Dear Jack...

...it has, as you have noticed, been 'all quiet' here at the Manor for over a week now. (Welcome, by the way - always good to have a Follower brave enough to declare themselves publically!!). Panic not - I am neither dead nor hospitalised, nor lost all my typing fingers in a freak accident involving a garlic press and a rogue patch of extra-virgin olive oil on the kitchen floor...

BUT...

...although it may have seemed 'quiet' on the face of things, beneath the corsets it has been a seething mass of noise and emotion and stomping and howling at the moon in a most unladylike fashion. I fear even the restrained Mr Darcy would have slapped me if he'd been able to catch me.

I've been writing, you see. Caught up in a creative maelstrom, fraught with indecision, plunged into a chasm of artistic depression that would make any of Sylvia Plath's efforts seem like a Monty Python sketch.

Plus the ugly spectre of 'Let's Move House' has cocked its leg again with all the subtlety of a Great Dane on a heavy dose of diuretics.

I am, as always, going to blame my dwindling hormones. And my middle-age. And Life being Bumpy rather than Smooth. Like peanut butter.

It's been half-term. Andy has been on holiday, too, and even he admitted to feeling stir-crazy enough to want to go for a walk this afternoon, although his foray was short because of a wardrobe malfunction with his flies. We're both back to work tomorrow, and I think it goes to show that even though it's nice having time at home, being at work is key to maintaining one's sanity.

I say, 'back to work' when what I really mean is 'paid work.' We've both been busily engaged in 'unpaid work' involving planting fruit trees (gooseberries and grapevines - sounds like a bedroom farce, oo-eer missus) in the Somme, I mean, the back garden (this is what happens when you get a week of rain mixed with digging chickens), and more 'turfing out of tat' (in preparation for moving house??? Ye Gods!). And Andy has been sketching and drawing and I have been writing.

I am writing like a loon because I've found a competition for first time novelists into which I am determined 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' will be entered. And 'Merrily, Kissed by an Angel' if I can manage both of them without going completely mad. To that end I've done a massive re-edit on these two babies of mine, and then I got side-tracked by a new baby called 'Freedom and Revenge' which is probably more autobiographical than it really should be (age and hormones again), but as fellow writers will know, once the words are there, they won't let you alone until you've spat them out, and constant writing births more writing, even though it may be something completely new and unconnected. Annoying? Yes. Distracting? Yes. The Best Fun in the World? You betcha!!

We have managed to get out and about this week. On Monday we went to Kew Gardens. It was freezing cold and we got rained on, but the Orchid Exhibition was magnificent and I wandered around taking arty photos like I was a proper arty photographer type. On Wednesday we had a friend to dinner - we created a Thai extravaganza topped off with that traditional Thai pudding of apple crumble. On Friday we picked up my consignment of 48 copies of 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time,' which I have been charged with distributing to the masses on World Book Night next week. And yesterday we went to Canterbury which was freezing cold and we got rained on, but I bought a lovely pure-wool-made-in-Britain blanket from the National Trust Shop. I am currently engaged in a fight for possession of the aforesaid blanket with the cats. I have size on my side, they have teeth and claws.

As for the Spectre of Moving House - well, this time we're thinking of Shropshire. Don't ask me why because I don't know. It's one of those irritating 'feelings' one gets that makes one spend hours on property websites going 'Ooooh, look at this one. This one has potential.'

Shall we, shan't we? Will we, won't we?

It's all adding to the general hysteria that is messing up my brain at the moment.

Faffing? Make a list...

I am a great one for making lists. Even if I feel I haven't achieved much at the end of a day, as long as I've made a list, then at least I've done that.

I made a list this morning. I am glad I did, as I hadn't realised how much stuff I actually needed to write down to remember to do. Things, it appears, have been creeping up on me. I think it's because we are waiting for news about a potential offer on our house. The potential offerees (I don't know if that's a real word, but I'm going to use it any way)have been faffing. That's the only word I can use to describe the tenterhooks they've left us in for the last week. I mean, call me old-fashioned but I think if you like a house enough, you'll put in an offer straight away. You don't faff. If you faff, then surely that means you don't really want the house that much and perhaps shouldn't be buying it. Like it, buy it, that's my mantra. No faffing.

So we are in mid-faff with these people. I think even our estate agent is growing slightly annoyed with their faffing. They keep phoning her to tell her they are definitely thinking about possibly putting in an offer (what???), and then they get her to phone us with what I regard to be daft questions, which, I hasten to add, are questions I've already answered in their viewings. And now I'm going to stop going on about the situation because I'm starting to type in an aggressive manner and my new baby laptop doesn't like it one bit.

Back to the list. Today's list has 10 items on it; I have so far achieved 5. And when I was topping up my diary from the calendar for the next couple of months, I noticed it's only 7 weeks until Christmas. I was hoping we might be moved house by Christmas, but what with all the faffing (did I mention the faffing?) it looks like we shall still be here in this house. Christmas requires the making of a different set of lists. So there's number 11 added to today's list.

And then there's all the preparation for starting work again in January. I'm spending some time in the school during December in order to orientate myself and meet the classes I'll be taking over. I am already envisioning bringing home piles of paperwork, schemes of work etc etc so I can hit the ground running at the start of the New Year.

I wonder if our potential offerees are list makers? Perhaps that's what holding them up. Perhaps they are working their way through a question list, a financial list, a pros and cons list. They've definitely got a faffing list.

I asked Mrs Miggins whether chickens make lists to keep their lives in order. She said, 'Lists schmists....pah!'

So I guess the answer to that one is 'no.'

A Crazy Three Days

Does order really come from chaos? Who said that anyway? I am prepared to be convinced of this statement, and if anything will convince me of its truth, it'll be the outcome of the last three days.

So, last Sunday you'll remember I applied, as if in a strange dream, for a job. And on Tuesday I was called for an interview, which I attended on Friday.

And, as you also may have become aware, Chris and Leane and Baby Bug Grand-daughter have been camping out on my writing room floor, having been made homeless from their previous digs and nowhere to go but back to good old Mum's. (It was a bit like the Nativity, only no donkey involved. But if the Wise Men come knocking with gifts, esp. of Gold as we only managed 2 numbers on the Lottery on Saturday (which was 2 more than usual), they are more than welcome.)

So I returned home from my interview on Friday - it went well and my top lip only stuck to my teeth on a couple of occasions - to news from Heather (who is also living at home having returned from uni), that the local housing association had called Leane to say they had a flat for her and Chris to view and could they come and view it, like, NOW!?

Leane had called Chris, who was at work, and he left work and picked up Leane and they had gone to look at this flat. I, meanwhile, was flaking from the interview and on tenterhooks waiting for the phone call to find out if the job was mine. And I'd also detoured through town on my way home from the interview and purchased my future grand-daughter a little outfit combo in pink, with a cute mouse on it. So my feet were aching having walked 45 minutes to the interview, plus 45 minutes home, plus an hour of aimless wandering in-between.

And then Chris and Leane arrived home, very happy, with the keys to their new flat. The phone went. It was my mum, phoning to ask after my interview. I said it went well, but I hadn't heard anything about getting the job yet. But I told her about Chris and Leane's new flat, and also that the Baby Bug Grandchild was going to be a girl. And Mum said she had a dinner service going begging, if the new flat owners wanted it.

This is good, I thought, as the new flat is as bare a new born baby's bum.

So Chris and Leane set about making a list of stuff they needed to furnish the flat i.e everything, and then the phone went again and it was my friend Jane asking after my interview. I told her the same as I'd told my Mum.

In the next hour, the list grew longer and three more people phoned to ask after the interview.

And at just gone 5 p.m, as I was about fit to burst, the headteacher who'd interviewed me called to say the job was mine, and we discussed pay points and salaries etc, which made me feel very much better as I was thinking, we could do with some extra money right now, what with new flats and grandchildren and stuff.

So I phoned the various people who had phoned me and told them I'd got the job and they all went 'HURRAH!' And then people started phoning with offers of various bits of furniture and household accoutrements. And I phoned Chris's father and asked what he intended on contributing to the setting up of the new flat, as it was looking like Andy and I were facing the bill for carpeting the place and buying a colander.

Over the weekend, Andy and I sorted out stuff we'd got double of, and managed to supply the new flatees with a hoover, a kettle, a toaster, a knife set, a chopping board, various tins and bowls, a rug, a stereo, curtain poles, a lamp etc etc etc, blah, blah, blah, and the loft and cupboards are looking a lot less full now, so less stuff for us to take with us if we ever manage to SELL THIS BLOOMIN' HOUSE!!!!! So 'HURRAH!!!' for that.

And we did a swoop on Wilkos for kitchen equipment, bathroom equipment, cat equipment (because luckily they are able to take their two cats with them, so that's a potential re-homing worry out of the way.) Then, because everyone was standing around like lemons and once I decide to take charge of a situation I am like a woman possessed, we went to the flat, measured the rooms, the windows and the gaps for things like washing machine, fridge and cooker. And I dispatched Chris and his dad to look for a sofa, washing machine and cooker, whilst I dispatched Leane, Andy and myself to get the carpets sorted out.

'No-one is allowed to return empty handed,' I said, sternly. And everyone looked scared and scurried off.

Carpets were organised - measured up, fitting slot booked, paid for - and will be all done by tomorrow. A second hand sofa has been located and purchased, the sights have been set on a reconditioned cooker and washing machine. More donations have flooded in from family and friends - a fridge, a microwave, a sideboard, cutlery, glassware, shelving, curtains.

And hopefully, by the end of the week, I should have my writing room back!

This blog was brought to you by 'Crazy Mum's Crazy House - for all your Order from Chaos Needs.' Tune in tomorrow for the next thrilling episode - 'Dealing With the Utility Companies and Other C**p.'

Hentique Sale

Our house is situated on a main road between two schools. During term time it can be a bit of a job getting out onto that road of a morning, what with all the mummies and daddies dropping their offspring at one or other of these two schools. They make a constant stream of traffic, these mummies and daddies, but it is generally so slow moving that some-one will let you into the queue if you smile like a loon, and if smiling like a loon fails to charm, then taking a right turn out of the drive will lead you round the back of the houses and onto a convenient roundabout so you can join the morning rush that way. There's always a way to participate in the human race, you see.

Anyway, during the school holidays, the traffic is very much reduced. This morning, however, it seemed extraordinarily heavy. I woke late - I've been feeling very tired this last week and slept in, which is unheard of for a dawn chorus body like me - and my first thought was 'Have I slept for a whole week and the schools are now back?'

On closer inspection I noticed the majority of the traffic was turning into our road. And on even closer inspection, once I'd donned my specs and the world seemed a less fuzzy place, I noticed the front garden and drive was full of tat, rows of chairs, an auction podium and people waving little cards with numbers on. Something was occurring.

I opened the window.
'What is going on down there?' I yelled.

Mrs Miggins looked up. She was wearing a long brown overall; a monocle glinted from her eye in the early morning sun.
'We're having an antique sale,' she said. 'Do you mind the neighbours seeing you in your floral jim-jams?'
'A what?' I said.
'Antique sale,' said Mrs Miggins. 'Lot 7...a genuine cut glass crystal chandelier from the reign of Louis the Twelfthty- something.' And she held aloft a chandelier. The sun caught the crystals, which dazzled back into my eyes, blinding me temporarily. By the time I had dressed and got into the front garden, the hammer had gone down on the chandelier. Luckily, nothing was broken.

'Sold to the lady at the back with the blue rinse beard,' shouted Mrs Slocombe, who seemed to be in the role of auctioneer. She banged down the gavel and took down the woman's number.
'Is it wise to let her have a hammer?' I said to Mrs Pumphrey, who was reclining on a chaise longue with a LOT 18 sticker on it.
'Well, once she got hold of it we couldn't get her to let go,' said Mrs Pumphrey.
'Where did all this stuff come from?' I asked, casting my eye around the garden. Heavy oak furniture sat alongside paintings and ornaments. A suit of armour was leaning against the magnolia tree.
'We had a clear out,' said Pumphrey. 'Excuse me, I need to go and model that genuine Moorcroft vase.'
'You had a clear out? Of Cluckinghen Palace?' I said.
'Yes,' said Pumphrey. 'We thought that as we're moving it would be a good time for a tidy.'

I knew what she meant. Perhaps that's why I was feeling so tired. I must have climbed that loft ladder at least a thousand times last week.

'You seem to have an awful lot of stuff,' I said.
'Lot 9,' squawked Mrs Slocombe. 'A Clarence Clift tea-set complete with coffee percolator and sandwich toaster.'
'Does she know what she's doing?' I said, as Mrs Miggins held the tea-set, percolator and sandwich toaster in the air.
'I doubt it, but would you argue with a mad chicken in charge of a hammer?' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'And we have a lot of stuff because Cluckinghen Palace is steeped in hundreds of years of history. You can't spend all that time in one place without amassing a certain amount of tat, I mean, treasure.'
'Cluckinghen Palace is less than 6 months old,' I pointed out.
'Yes, in your world maybe,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'but in chicken world, where the average life span of a hen is 5 or 6 human years, then the sense of perspective lengthens, doesn't it?'
'Does it?' I said. I didn't want to get involved in anything too mathematical. I hadn't had breakfast yet and had already failed to do the most simple Sudoku in the morning paper.

'Guess how old I am,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Go on, I won't be offended.'
'You're one year and two months,' I said, because I knew this to be true.
'WRONG!' said Pumphrey. 'I am nearly 18.'
'Gosh,' I said. 'Nearly old enough to vote.'
'Vote?' said Pumphrey. 'No sane chicken would ever vote. There is a different sort of social justice in the chicken world.' And a strange glint came across her eye.

'Right,' I said.
'So by the time you've calculated a chicken's age in real chicken time, subtracted leap days times 4, multiplied by the average number of eggs laid over 15 weeks and then added 200 years for chicken luck, we've actually been living in Cluckinghen Palace for 457 years,' said Mrs Pumphrey triumphantly. And she balanced the Moorcroft vase on her head and juggled three Victorian Toby jugs.

I backed away at this point. And bumped into Mrs Miggins who was hefting a box of books across to the autioneer's podium.
'First Edition Pookie Puts the World Right and other assorted Pookie the Rabbit books,' she said. 'Highly collectable. Do you want to bid for them?'
Having recently divested our house of 300+ books, I declined her kind offer.
'By the way,' said Miggins as I made to go indoors for some extra strong tea with 5 sugars and a dose of amphetamines, 'where are we going to live in the new house? Are we taking Cluckinghen Palace with us?'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'I've already got Guy the Builder lined up to build your new accommodation.'
'Is it going to be bigger than what we've got now?' said Miggins, her eye ever on social advancement in the property stakes.
'Yes,' I said. 'But you may have to share it with more poultry.'
'Poultry?' said Miggins. 'Sounds disgusting. What's poultry?'
'Oh, more hens, some bantams. Ducks. A couple of geese,' I said. I thought, is now a good time to mention the beehive that is likely to be arriving for my birthday, or the piggies that will be joining us when we move.

Mrs Miggins gave a shiver. 'Geese, eh? They make an awful racket,' she said.
'But they taste good,' I said.
'I wouldn't know,' said Mrs Miggins, imperiously. 'I've never licked a goose.'
'Probably wise,' I said.

'Now if you'll excuse me,' said Miggins, 'we have a sale to manage.'
'What are you going to do with the proceeds?' I said.
'Never you mind,' said Miggins. 'We have plans.'

It's never a good thing when a chicken comes over all enigmatic. Trouble is bound to follow. But I have great affection and respect for my girls. We've been through a lot together. They have taught me many things. Well, more than I have taught them (although Mrs Slocombe's counted cross stitch is looking a lot better since I showed her how to adjust the back tension of her thread.)

And should I be worried about the brochure that arrived this morning, addressed to Mrs Miggins and entitled 'Build Your Own Traction Engine in 83 Easy Steps and Other Heavy Metal Projects.'

Probably.

Moving on up 'n' out

Lincolnshire is the current location of choice for us in the 'search for our cottage in the country with a massive garden' campaign. Location favourites change according to outside influences and what we see on TV programmes like 'A Place in the Country', 'Relocation x3 ditto' and 'Grand Designs.' We've toyed with Norfolk, because we've been popping up and down the past 3 years whilst Heather has been at university in Norwich and we feel a bit familiar with the place now; Suffolk, because I always get excited about seeing the pigs in fields; Wales because it always looks so green and well spread out; France, because Vera and Lester are there with masses of land and they are making a go of their new life and have survived a year; Dorset, because that is where Hugh F-W is and he is our hero; Cornwall/Somerset/Devon because I spent several happy hols there as a child and have seriously romanticised the area; Liverpool, because it is the only city aside from Norwich that I could tolerate living anywhere near and I think Andy has a secret yearning to go back there and Shropshire, can't remember why, probably a telly influence.

And now, Lincolnshire. It is Lincolnshire that is being entered into the search engine of RightMove and various smallholding website. We go in fits and starts with our searches. When life is ticking along happily, not much searching gets done. When life is being stressful and one's hubby is coming home from work every day asking if we can run away once we've had dinner and washed up, then much searching is done. Lincolnshire, we have discovered, has houses with very large pockets of land attached. Not acres and acres, but then we don't want acres and acres. We feel that any more than 2 acres would be too much for our raison d'etre, that we would be swapping one set of complications for another. No, an acre or two would be AMPLE for me and Andy, four chickens, three cats, a couple of pigs, a few more hens, some ducks and geese, a vegetable garden and a partridge in a pear tree.

And Lincolnshire has a wide variety of houses, both in style and history. You can pick up a pair of cottages for renovation for well under £100,000, with a big garden tacked on the side. We could, theoretically, be mortgage free if we went somewhere like Lincolnshire.

So, when we go to Stratford for a spot of Shakespeare next week, we think we shall take a detour on the way home via Lincolnshire. Heather is coming down to house/chicken/cat/kitten sit for us, so we won't have to rush home. A bit of exploration is called for, to get a feel for the place.

I have actually made a property purchase this week. Yesterday, a house arrived for the solitary bees that frequent our garden. Here it is.

A very modern detached property with fashionable galvanised zinc roof, copious bedrooms, all with a south facing aspect (or they will have once I've hung it on the back wall of the house), the ultimate in chic bee accommodation.

Perhaps we should be like solitary bees. They don't worry about where they are going to live. They have a purpose in life, a job to do, and they get on and do it knowing that a house is bound to turn up for them to sleep in somewhere on their travels. Bees have got life sussed.

So on with the search. On with the plans for jobs and work and what shall we do and how shall we do it and can we afford it and what if it all goes wrong, which it probably won't. And we'll talk ourselves into plans and out of them again and go round in circles, sometimes big, sometimes small. And at some point, the Powers That Be shall say 'We are stopping the world in a moment, just for a few seconds and you must be ready to jump off and move on...ready, steady.....

....GO!

Sit! And staaaaaay!

I popped into town this morning to post a letter to my Auntie in Scotland. In last Friday's Kent Messenger there was an old photo of the Maidstone Swimming Club from the 1950's and there, smiling away in the back row, was my Auntie in Scotland. And in the front row was my Mum. Not smiling, but I was struck by how much I look like her and how much she has changed in appearance over the years. But my Auntie in Scotland was instantly recognisable. She's having a tricky time at the moment so I thought an old photo of her in her swimming cossie, published in the local rag might cheer her up. No, honestly, she'll be entertained and it might distract her, albeit momentarily, from her current angst.

On the way home from posting the letter, I had to cross a double two-laned carriageway, guarded by many traffic signals that take either a very long, or very short time to change. Waiting to cross the first road were myself, a very tall man, a young woman with a buggy and a visually-impaired lady with a guide dog and someone whom I assumed was the guide dog trainer, supervising this lady's first trip out with her new dog.

'Sit!' said the lady. The guide dog sat and all us fellow pedestrians slammed to a halt at the edge of the pavement, even though it was clear a couple of us were thinking of making a dash across the road despite the absence of the little green man. We all stood patiently and waited. The road was clear. In all directions. There was NO traffic coming. Nothing. I could have driven a flock of vague sheep across that road and still had time to go back and fetch the one that hadn't realised the others had already moved on.

But no. We all stood in a line until the little green man appeared. And even then not one of us moved until the guide dog stood up and led us all safely across the road to the middle island.

'Sit!' commanded the lady and again, we all stood and waited. Still no traffic. 'This is ridiculous,' I thought. 'I am being controlled by the sub-liminal thoughts of a black labrador.' And so I marched across the road regardless, even though the little green man was absent and everyone else was standing still, steadfastly waiting for the next command to move.

And do you know what? I felt as guilty as a puppy next to a pile of poo. Shame on me!

Back home I thought how interesting (if slightly weird) it was that we all obeyed the unspoken command of crossing the road via the guide dog code. I thought, are people really so much like sheep that there is some kind of tacit code of conduct inherent in all human beings that prevents them from taking simple risks because they are afraid of what other people might think of them, because they are 'afraid' of 'doing the wrong thing'?

I was out in the garden yesterday, doing a bit more weeding. And as I was hacking away at the moss between the paving slabs I thought, 'Why am I doing this? I like moss. It's all green and bouncy. It adds a sort of country cottage lived-in feel to the place.' And a voice from nowhere said, 'You're tidying up ready to sell.'

'Oh no I'm not,' I said. 'I have plans for the garden. I'm not going to invest a lot of time and effort in planting and digging and bees and making it all lovely, just for someone else to enjoy, am I? If I was doing it up to sell, I'd cover everything in paving slabs, put a pot of bedding plants by the front door and that would be that.'

The voice sighed. I hate it when a random voice sighs at you. 'You've been looking at houses in Normandy, haven't you?' it said.
'And what if I have?' I asked. 'It was mere curiosity and whilst it was interesting to discover that we could buy a nice property with ample land which would leave us virtually mortgage-free, I ain't moving.'

'We'll see,' said the voice.

And this is what happens. I determine to get on with things as they are. I resolve to make the most of what I've got and then some random force decides to stick its nosey beak into my plans and stir them up. I had reached a point of contentment - we've got a nice house, manageable household bills and mortgage, hens and homegrown veg. We are healthy. I have time for writing, gardening and cooking. I am calm. I am happier than I've ever been and should be content to maintain the status quo.

Yet by leaping ahead of the guide dog this morning, and not waiting to cross safely with the crowd, maybe the powers-that be are saying there is still a bit of a renegade inside me, hiding behind the bushes and waiting to jump out and 'BOO!' in the face of Fate. And then I saw in my diary that exactly one year ago I did a Tarot reading for my Auntie in Scotland that very distinctly said she should move back down South 'for there may be trouble ahead'. And she didn't. She was almost there but she talked herself out of it and now she is in a tricky situation.

Should we listen to random voices?

Only if we want to know what's really good for us.