The 1950's Housewife

The sun is up, the air is springy and I've spent all morning getting rid of 'stuff ', either as rubbish, or as charity shop donations or for the elusive boot fayre I always promise myself I'll do if I can get over people launching themselves at me and saying 'Ow much, love?' in an aggressive manner. I've also checked the seed potatoes that are chitting in Heather's bedroom and I think maybe we've got too many. Again. I always go a bit wild in my seed potato guestimations. Can you have too many potatoes? Probably not.

I blame my early spring-cleaning frenzy on yesterday when Andy, distraught at having to return to work today and in the absence of having won the lottery/ discovered a wealthy benefactor/ been bequeathed a large sum of money by a rich relative we didn't know we had, decided to watch back-to-back episodes of the first series of 'River Cottage' starring our hero, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. It's a bit like me watching back-to-back episodes of 'The Darling Buds of May' and pretending I'm Ma Larkin.

'That's all we need,' said Andy, waving a hand at the TV screen which was showing pictures of Hugh's River Cottage set in rural Dorset next to a river with pigs, chickens and veg in the lush surroundings. 'I know,' I said, because I agree. 'But how are we going to get it?' said Andy. 'I don't know,' I admit, because I don't. I tend to send up requests to the Greater Universe about these things but Andy, being an atheist, doesn't hold with this approach and just wants some-one to recognise our potential as admirable small-holders and give us a big fat wodge of cash because they like us.

Andy disappears upstairs and launches an internet research frenzy, looking at property websites and shouting things like 'We could get a place in the Outer Hebrides quite cheap,' and 'How do you feel about living abroad?' (He knows full well my responses to both these suggestions but I admire his persistence in these matters. I suspect he is trying to catch me out, a bit like when he thought getting me a ballooning experience for my birthday would be a positive way forward to getting me into an airplane. Ha! You'll be lucky, dearest!)

I go out into the kitchen to stare at my lovely batch of marmalade and feel like a good and dutiful wife. I think 'We've got a load of 'stuff '. We don't need this 'stuff.' Tomorrow I am going to have a good clear out of 'stuff.'

And that's just what I've done. I've also given the hen house a good clean and mentioned to the girls that they might like to have a clear out of their 'stuff ', too.

'Why?' asks Miggo, suspiciously.
'Well, in case we find THE place to move to in the country,' I say. 'And we have to sell up and move quickly.'
'We're not going to the Outer Hebrides are we?' asks Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only I don't think I can cope with the snow and rain and a bitter north wind blowing around my harris.' (Mrs Pumphrey's harris, you may remember, is a little pink and bald at the mo due to Mrs Slocombe and her naughty feather stealing habit.)
'No,' I say. 'We are not going anywhere north of Liverpool if I can help it.'
'Or abroad,' says Mrs Poo. 'Unless it's Russia. I wouldn't mind moving to Russia. Is Stalin still in charge?'
'No he isn't,' I say. 'On account of his being dead. And it's as cold in Russia as it is in Scotland.'
'I can't go abroad, ' says Miggins. 'My passport has lapsed.'

I reassure the hens that my urge to get rid of 'stuff ' is merely a precautionary measure. Besides, I've got half a hundred weight of seed potatoes to get in the ground in the next month.