Half Term Hive Activity

And I'm not talking about bee-hive activity, because rain is tipping down at the moment and bees don't do rain, so the hive is still and quiet, apart from the occasional brave soul who emerges for a peek, and then reverses back in, probably thinking, 'Hmmm, not today thanks. Hurrah for the lovely contact feeder full of sugar solution provided by mine hosts, Lord and Lady Malarkey.'

Bees are very polite, and infinitely sensible when it comes to rain, unlike me who has been trooping in and out to the bin because I am having a spring clean.

Yes, I know it's June, so theoretically Summer, but as us gardeners know, the seasons are three weeks behind themselves this year and so I am still in Spring and that is my excuse. And having been up the allotment for the best part of all yesterday morning, and also being a weirdo keeper of diaries and records, I can confirm that the beans and strawberries are all behind on last year, and the sweetcorn is a WHOLE year and a bit late - because I forgot to plant sweetcorn last year! Aha!

My spring cleaning has been, so far, mostly related to my erstwhile writing room, which has seen little activity in the writing department since I went back to teaching full time in January. This is bad. But given that I am planning to be working only part-time, and the summer hols are a gnat's whisker away, I wanted to spruce up the room and get it ready for action come the third week in July. This is good. Especially as I have started another writing project, a witty tome about being a newbie lady bee-keeper, oddly enough.

Poor writing room has become home to hive building, and as such has accumulated assorted wood-working equipment including a massive work bench which I bang my toes on with alarming frequency every time I try and squeeze past it. So, in a cunning shifty around of various objects, the emptying of cupboards and shelves, the ruthless hoiking out of stuff I forgot I had, ergo don't really need, I have managed to find a hidey hole for the bench, and now all that remains is the fun of seeing if Andy can find it.

Also, I have been up in the loft and done a shifty around of things up there, but only because I am on the look out for some cushion pads, and my aged suitcase of fabrics I have collected across the years, because I am of the urge to be all arty-crafty, and one must go with urges or else run the risk of being nagged by the Ethereal Beings who are trying their darndest to guide you through life, because invariably urges are part of the Universe trying to tell you something of Great Importance.

(I apologise for the length and dodgy grammar of that last sentence - it was very unwieldy, but I'm not going to edit it, as I feel it conveys the sense of fairly organised mayhem, and boundless energy that surrounds me today.)

And talking of Ethereal Beings, I'm now off to do a quick Tarot reading for myself, because I am umming and ahhing about applying for that part-time teaching job. And the deadline is tomorrow, at noon. (Which in itself sounds rather ominous.)

Do I, don't I? Shall I, shan't I?

Lord only knows.

May babies, the tradition of leaving the housework alone and bless your tiny silver bullets

On doing a bit of early morning research today, I discovered that babies who are born in May are thought to be unlucky because the faeries find them so attractive that they steal them and leave a faerie baby in their place. Now, I know a few people who were born in May - Andy, for example, and my Auntie Pollie. And Andy's best man at our wedding, Richard. And Andy's nephew. (Also, my brother's wife was born in May and the sooner the faeries come and take her away the better, but that's another story and now I am thinking mean thoughts I shan't bother to get a lottery ticket this weekend because karma will prevent me from winning. Ah well).

Apparently, the parents of May babies have to be particularly vigilant to prevent this faerie exchange from happening. The next time I speak to Andy's parents I must remember to quiz them about this just to make sure I haven't married an ethereal being. (Although this would explain the faraway absences and lapses of concentration he experiences - oh no, that'll be the Game Boy I got him for his birthday, stupid me.)

Also, you musn't wash yourself or clean your house in May because it is supposed to wash life and luck away during the month. There's even a rhyme to prove the point. It goes:

You must not wash your blankets in May
Or else you'll wash your soul away.

You're supposed to avoid eating wild garlic, too. Well, I've managed to abide by one of those rules this month so maybe I've got a bit of luck left. And I'm still alive. At least I think I am.

Tomorrow is even more exciting. Depending on where you live, the twenty-ninth day of May is known as either Oak Apple Day, Arbor Tree Day, Pinch-Bum Day or, get this, Shit-Shack Day. Most of these are tied to the Civil War between the Roundheads and Cavaliers. They knew how to have fun in those days, didn't they?

I am particularly looking forward to Saturday as it is St Hubert's Day. I must remember to get my silver bullets blessed by him or they will be completely ineffective in dealing with any passing werewolves.

It's odd, isn't it, how superstitions, myths and eccentricities have survived as part of this country's traditions. I wonder how our lifetime will be remembered in two hundred years' time?

'In the 21st century, May became known as Opportunist MP Month. Parliamentary representatives would hold a competition to see who could extort the highest amount of tax payers' money in the form of expenses claims. The more outrageous the better. The winner would receive an ornamental duck house. '

Or...

'In the last week of May, ordinary members of the public were encouraged to stand on a platform in front of a crowd of people and display their talents, real or imagined. The more dubious the talent, the further the participant would progress in the race to be the next Prime Minister of the Country.'

Even...

'May Fifteenth - Pete'n'Jordan Day. The traditional day for celebrities to announce the end of their shallow fatuous marriages to other celebrities in a last ditch attempt to revive their flagging careers. The ritual must be performed in the pink sequinned glare of publicity from the beaches of Barbados whilst dressed in impossible tiny swimwear. Mascara smudging optional.'

I feel a bit sad that modern day Britain seems devoid of any cultural heritage for future generations to enjoy. I'm trying to do my bit on a domestic level. For example, a couple of years ago I purchased a ridiculously large and highly colourful plate that has now become the 'Birthday Cake Presentation Plate.' I don't know if such a plate is entitled to become a family heirloom, but I think it could become a tradition. Tradition is good. It makes you feel safe, and part of a community. I think I shall declare May twenty-eighth as 'Start Your Own Family Tradition' Day.

And here is a rhyme in celebration:

'Make sure you aren't forgotten
In centuries to come.
Start your own tradition
It could serious, it could be fun
Make sure you do it every year
On Family Tradition Day
And that way when you're dead and gone-
'I remember her,' they'll say.

Or him, if you're a bloke. Or it, if you're a table or other such inanimate object.

It might catch on. Even if it doesn't, at least you can say you tried.

(Today's blog was brought to you today, with sincere apologies, from Taken-Leave-Of-Her-Senses Denise, sponsored by the Useless Thought Company, for all your Pointless Rambling Needs.)

Mad, sad and dangerous to grow...

Who'd have thought it, eh? Me getting all flustered and excited about polytunnel brochures. This week I sent away for three (brochures, not polytunnels - crumbs, I almost felt Andy having heart failure reading that one) and have spent the last two evenings poring over the intricacies of 'The World That Is POLYTUNNEL!!' Tum-tum-taaaaaaa!!!! It's all hoops, fixings, foundations and stabilisers, not to mention width and length (but more on that later).

I've compared and contrasted the benefits of Superclear polythene against thermal anti-fog polythene. Or does Superwhite polythene with over-netting have the edge? I've become au fait with exotic sounding extras like the anti-hot spot tape, crop bar, storm stay brace and anchor plate. Then there's timber versus aluminium for your base rails and side vents. Or should we go down the trench root? And what about the overhead irrigation kit? Economy or prestige? We don't have to have an overhead irrigation kit but I rather fancy that on a hot day it might be quite pleasant to lie flat on one's back inside the polytunnel and be irrigated oneself. (Rather than irritated, which is usually the case.) It's all rather thrilling, if a little bit sad and middle-aged.

I have to say the best brochure so far is the one by First Tunnels, whose enclosed order form had a tea-bag attached, so I 'can enjoy a cuppa whilst browsing their goods.' I liked this touch enormously; also, their brochure has a nice 'silky' feel to it and is very, very easy to understand so even if I was an intellectually challenged gibbon, I'd still be able to order a polytunnel avec accoutrements in confidence. However, bearing in mind most of my decisions regarding car purchases have been based purely on their colour- 'that's a nice frosty blue one. It looks like the sky on a sunny day' - I shall be careful not to allow myself to be swayed by silky brochures and freebie tea-bags!

And then, to add to the frenzied polytunnel excitement, the postie delivered a copy of 'The Polytunnel Handbook' that I ordered from Amazon a few days ago. This book also feels silky to the touch because, I think, it 'is printed in the UK on recycled paper using vegetable inks by www.greenbooks.co.uk 'Must be a selling feature - 'stroke me, I'm lovely and natural!' So that's my weekend reading sorted.

Andy and I have decided we've space to fit a tunnel that is roughly 10 feet by 12 feet. I say 'roughly' because our measurements are based on us standing at the relevant section of allotment 87 side by side with our arms outstretched, fingers touching and saying things like, 'Well, I'm 5 foot 6, you're 5 foot 11 so that's 11 foot 5 inches plus an extra 6 inches because I've got arms like an orang-utan, then minus the water-tank when considering the length.' We adopted much the same method when assessing whether the huge semi-circular sofa we purchased last year would actually fit in our living room (only we used string for added accuracy.) It worked then, so it'll work now.

I'm a great believer in saying things like 'Of course it'll fit!' The only time I almost came a cropper was when trying to heave the goose in the oven at Christmas. But that was the butcher's fault because I distinctly remembering ordering a small one and he got me a big one, but it went in on the diagonal so all was well in the end and my goose was cooked. I think Heather may have inherited my optimism about big things fitting into small spaces because when she was 3, she put a whole orange Club biscuit in her mouth sideways. I had to break it in half to get it out again. And then there was the time she put a dice up her nostril 'to see if it would fit.' And it did!

So I'm off to make a cup of tea with my free tea bag and settle down with 'The Polytunnel Handbook.' I hope it all ends 'happily ever after'. I love a good story! And with a leading lady called Polly Tunnel, how can it not?