. I have no idea what I am going to do with them. I feel they are part of the courgette revenge plot. I'm keeping up with the courgettes - but now the pumpkins and squashes are taking up the surplus crop baton. Luckily, Auntie Pollie and Mum both requested a pumpkin as they have pumpkin recipes they want to try out.
Mrs Poo is also looking perkier. This morning she made a bee-line for the raised bed and savaged a lettuce. And she bit me when I offered her some sunflower seeds. And then I caught her in the greenhouse eyeing up my cucumber plant which currently sports 7 cucumbers in various stages of length and girth.
'You can take your beady eye off those,' I said.
'What are they?' asked Poo.
'Cucumbers.'
'Oh I can't eat those,' she said. 'They repeat on me something chronic.'
And I have got Andy a cunning anniversary present, connected to the theme of wood. And I didn't have to resort to buying him a stick, either. I can't say what it is, in case Andy reads this and it spoils the surprise. But I was quite pleased with my lateral thinking and Andy had better brace himself for more than one suspect pun tomorrow!
Wednesday, 5 August 2009
The Running Chicken and Nearly King Jimbo
Before I get on with the main business of the day, I need to report upon the progress of Mrs Poo because you may have smelled chicken cooking on Monday and I don't want you think that we, well, you know, did the practical self-sufficiency thing with her.
Intensive nursing has been eased off as she is now drinking for herself. Her day, then, goes thus:-
a) I collect Mrs Poo from her cage in my writing room and carry her to the garden. This gives me a chance to squeeze her underbits to check for possible stuck eggs (no egg laying for 5 days now).
I then drag her cage (2 feet by 4 feet, just about fits through the two doors of the inner lobby) through the kitchen and into the garden, leaving water and straw in my wake so Mrs Poo has access to her facilities throughout the day. A kind of Cluckinghen Palace mobile home.
b) Mrs Poo has free range of the garden. Because she is hobbling about like a drunken octagenarian at the moment and eating very sparsely ('It all seems like so much effort,' says Poo), the veg on the patio and in the raised bed are safe from chicken massacre. I leave her to potter in the garden all day, making occasional visits to check she hasn't got stuck down the drain/behind the greenhouse/in the water barrell/escaped on a bicycle.
c) Sometimes I will pop out with a tit-bit of food I think might tempt her. Sometimes she gives it a half-hearted peck; mostly she looks at it, then looks at me and says, 'What? No caviare?'
d) Occasionally I have to dive out into the garden and remove her from where she is leaning against the side of Cluckinghen Palace (South Wing) and Mrs Slocombe is sticking her head through the fence and relieving her of more of her feathers. 'DON'T STAND THERE AND LET HER DO THAT!' I shriek. 'YOU'LL BE OVEN-READY BY THE END OF DAY, YOU STUPID CHICKEN!'
e) At about 7 p.m, Mrs Poo will climb into her cage and sit on her nest. This is her saying, 'It's time for bed,' so Andy and I carry her, Queen of Sheba-like back into the house, though the kitchen and into my writing room where she sleeps. We check her crop for fullness, just to make sure she is eating, and her crop is usually a good two thirds full. Not fit to bursting and sticking out like the other hens, but sufficient enough that she isn't slowly starving to death.
This morning I saw Mrs Poo running across the lawn. Actually running. I think I wasn't supposed to see her running because when she noticed I was watching her she stopped suddenly and did a bit of limp. And now she is sitting next to the water barrell with a bit of a look in her eye. I hope this means she is starting to feel better. This chicken pandering is starting to take its toll. On me.
Anyway, the main business of the day is to inform you that I have opened another blog page entitled 'Nearly King Jimbo.' This will be eventually be attached to the Much Malarkey Manor web-site as part of The Library page. The Library is well under construction. It has many bookshelves and a comfy chair with a cat sitting on it. The cat is Lilith, Tybalt's dear-departed sister. If you want to sit in the armchair you don't need to shoo her away. She is a spirit cat so just sit down and she'll go right through you like a vindaloo with extra jalapenos. Andy got a huge book through the post yesterday all to do with creating web sites and other such interwebbley-nettley things that quite frankly make my head hurt.
But he seems to be enjoying it, and says he's learnt at least two new things from it and he is only up to page 94.
The new blog will contain the second book I wrote in this 'My Year As A Writer' adventure. I am going to publish it chapter by chapter, and posted an introduction and Chapter I yesterday. So if you're interested or bored or curious or the cat litter tray needs cleaning out and you need a handy displacement activity, the Nearly King Jimbo Blog can be accessed at www.mmmlibrary.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
Intensive nursing has been eased off as she is now drinking for herself. Her day, then, goes thus:-
a) I collect Mrs Poo from her cage in my writing room and carry her to the garden. This gives me a chance to squeeze her underbits to check for possible stuck eggs (no egg laying for 5 days now).
I then drag her cage (2 feet by 4 feet, just about fits through the two doors of the inner lobby) through the kitchen and into the garden, leaving water and straw in my wake so Mrs Poo has access to her facilities throughout the day. A kind of Cluckinghen Palace mobile home.
b) Mrs Poo has free range of the garden. Because she is hobbling about like a drunken octagenarian at the moment and eating very sparsely ('It all seems like so much effort,' says Poo), the veg on the patio and in the raised bed are safe from chicken massacre. I leave her to potter in the garden all day, making occasional visits to check she hasn't got stuck down the drain/behind the greenhouse/in the water barrell/escaped on a bicycle.
c) Sometimes I will pop out with a tit-bit of food I think might tempt her. Sometimes she gives it a half-hearted peck; mostly she looks at it, then looks at me and says, 'What? No caviare?'
d) Occasionally I have to dive out into the garden and remove her from where she is leaning against the side of Cluckinghen Palace (South Wing) and Mrs Slocombe is sticking her head through the fence and relieving her of more of her feathers. 'DON'T STAND THERE AND LET HER DO THAT!' I shriek. 'YOU'LL BE OVEN-READY BY THE END OF DAY, YOU STUPID CHICKEN!'
e) At about 7 p.m, Mrs Poo will climb into her cage and sit on her nest. This is her saying, 'It's time for bed,' so Andy and I carry her, Queen of Sheba-like back into the house, though the kitchen and into my writing room where she sleeps. We check her crop for fullness, just to make sure she is eating, and her crop is usually a good two thirds full. Not fit to bursting and sticking out like the other hens, but sufficient enough that she isn't slowly starving to death.
This morning I saw Mrs Poo running across the lawn. Actually running. I think I wasn't supposed to see her running because when she noticed I was watching her she stopped suddenly and did a bit of limp. And now she is sitting next to the water barrell with a bit of a look in her eye. I hope this means she is starting to feel better. This chicken pandering is starting to take its toll. On me.
Anyway, the main business of the day is to inform you that I have opened another blog page entitled 'Nearly King Jimbo.' This will be eventually be attached to the Much Malarkey Manor web-site as part of The Library page. The Library is well under construction. It has many bookshelves and a comfy chair with a cat sitting on it. The cat is Lilith, Tybalt's dear-departed sister. If you want to sit in the armchair you don't need to shoo her away. She is a spirit cat so just sit down and she'll go right through you like a vindaloo with extra jalapenos. Andy got a huge book through the post yesterday all to do with creating web sites and other such interwebbley-nettley things that quite frankly make my head hurt.
But he seems to be enjoying it, and says he's learnt at least two new things from it and he is only up to page 94.
The new blog will contain the second book I wrote in this 'My Year As A Writer' adventure. I am going to publish it chapter by chapter, and posted an introduction and Chapter I yesterday. So if you're interested or bored or curious or the cat litter tray needs cleaning out and you need a handy displacement activity, the Nearly King Jimbo Blog can be accessed at www.mmmlibrary.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
Tuesday, 4 August 2009
Decision Making
The Much Malarkey Manor Guide to Making a Decision
We all have to make decisions. Decision making is part of life. Small decisions to be made on a daily basis e.g shall I have toast or cereal for breakfast, what shall I wear today, what shall I cook for dinner, to occasional large decisions like is it time to change my job, or shall we get a dog for the children? (I've heard that the going rate is currently one dalmation for two pre-teens - sounds like a bargain to me.)
So, if you have a decision to make today, the Much Malarkey Manor Guide could help you on your way. If however, you are reading this and your intent is mere idle curiosity, then you may like to invent a decision so you can play the game along with the rest of us.
1) Gather decision making equipment. Previously I have used Tarot cards, but this is an unreliable form of decision making equipment as you tend to keep turning the cards until you get one that you like. So now, I find a pen, some sheets of paper, a packet of biscuits and a pot of tea do the job very well.
2) Decide on your decision. This in itself can be problematic so I suggest you start by working on the first thing that comes into your head, and then sneak in the really tricky decision of the day whilst your brain is distracted by things like shall I get a new handbag, new shoes or both?
3) Atmosphere is all important whilst making an important decision. Creating the right atmosphere will help concentrate your mind on the task in hand. Flashing lights, road drills, Kerranggggg!! radio and worrying about the gas bill are NOT conducive to good decision making. However, if you want to make a bad decision (and let's face it, sometimes the Devil will get the better of us when choosing between cholesterol-reducing olive oil spread and butter), then fill your boots with loud noises, bright lights and murderous thoughts re: fat cat utility company directors.
4) Try to make only one decision at a time. Sometimes, one's life one can be assailed with enormous pressure to make several decisions all at once. DO NOT BE CONCERNED. It is merely the universe trying to relieve the backlog before it goes on holiday. Even the universe likes to return to work with minimal outstanding paperwork. In such instances, it is best to ignore the universe, pop a CD of rhythm and blues onto your i-pod and dance around your kitchen in a wild and funky manner. On seeing this, the universe will tut, shakes its head and leave you alone for a couple of weeks whilst it goes to Malaga to top up its tan.
5) Having decided on your decision and created a calming atmosphere, you now need to focus. Ideally, you should focus on your decision somewhere near water because water and its movements are well known for their Zen-like properties. In the absence of a stunning Cornish coastline, or the limpid turquoise waters of St Lucia, I generally settle for the downstairs loo or doing some washing up. (NB -a decision involving whether to do the washing up is NOT a proper decision. Washing up needs to be done if you are to avoid getting a reputation as a slattern and a visit from Kim and Aggie, so get over it.)
6) Once you have achieved Beta Zone status (I have no idea what this is - I've only just made it up. If I make sense of it later, I'll get back to you) you will be able to approach your decision in a calm and rational manner. Ensure you maintain your focus. It is during the Beta Zone phase that decision-makers often become spooked and then panic, forcing them to make rapid and therefore irrational decisions about things like the wisdom of getting married or whether they'll look good in a sequinned boob tube.
7) Take a procrastination break. This is where the pack of biscuits and pot of tea come to the fore. Procrastination is an important part of the decision-making process because it heightens that sense of achievement when one does actually make that decision. One gets to think 'I almost didn't make that decision because I indulged in a spot of procrastination, but I battled against it and I WON!'
However, if during your break you catch yourself wondering whether to have coffee instead of tea then I am afraid you have succumbed to subliminal procrastination and there is no hope for you. Return to point 1) and start again. Or regress to childhood and get your Mum to make all your decisions for you.
8) Refreshed by your biscuits and pot of tea, return to the decision in hand. Now, close your eyes and concentrate hard. Of course, this now means you won't be able to read the last two steps in the Much Malarkey Manor Guide to Making a Decision. I once got stuck in the 'Greet the Sun' position from a Teach Yourself Tai Chi book for this very reason. Luckily, no-one was in the house to see me make a complete twit of myself. So you might want to open your eyes just a peek.
9) Take two sheets of paper. On the first write 'YES, I SHALL...' (and then insert the nature of your decision) and on the second, write 'NO, I SHALL NOT...' (again, inserting the nature of your decision). Fold the two pieces of paper in half, put them behind your back and shuffle. Now concentrate really, really hard on the decision to be made. (NB Remember to use the word 'shall' and not 'will', which is gramatically incorrect, or 'must' which is a musterbation and that way lies many a counselling session).
10) Place both pieces of paper in front of you. Shuffle them again. Pick one. Open it.
DECISION MADE!
We all have to make decisions. Decision making is part of life. Small decisions to be made on a daily basis e.g shall I have toast or cereal for breakfast, what shall I wear today, what shall I cook for dinner, to occasional large decisions like is it time to change my job, or shall we get a dog for the children? (I've heard that the going rate is currently one dalmation for two pre-teens - sounds like a bargain to me.)
So, if you have a decision to make today, the Much Malarkey Manor Guide could help you on your way. If however, you are reading this and your intent is mere idle curiosity, then you may like to invent a decision so you can play the game along with the rest of us.
1) Gather decision making equipment. Previously I have used Tarot cards, but this is an unreliable form of decision making equipment as you tend to keep turning the cards until you get one that you like. So now, I find a pen, some sheets of paper, a packet of biscuits and a pot of tea do the job very well.
2) Decide on your decision. This in itself can be problematic so I suggest you start by working on the first thing that comes into your head, and then sneak in the really tricky decision of the day whilst your brain is distracted by things like shall I get a new handbag, new shoes or both?
3) Atmosphere is all important whilst making an important decision. Creating the right atmosphere will help concentrate your mind on the task in hand. Flashing lights, road drills, Kerranggggg!! radio and worrying about the gas bill are NOT conducive to good decision making. However, if you want to make a bad decision (and let's face it, sometimes the Devil will get the better of us when choosing between cholesterol-reducing olive oil spread and butter), then fill your boots with loud noises, bright lights and murderous thoughts re: fat cat utility company directors.
4) Try to make only one decision at a time. Sometimes, one's life one can be assailed with enormous pressure to make several decisions all at once. DO NOT BE CONCERNED. It is merely the universe trying to relieve the backlog before it goes on holiday. Even the universe likes to return to work with minimal outstanding paperwork. In such instances, it is best to ignore the universe, pop a CD of rhythm and blues onto your i-pod and dance around your kitchen in a wild and funky manner. On seeing this, the universe will tut, shakes its head and leave you alone for a couple of weeks whilst it goes to Malaga to top up its tan.
5) Having decided on your decision and created a calming atmosphere, you now need to focus. Ideally, you should focus on your decision somewhere near water because water and its movements are well known for their Zen-like properties. In the absence of a stunning Cornish coastline, or the limpid turquoise waters of St Lucia, I generally settle for the downstairs loo or doing some washing up. (NB -a decision involving whether to do the washing up is NOT a proper decision. Washing up needs to be done if you are to avoid getting a reputation as a slattern and a visit from Kim and Aggie, so get over it.)
6) Once you have achieved Beta Zone status (I have no idea what this is - I've only just made it up. If I make sense of it later, I'll get back to you) you will be able to approach your decision in a calm and rational manner. Ensure you maintain your focus. It is during the Beta Zone phase that decision-makers often become spooked and then panic, forcing them to make rapid and therefore irrational decisions about things like the wisdom of getting married or whether they'll look good in a sequinned boob tube.
7) Take a procrastination break. This is where the pack of biscuits and pot of tea come to the fore. Procrastination is an important part of the decision-making process because it heightens that sense of achievement when one does actually make that decision. One gets to think 'I almost didn't make that decision because I indulged in a spot of procrastination, but I battled against it and I WON!'
However, if during your break you catch yourself wondering whether to have coffee instead of tea then I am afraid you have succumbed to subliminal procrastination and there is no hope for you. Return to point 1) and start again. Or regress to childhood and get your Mum to make all your decisions for you.
8) Refreshed by your biscuits and pot of tea, return to the decision in hand. Now, close your eyes and concentrate hard. Of course, this now means you won't be able to read the last two steps in the Much Malarkey Manor Guide to Making a Decision. I once got stuck in the 'Greet the Sun' position from a Teach Yourself Tai Chi book for this very reason. Luckily, no-one was in the house to see me make a complete twit of myself. So you might want to open your eyes just a peek.
9) Take two sheets of paper. On the first write 'YES, I SHALL...' (and then insert the nature of your decision) and on the second, write 'NO, I SHALL NOT...' (again, inserting the nature of your decision). Fold the two pieces of paper in half, put them behind your back and shuffle. Now concentrate really, really hard on the decision to be made. (NB Remember to use the word 'shall' and not 'will', which is gramatically incorrect, or 'must' which is a musterbation and that way lies many a counselling session).
10) Place both pieces of paper in front of you. Shuffle them again. Pick one. Open it.
DECISION MADE!
Monday, 3 August 2009
B is for Butterflies and Bees...and Bunnies!!
When I started work on my bee garden (which also attracts butterflies) I didn't think it would attract other creatures also beginning with 'b'.
But we have a new house guest in the Much Malarkey Manor bee garden - a bunny!
A few days ago, we had the feeling we were being watched. You know, when you can feel eyes boring into you, but you can't quite tell why or where from. (My previous experience of this has been waking at 3 o'clock in the morning with one of the cats sitting on my chest, staring at me from a distance of two inches. This can make you jump and your heart pound for upwards of half an hour after it happens.)
We'd go out the front door and feel that SOMETHING WAS THERE, LURKING IN THE HEDGE. Or we'd open the curtains in the morning, only to catch a glimpse of SOMETHING DISAPPEARING INTO THE HEDGE.
And then, when Heather came home last Thursday, she said upon her arrival, 'Did you know there is a rabbit in the front garden.
Of course, when I looked, it had gone. Thoughts of Jimmy Stewart and Harvey flitted through my mind. I thought, poor Heather, all that intense university education for the last three years has clearly affected her brain.
But then I saw it too! It was sitting in the middle of the lawn and then it turned and ran into the hedge.
The hedge stands on the border between us and our semi-detached neighbour. At first we thought it was the neighbour's hedge as he was always out the front trimming it back with his large and loud electric hedge trimmer. Of course, he could never quite reach over the top far enough so there would be an edge on our side that remained tatty looking after the careful topiary ministrations on his side. So I would sigh and troll outside with our wholly inadequate-because-they-are-rusty-and-blunt garden shears and hack away at the remaining tufty bits until all was level again. And because I am not as tall as the man next door, and couldn't be bothered to shuffle my way along the hedge with my rusty shears atop a step ladder, the hedge, over the years has taken on a slightly slanted appearance.
Then I realised the hedge was actually OUR hedge. It was on our side of the border.
This put a whole new slant on the whole hedge trimming malarkey i.e whilst the neighbour continues to trim the side that abuts his property, I have let our side grow wild and free! His side is about 4 and a half foot tall; our side is almost 7 foot in places. I am happy to let him keep hedge cutting his side of our hedge. I am relieved I can let our side of our hedge grow rampant. I sing tra-la-la-la-la-la-la in my head when my mum comments on 'the state of the hedge, I'll bring my shears along and give it a trim for you, shall I?'
And I think this rampantness and wild verdure is what has attracted the bunny.
For the last two days, the bunny has been getting bold. It has been sitting in the middle of the bee garden eating grass and dandelions. This is good because it saves Andy having to struggle across the grass with our wholly inadequate -because-it-was-never-any-good-and-the-blades-keep-disappearing strimmer.
And sometimes the bunny just sunbathes. Like it was this morning.
I don't know why the bunny has suddenly arrived. I don't know how long it will stay. But bunny watching in the evening, with our own Much Malarkey Bunny, is very entertaining. (I just hope the next step of 'b'animals in the bee garden won't be a bear! Or a bison...)
But we have a new house guest in the Much Malarkey Manor bee garden - a bunny!
A few days ago, we had the feeling we were being watched. You know, when you can feel eyes boring into you, but you can't quite tell why or where from. (My previous experience of this has been waking at 3 o'clock in the morning with one of the cats sitting on my chest, staring at me from a distance of two inches. This can make you jump and your heart pound for upwards of half an hour after it happens.)
We'd go out the front door and feel that SOMETHING WAS THERE, LURKING IN THE HEDGE. Or we'd open the curtains in the morning, only to catch a glimpse of SOMETHING DISAPPEARING INTO THE HEDGE.
And then, when Heather came home last Thursday, she said upon her arrival, 'Did you know there is a rabbit in the front garden.
Of course, when I looked, it had gone. Thoughts of Jimmy Stewart and Harvey flitted through my mind. I thought, poor Heather, all that intense university education for the last three years has clearly affected her brain.
But then I saw it too! It was sitting in the middle of the lawn and then it turned and ran into the hedge.
The hedge stands on the border between us and our semi-detached neighbour. At first we thought it was the neighbour's hedge as he was always out the front trimming it back with his large and loud electric hedge trimmer. Of course, he could never quite reach over the top far enough so there would be an edge on our side that remained tatty looking after the careful topiary ministrations on his side. So I would sigh and troll outside with our wholly inadequate-because-they-are-rusty-and-blunt garden shears and hack away at the remaining tufty bits until all was level again. And because I am not as tall as the man next door, and couldn't be bothered to shuffle my way along the hedge with my rusty shears atop a step ladder, the hedge, over the years has taken on a slightly slanted appearance.
Then I realised the hedge was actually OUR hedge. It was on our side of the border.
This put a whole new slant on the whole hedge trimming malarkey i.e whilst the neighbour continues to trim the side that abuts his property, I have let our side grow wild and free! His side is about 4 and a half foot tall; our side is almost 7 foot in places. I am happy to let him keep hedge cutting his side of our hedge. I am relieved I can let our side of our hedge grow rampant. I sing tra-la-la-la-la-la-la in my head when my mum comments on 'the state of the hedge, I'll bring my shears along and give it a trim for you, shall I?'
And I think this rampantness and wild verdure is what has attracted the bunny.
For the last two days, the bunny has been getting bold. It has been sitting in the middle of the bee garden eating grass and dandelions. This is good because it saves Andy having to struggle across the grass with our wholly inadequate -because-it-was-never-any-good-and-the-blades-keep-disappearing strimmer.
And sometimes the bunny just sunbathes. Like it was this morning.
I don't know why the bunny has suddenly arrived. I don't know how long it will stay. But bunny watching in the evening, with our own Much Malarkey Bunny, is very entertaining. (I just hope the next step of 'b'animals in the bee garden won't be a bear! Or a bison...)
Sunday, 2 August 2009
A Spot of Culture and a Ginormous Bee
We went to London today, for a spot of culture. Andy is worried that I am starting to feel the effects of being house bound on a regular basis so decided a couple of weeks ago that a dose of Scary Capital City would liven me up to the big wide world once more.
'We'll go to the Tate,' he said. 'They've got a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition there. You like the Pre-Raphaelites, don't you?'
I agreed. I am very keen on this group of painters and their work. I studied them as part of my degree. They produced what I call 'proper art.' They were Bohemian and raffish. They were my kind of guys.
I was glad Andy suggested the Tate and not the Tate Modern. The last time we went to the Tate Modern I had recurrent urges as we wandered around to either a) kick the exhibits and /or b) re-arrange the exhibits so they looked like 'proper art,' and not, for example, a pile of bricks covered in elephant dung or a bag of oranges in a cement mixer.
It's a half-an-hour walk along the Embankment from Charing Cross to the Tate. Going through Trafalgar Square we thought we'd have a quick look to see who was doing their hour on the fourth plinth as part of Anthony Gormley's new living art installment. It was a bloke. He was just sitting there, crossed legged. He was doing nothing.
Well, he might have been meditating or communing with the universe on a private level, but as public entertainment goes he was pants. Boring, M & S Y-fronts in white pants.
'If I did a spot on the fourth plinth,' I declared, 'I would do a full performance reading of 'Nearly King Jimbo.'
'I bet you would,' said Andy.
'It would be good publicity,' I said. 'Voices, costumes, I'd even get a tricycle up there so I could impersonate Mr Jobble.'
'And I could stand in the crowd selling copies of the book,' said Andy.
'I wouldn't sit up there crossed-legged doing nothing, that's for sure,' I said.
'Complete waste of time,' agreed Andy.
So off we went to the Tate. We walked past the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Downing Street. We saw the Changing of the Guard at Horse Guards Parade. We saw the War Memorial at the Cenotaph. There is an awful lot of British History in that short walk. We had a tricky moment outside Parliament when a hoard of French school children barged en masse along the pavement, scattering pedestrians in their wake.
'I'm not moving over!' shouted Andy.
'Neither am I!' I shouted too, and together we marched side-by-side, holding our patch on the pavement, winning our Waterloo.
The Tate was very good. We spent a very pleasant three hours perusing proper art, and not so proper art. We commented with authority on the not so proper art (because, quite frankly, some of it was pants). The Pre-Raphaelites were excellent. So was Hogarth. Turner was okay, but got a bit iffy as he grew older. We decided that perhaps his eye-sight was maybe starting to deteriorate towards the end of his career, a bit like Monet. I am not going to comment on Gilbert and George, save that I think they were having a laugh at the expense of a group of highly gullible art critics.
We had lunch in the cafe, we perused the gift shop. In the gift shop we saw A FAMOUS PERSON. If you watch 'The I.T Crowd' then you will know who the character of Moss is. If you don't watch 'The I.T Crowd, ' then you won't. But it was he.
'Look!' I hissed excitedly at Andy, cornering him by the art books. 'It's Moss from The I.T Crowd.'
'Oh yes,' said Andy. And he spent the next ten minutes stalking Moss, like he once stalked someone who looked like Terry Wogan at a wedding we went to a few years back.
On our way back to Charing Cross, we popped across Trafalgar Square to have another look at the fourth column and see if the latest person was making a bit more of an effort than the chap we saw in the morning.
And she was! A lady, dressed as a giant bee was talking all about bees. A sign declared she was a member of MENSA. We were much cheered by this sight. This was proper installation art.
So 'Hurrah' for the Giant Bee Lady!
And 'Hurrah' for Art!
And 'Hurrah' for getting out for the day and being newly inspired by a spot of culture!'
'We'll go to the Tate,' he said. 'They've got a Pre-Raphaelite exhibition there. You like the Pre-Raphaelites, don't you?'
I agreed. I am very keen on this group of painters and their work. I studied them as part of my degree. They produced what I call 'proper art.' They were Bohemian and raffish. They were my kind of guys.
I was glad Andy suggested the Tate and not the Tate Modern. The last time we went to the Tate Modern I had recurrent urges as we wandered around to either a) kick the exhibits and /or b) re-arrange the exhibits so they looked like 'proper art,' and not, for example, a pile of bricks covered in elephant dung or a bag of oranges in a cement mixer.
It's a half-an-hour walk along the Embankment from Charing Cross to the Tate. Going through Trafalgar Square we thought we'd have a quick look to see who was doing their hour on the fourth plinth as part of Anthony Gormley's new living art installment. It was a bloke. He was just sitting there, crossed legged. He was doing nothing.
Well, he might have been meditating or communing with the universe on a private level, but as public entertainment goes he was pants. Boring, M & S Y-fronts in white pants.
'If I did a spot on the fourth plinth,' I declared, 'I would do a full performance reading of 'Nearly King Jimbo.'
'I bet you would,' said Andy.
'It would be good publicity,' I said. 'Voices, costumes, I'd even get a tricycle up there so I could impersonate Mr Jobble.'
'And I could stand in the crowd selling copies of the book,' said Andy.
'I wouldn't sit up there crossed-legged doing nothing, that's for sure,' I said.
'Complete waste of time,' agreed Andy.
So off we went to the Tate. We walked past the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, Downing Street. We saw the Changing of the Guard at Horse Guards Parade. We saw the War Memorial at the Cenotaph. There is an awful lot of British History in that short walk. We had a tricky moment outside Parliament when a hoard of French school children barged en masse along the pavement, scattering pedestrians in their wake.
'I'm not moving over!' shouted Andy.
'Neither am I!' I shouted too, and together we marched side-by-side, holding our patch on the pavement, winning our Waterloo.
The Tate was very good. We spent a very pleasant three hours perusing proper art, and not so proper art. We commented with authority on the not so proper art (because, quite frankly, some of it was pants). The Pre-Raphaelites were excellent. So was Hogarth. Turner was okay, but got a bit iffy as he grew older. We decided that perhaps his eye-sight was maybe starting to deteriorate towards the end of his career, a bit like Monet. I am not going to comment on Gilbert and George, save that I think they were having a laugh at the expense of a group of highly gullible art critics.
We had lunch in the cafe, we perused the gift shop. In the gift shop we saw A FAMOUS PERSON. If you watch 'The I.T Crowd' then you will know who the character of Moss is. If you don't watch 'The I.T Crowd, ' then you won't. But it was he.
'Look!' I hissed excitedly at Andy, cornering him by the art books. 'It's Moss from The I.T Crowd.'
'Oh yes,' said Andy. And he spent the next ten minutes stalking Moss, like he once stalked someone who looked like Terry Wogan at a wedding we went to a few years back.
On our way back to Charing Cross, we popped across Trafalgar Square to have another look at the fourth column and see if the latest person was making a bit more of an effort than the chap we saw in the morning.
And she was! A lady, dressed as a giant bee was talking all about bees. A sign declared she was a member of MENSA. We were much cheered by this sight. This was proper installation art.
So 'Hurrah' for the Giant Bee Lady!
And 'Hurrah' for Art!
And 'Hurrah' for getting out for the day and being newly inspired by a spot of culture!'
Saturday, 1 August 2009
The Trickiness of Rice and My Life of Nuts
'Is Mrs Poo still alive?' I asked Andy as he brought me a cup of tea in bed this morning.
Saturdays are our only 'cup of tea in bed' days, as Monday to Friday we are up early and getting ready for work, and Sunday is our up early and down the allotment day. Thoughtfully, he had brought me peppermint tea, following the Mexican extravaganza we had for dinner last night. I don't do spicy food very well. I think I have a delicate constitution hidden beneath my stern exterior.
'Of course she's still alive,' Andy laughed. 'She's had a peck at some food and knocked over her water bowl.'
This is a good sign. When a chicken starts knocking over their water bowl, you know they're starting to get a bit of their previous feistiness back.
We spent a companionable hour putting the world to rights about various issues (including the meanings of two bizarre dreams about 'Mamma Mia' and 'Turner and Hooch' and a gorilla hitting Andy with a breadstick) before getting up for breakfast eggs and reading newspapers. Andy administered medication to Poo, and then I thought, I know, I'll give her some left-over rice from last night.
The chickens like cooked rice. Mrs Poo ate some rice. Well, she decanted it bit by bit from the bowl and spread it around the floor of the cage. She banged it about with her beak. I think she ate some. If she didn't, at least she got a bit of occupational therapy from it.
I always do too much rice. Last night's Mexican meal was a family do, with myself and Andy, Heather, Chris and Leane and grandchild-on-the-bake making her presence felt via the power of morning sickness. I did chilli con carne, chicken Fajitas, tacos, tortilla chips and dips. I did rice to go with the chilli. The rice packet said 'Allow 50g dry rice for each person.'
So 5 x 50= 250g rice. I weighed it out. I thought, as I always do, that doesn't look nearly enough rice, so I bunged in a bit extra. And then I didn't eat any rice, neither did Chris, so we ended up with a great bowl left over.
But as I said, the chickens like it so that's their dinner sorted for today.
When I was shopping for the meat for this meal, I started having the same 'Yuk, meat,' feelings that I developed when I was expecting Heather. Perhaps I'm having pseudo-morning sickness out of sympathy for Leane, I don't know. But as I looked at the beef and the chicken lined up in the butchers, I thought, I can feel a vegetarian urge coming on again.
We eat around three vegetarian meals a week already. I only started eating meat again because my GP wrote me a prescription for iron tablets a while back because he thought it possible I might be borderline anaemic. I thought his diagnosis sounded a bit vague, but then I didn't want to take iron tablets because of their constipatory effect. I looked up daily iron requirements and decided a pork chop and a dollop of spag bol a week would rectify my possible borderline anaemic effect.
But now? Well, I'm being drawn to the Complete Vegetarian Cookbook again.
It's funny how tastes change, isn't it? Sometimes you like something, and then you don't?
And that my only food constant in life has been nuts.
Saturdays are our only 'cup of tea in bed' days, as Monday to Friday we are up early and getting ready for work, and Sunday is our up early and down the allotment day. Thoughtfully, he had brought me peppermint tea, following the Mexican extravaganza we had for dinner last night. I don't do spicy food very well. I think I have a delicate constitution hidden beneath my stern exterior.
'Of course she's still alive,' Andy laughed. 'She's had a peck at some food and knocked over her water bowl.'
This is a good sign. When a chicken starts knocking over their water bowl, you know they're starting to get a bit of their previous feistiness back.
We spent a companionable hour putting the world to rights about various issues (including the meanings of two bizarre dreams about 'Mamma Mia' and 'Turner and Hooch' and a gorilla hitting Andy with a breadstick) before getting up for breakfast eggs and reading newspapers. Andy administered medication to Poo, and then I thought, I know, I'll give her some left-over rice from last night.
The chickens like cooked rice. Mrs Poo ate some rice. Well, she decanted it bit by bit from the bowl and spread it around the floor of the cage. She banged it about with her beak. I think she ate some. If she didn't, at least she got a bit of occupational therapy from it.
I always do too much rice. Last night's Mexican meal was a family do, with myself and Andy, Heather, Chris and Leane and grandchild-on-the-bake making her presence felt via the power of morning sickness. I did chilli con carne, chicken Fajitas, tacos, tortilla chips and dips. I did rice to go with the chilli. The rice packet said 'Allow 50g dry rice for each person.'
So 5 x 50= 250g rice. I weighed it out. I thought, as I always do, that doesn't look nearly enough rice, so I bunged in a bit extra. And then I didn't eat any rice, neither did Chris, so we ended up with a great bowl left over.
But as I said, the chickens like it so that's their dinner sorted for today.
When I was shopping for the meat for this meal, I started having the same 'Yuk, meat,' feelings that I developed when I was expecting Heather. Perhaps I'm having pseudo-morning sickness out of sympathy for Leane, I don't know. But as I looked at the beef and the chicken lined up in the butchers, I thought, I can feel a vegetarian urge coming on again.
We eat around three vegetarian meals a week already. I only started eating meat again because my GP wrote me a prescription for iron tablets a while back because he thought it possible I might be borderline anaemic. I thought his diagnosis sounded a bit vague, but then I didn't want to take iron tablets because of their constipatory effect. I looked up daily iron requirements and decided a pork chop and a dollop of spag bol a week would rectify my possible borderline anaemic effect.
But now? Well, I'm being drawn to the Complete Vegetarian Cookbook again.
It's funny how tastes change, isn't it? Sometimes you like something, and then you don't?
And that my only food constant in life has been nuts.
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