Still suffering...

I'm not sure if green mucus is natural, but I have plenty of it. Should there be a sudden slump in the green mucus market, I would make a killing. Might be the only way we can afford our small-holding. We could call it 'Dun Blowin'. And I apologise if you happen to be in the middle of, say, a pot of lunchtime guacamole whilst you are reading this, but the mucus thing had to be said.

I am languishing at home. Day 2 off sick. I don't want to play this game any more. I was brought up in a family where illness wasn't the done thing. As long as you were conscious, you went to work. But all I can do at the moment, with the loss of voice, the constant coughing, the sharp stabbing pain in my right ear and the mission to fill a reservoir with green mucus (sorry!), I have no choice. Being in school and trying to teach when you are ill (especially when you don't have a voice and throwing board rubbers at pupils is no longer 'the done thing'), is a no-no.

So I dutifully sent in cover for my lessons, via e-mail, and here I sit, on the sofa, assessing the lump in my neck for upness or downness. I'm not in my jim-jams. That's another family thing. No matter how ill you are, you can still get washed and dressed. It's all about standards, you see. Standards. None of this disappearing to Tezzco for a fruit 'n' veg top up in your nightie. So I steamed my head in the shower, which offered about ten minutes relief, and got dressed properly.

On the upside, I get to do a bit of writing. I have done a bit of school prep, I hasten to add. I've just rewritten an idiot's version of Act 3 scene 1 of Romeo and Juliet for my 'special' year 10s. I tried to get them to engage with the original text, honest Mr Shakespeare I did, but they weren't having it.
'It's rubbish,' they said. (They didn't actually say 'rubbish'. Nor crap. What they actually said was sh...)
'We don't git it,' they said. 'It's toooooooo much bovver to read it. It's, like, six whole pages...why do we have to do this anyway?'
'Do you want a GCSE in English?' said I.
'Er, yeah,' said they.
'Then you need to do a piece of Shakespeare coursework,' I said. 'I mean, it's not like I can phone the exam board and say, 'Can you just give Courtney/ Josh/ Cherise/ Daniel/Jordanne/ Kristell
whatever grade they want for their English as long as it's at least a 'C', is it? Haha!'

I swear to the God of the Easy Way Out that they looked at me like this was a genuine option.

And I just hope Mr Shakespeare was otherwise occupied with his codpiece when I wrote 'MERCUTIO: Bring it on, you scumbag,' in my dumbed down script.

Right, latest news? Ah! Two things. No, three actually. I'm not sure if I should string out the news over the weekend to make 3 blogs, or hit you with them all now...

...but in the spirit of optimism that something IMPORTANT and even more EXCITING could happen over the weekend, I'll reveal all 3 things now.

Firstly, I have bought a camcorder. It is a dinky wee burgundy delight. Even if I don't use it that much, just looking at it will give me constant delight. But I shall use it a lot because it wasn't a cheap piece of tat and Andy will be cross if I don't get to grips with it. So brace yourselves for more moving picture options at Much Malarkey Manor. Especially of chickens. And cats. And grand-daughters.

Secondly, Andy and I are going on a bee-keeping course at the end of March. Originally, it was to be only moi, because there were only six places on the course and Andy booked me the last one. And then the man who is running it telephoned to have a pre-course chat about what to wear, what to bring, what to expect etc and he told Andy to come along too! He also said he was more than happy to give us advice about situating a hive here at the Manor. It was all I could do no to order all the equipment immediately! Bees by the end of spring? More than likely!

And finally, Mrs Pumphrey came racing up the garden this morning.
'Something's after me!!!!!' she screamed.
'What????' I said, for I could see nothing.
'Behind me!! Look! Look!!' she continued, racing around in a most undignified way.

Still I could see nothing. And then I twigged.

'It's your new tail feathers, 'I said. 'You've amassed a full set of bottom fluff, and now you are growing a new set of tail feathers. They look lovely. Like a Native American headdress.'

Mrs Pumphrey skidded to a halt.
'Is that all?' she said.
'That's all,' I said. Personally, I am thrilled she is no longer a bare bum hen.

But it must be odd, that feeling of full featherage when you've spent most a last year wandering around with what amounts to having your skirt tucked into your pants leaving your nethers waving pinkly in the wind.