'Dark in here, innit?'
'Who said that? Get back. I'm armed you know.'
'No you ain't. You're a worm. Worms don't have arms.'
'My spittle it laced with a deadly venom. I'm warning you. Come any closer and you'll get it in the eye. Who are you anyway?'
'Fred. No need to get all spitty. I was only trying to be friendly.'
'Fred Worm?'
'S'right. You gotta name or shall I call you grumpy git-face?'
'Tiger. My name's Tiger.'
'Oh. Like that golf bloke?'
'Yes. My parents were keen golfers. Mum wanted to call me Seve after Ballesteros only Dad said it sounded too much like a pot of marmalade.'
'Yeah, yeah. So, where do you think we're headed? Now we've had our call up papers?'
Somewhere amid the writhing mass of four hundred and ninety eight similar worms, a friendship is born. A friendship that will last for years to come, through thick and thin, banana skins and potato peelings, coffee grounds and chicken poop. A friendship that will traverse time and space and boldly go where no worm has gone before. A friendship that...
'What's that, Tiger?'
'I think it's a voice-over. And the music is from either Star Trek or Star Wars or Ready, Steady Cook. I'm not sure, I always get confused.'
'I can play the Star Wars theme tune on my stylophone.'
'Really? That's very impressive.'
''Course, a stylophone is the ideal instrument for a worm. That or a tambourine. I'll teach you when we get to our base, if you like.'
'Thanks. I'd like that. Sorry about the spitting thing earlier.'
'No worries Tiger mate. I 'spect I made you jump a bit, goosing you like that in the dark.'
'Just a bit.'
'Only I thought you were Delilah.'
'Delilah?'
'Yeah. My girlfriend. Well, fiancee really. I bought her a ring but it was a couple of sizes too big and she kept sliding through it.'
'I have the same problem with trouser belts. That's why I'm a fan of braces.'
'Wise man. So, where do you think we're going?'
They didn't know where they were headed, these warrior worms, this band of brothers. Mostly because the ParcelForce tracking system wasn't logging their movements and estimated time of arrival as effectively as the website suggested. But they knew they were heading south somewhere, to do work of an important and vital matter. Their mission, should they choose to accept it, was to save Planet Backgarden. And if they didn't accept it, Denise would be asking for her money back toute suite.
'There it goes again. The italics and the music.'
'I hope it stops soon. It's getting on my nerves.'
'Do worms have nerves, Tiger?'
'Ever been got at by a bird, Fred?'
'Can't say I have, Tiger.'
'Well, my Aunt Maudeline was once. Six inches of prime pink worm she used to be until one day she became the victim of a vicious attack by a thrush. A frantic tug-o-war ensued. It was horrible. She hung onto the ground, the thrush hung onto her welly. Back and forth they went for, oh, at least a minute...'
'Oh my lordy lord. What happened?Did she survive?'
'Just, Fred, just. Looks like a string of spaghetti now and if she stands sideways on she all but disappears. And she said it was the worst pain ever. Nerves are shot to threads, they are. Shot to threads.'
'Well, I hope there aren't any birds where we're going.'
'Me too. Especially not chickens. Swallow you whole soon as look at you, so I've heard.'
And so their journey continued south. South to the World of Executive Wormery, to the Garden of Mud and the Bed that is Raised. Their life will be fraught with danger from the Birds with Gobby Beaks ('Oi!' says Miggins. 'Less of the gobby and more of the refined, if you don't mind.') but enriched with mucho mucko from the Kitchen of Cake.
'So we're going south then, Tiger?'
'Sounds like it. Although I wouldn't believe everything the voice-over says, if I were you.'
'But you ain't, are you?'
'What?'
'Me.'
'No, Fred. I'm not. That would be just too weird.'
'But south is good, isn't it?'
'Yes. Ah, Portugal! Golden sands and clear azure seas canopied with a sapphire blue sky as clear as the crystal in my mother's chandelier. I can't wait.'
'Your mum has a chandelier?'
'Of course. Doesn't yours?'
'Nah. I've only just got her to put a lightbulb in her standard lamp.'
'What's that?'
'A standard lamp?'
'No, you numpty! That noise! We've stopped! We've arrived! I can hear voices!'
'Is this Portugal? It doesn't feel very warm. I can't see no azure skies, either.'
'Shut up Fred.'
'Okay, grumpy git-face.'
Friday, 6 March 2009
Thursday, 5 March 2009
From England to France...
Yesterday, I wrote 2 blogs, one of which was commented upon by Vera, mon amie en France. Now of the two blogs, I thought she'd be more likely to comment on the one about sitting bare bottomed on the ground in order to test soil temperature because that is the kind of thing I imagine she would rush out to try immediately - or at least send hubbie Lester out to try, if only to snap a few cheeky shots to post on her own blog.
But no, 'twas the worm one that brought forth the comment. Mostly because, as she digs her way heroically through her new small-holding at the base of the Pyrenees, she has found only two and a half worms. (What happened to the other half of the half worm? Was the half that Vera found still alive and wriggling? Is it still a functional worm??) And a lot of moles. Now, I haven't found any moles in my garden and I believe moles like worms (to eat, not to take to the cinema or anything) so I think les moles francais might need their knives and forks removing.
Often, as Vera and I travel towards various levels of self-sufficiency in our respective corners of the world, we find ourselves doing similar things at similar times. For example, we both bought willow trees on the same day a couple of weeks ago! And a few days ago, Vera wrote about her dearth of worms on the very same day that worms was my subject of choice. I have to say I felt marginally guilty about writing about worms. I'd been in the garden all day and discovered a worm planet in the compost bin. I was very excited. I thought, 'there's my blog subject for today.' So I came inside. late in the afternoon, cranked up the computer, logged on and read about Vera's digging and her discovery of a single worm and thought, 'I can't write about my mass of worms. It'll sound like I'm bragging.'
But then I thought, no, perhaps Vera will be encouraged that there are still worms on planet earth and they haven't all left for Neptune. And perhaps French worms are a bit more relaxed about making an appearance at the start of the growing season. After all, the bottom end of France has a longer growing season than the bottom end of England, so French worms have a little more time on their hands. I expect they are still sitting deep in their burrows, quaffing vin rouge and nibbling on the last Camembert of winter.
So, Vera tried to get Lester enthused about worms but he wasn't keen. But rest assured, Vera, Andy wasn't too excited, either. Last night I said 'Have you been on the Wormcity website?' and he said, 'Er...no. Not yet.' I said, 'We have to keep the wormery in a bin bag for the first three or four days because apparently the worms will try and escape their alien environment.' 'Really?' said Andy. 'But it will help if we put some of our garden soil into their wormery to help acclimatise them,' I continued doggedly. 'Hmmm?' said Andy.
At this point I gave up trying to get Andy excited about worms. So perhaps it's a man thing. I expect they spend so much time comparing worms when they are little boys that the novelty has worn off by the time they reach manhood. I, however, intend to fling myself enthusiastically into the whole wormery thing (not literally, it's only 72 litres in capacity and I think my capacity it considerably more than that) and I am looking forward to feeding my vegetables on nutrient rich compost and liquid plant food.
As I write this, I am holding a text conversation with Andy. We need some topsoil for our raised bed 'n' Plan Bee Garden and he has embarked on a spot of bartering with Gemma (a.k.a The Gemsta, Mrs Poo's Formula One Racing co-driver) because she has topsoil in her garden we can have in exchange for half a dozen eggs. I felt this was a bit mean so offered a cake into the bargain and the deal is done! Half a dozen eggs plus a chocolate chip 'n' banana cake (or carrot cake if I do those -yes I do) in exchange for several bags of topsoil!
Superstores? Who needs them?
But no, 'twas the worm one that brought forth the comment. Mostly because, as she digs her way heroically through her new small-holding at the base of the Pyrenees, she has found only two and a half worms. (What happened to the other half of the half worm? Was the half that Vera found still alive and wriggling? Is it still a functional worm??) And a lot of moles. Now, I haven't found any moles in my garden and I believe moles like worms (to eat, not to take to the cinema or anything) so I think les moles francais might need their knives and forks removing.
Often, as Vera and I travel towards various levels of self-sufficiency in our respective corners of the world, we find ourselves doing similar things at similar times. For example, we both bought willow trees on the same day a couple of weeks ago! And a few days ago, Vera wrote about her dearth of worms on the very same day that worms was my subject of choice. I have to say I felt marginally guilty about writing about worms. I'd been in the garden all day and discovered a worm planet in the compost bin. I was very excited. I thought, 'there's my blog subject for today.' So I came inside. late in the afternoon, cranked up the computer, logged on and read about Vera's digging and her discovery of a single worm and thought, 'I can't write about my mass of worms. It'll sound like I'm bragging.'
But then I thought, no, perhaps Vera will be encouraged that there are still worms on planet earth and they haven't all left for Neptune. And perhaps French worms are a bit more relaxed about making an appearance at the start of the growing season. After all, the bottom end of France has a longer growing season than the bottom end of England, so French worms have a little more time on their hands. I expect they are still sitting deep in their burrows, quaffing vin rouge and nibbling on the last Camembert of winter.
So, Vera tried to get Lester enthused about worms but he wasn't keen. But rest assured, Vera, Andy wasn't too excited, either. Last night I said 'Have you been on the Wormcity website?' and he said, 'Er...no. Not yet.' I said, 'We have to keep the wormery in a bin bag for the first three or four days because apparently the worms will try and escape their alien environment.' 'Really?' said Andy. 'But it will help if we put some of our garden soil into their wormery to help acclimatise them,' I continued doggedly. 'Hmmm?' said Andy.
At this point I gave up trying to get Andy excited about worms. So perhaps it's a man thing. I expect they spend so much time comparing worms when they are little boys that the novelty has worn off by the time they reach manhood. I, however, intend to fling myself enthusiastically into the whole wormery thing (not literally, it's only 72 litres in capacity and I think my capacity it considerably more than that) and I am looking forward to feeding my vegetables on nutrient rich compost and liquid plant food.
As I write this, I am holding a text conversation with Andy. We need some topsoil for our raised bed 'n' Plan Bee Garden and he has embarked on a spot of bartering with Gemma (a.k.a The Gemsta, Mrs Poo's Formula One Racing co-driver) because she has topsoil in her garden we can have in exchange for half a dozen eggs. I felt this was a bit mean so offered a cake into the bargain and the deal is done! Half a dozen eggs plus a chocolate chip 'n' banana cake (or carrot cake if I do those -yes I do) in exchange for several bags of topsoil!
Superstores? Who needs them?
Wednesday, 4 March 2009
The devil made work for idle hands this afternoon
What happens when a person, like me, gives up teaching, like me, and sits at home being a writer, like me but occasionally gets 'distracted' by the Internet? (Like me.)
I'll tell you what happens. She goes buying random, but at the same time, very useful stuff. Stuff that is VERY IMPORTANT for people like Andy and me who are tiptoeing our way inch by inch towards a more self-sufficient lifestyle. (This last sentence was really to reassure Andy that I haven't been frittering money away on Jimmy Choos or Chanel sunglasses. I've already texted him with news of one of my purchases and he hasn't responded, but then he could be operating in which case it's just as well he hasn't got his mobile out. You've no idea the mess a mobile can get into if it's dropped into a dog's innards - YUK!)
So firstly I reviewed my hop research, assessed the varieties available and bought 2 hop plants called Phoenix. (I might change their names once they arrive - Phoenix sounds rather pretentious for a plant and I always think you should get to know something before you name it, don't you? Personality is sooooooo important.) Apparently, they are especially heavy in pollen, and given the current 'Plan Bee Garden,' I thought lots of pollen would be good for attracting bees. I hope it doesn't mean they will get drunk. I can't be doing with sozzled bees in the garden.
Secondly, I researched worms. I was very impressed at finding all those worms in the compost bin when we emptied it on Sunday and apparently, you can never have too many worms. (Especially when you have four greedy hens roaming your garden chanting, 'Where are the worms? Where are the worms?') I'd thought about supplementing our compost bin with a wormery before now so this wasn't a completely random 'what shall I look up on Google now?' moment. Wormeries are supposed to provide excellent compost and liquid plant feed. So I went onto www.wormcity.co.uk and really enjoyed reading about worms and the whole 'keeping worms' thing. The site was very like the Omlet site for chicken-keeping - practical, straight forward, informative and full of cute cartoons! And then I sort of bought an executive 72 litre wormery. And five hundred worms.
So, come next week, we'll have 2 cats, 4 hens and 500 worms on the homestead. Plus a potential 10,000 bees within a year...
...I'd better start getting a list of names together...
I'll tell you what happens. She goes buying random, but at the same time, very useful stuff. Stuff that is VERY IMPORTANT for people like Andy and me who are tiptoeing our way inch by inch towards a more self-sufficient lifestyle. (This last sentence was really to reassure Andy that I haven't been frittering money away on Jimmy Choos or Chanel sunglasses. I've already texted him with news of one of my purchases and he hasn't responded, but then he could be operating in which case it's just as well he hasn't got his mobile out. You've no idea the mess a mobile can get into if it's dropped into a dog's innards - YUK!)
So firstly I reviewed my hop research, assessed the varieties available and bought 2 hop plants called Phoenix. (I might change their names once they arrive - Phoenix sounds rather pretentious for a plant and I always think you should get to know something before you name it, don't you? Personality is sooooooo important.) Apparently, they are especially heavy in pollen, and given the current 'Plan Bee Garden,' I thought lots of pollen would be good for attracting bees. I hope it doesn't mean they will get drunk. I can't be doing with sozzled bees in the garden.
Secondly, I researched worms. I was very impressed at finding all those worms in the compost bin when we emptied it on Sunday and apparently, you can never have too many worms. (Especially when you have four greedy hens roaming your garden chanting, 'Where are the worms? Where are the worms?') I'd thought about supplementing our compost bin with a wormery before now so this wasn't a completely random 'what shall I look up on Google now?' moment. Wormeries are supposed to provide excellent compost and liquid plant feed. So I went onto www.wormcity.co.uk and really enjoyed reading about worms and the whole 'keeping worms' thing. The site was very like the Omlet site for chicken-keeping - practical, straight forward, informative and full of cute cartoons! And then I sort of bought an executive 72 litre wormery. And five hundred worms.
So, come next week, we'll have 2 cats, 4 hens and 500 worms on the homestead. Plus a potential 10,000 bees within a year...
...I'd better start getting a list of names together...
Bare behinds and hopping mad
Forget spending your money one gardening fripperies like soil thermometers. If you want to find out if your plot of earth is warm enough to plant your first seeds of the season there are two tried and tested methods that have been around ever since God planted that apple tree and said 'Note to self - get the mongoose to stand guard against snakes.'
Firstly, you can drop your trousers and sit on the bare earth with your bare bottom and if you don't leap into the air immediately, cursing and swearing about your frozen tush, then the soil is warm enough for planting. Secondly, you can have a look for leaf buds appearing on trees and hedges, and the first signs of weed growth. If it's warm enough for weed growth, it's warm enough for carrots.
So, there I was first thing this morning, trousers around my ankles, perched on our new raised bed in the back garden and...no, no, I jest, I joke!! Too horrible an image to contemplate!
'Don't you believe her!' says Mrs Poo. 'I've got photographic evidence but I'm warning you that if you want to see it, I don't come cheap.'
'But you go cheep sometimes,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Not since I was a chick,' says Poo. 'Now it's more of a 'bokk, bok, barkkkkk.'
Ignore them. They've had far too many worms these last few days and you know what an excess of protein did for Oliver Twist, don't you?
I reckon the raised bed is almost ready for some outside planting. The hens have done a fine job of breaking down the larger clods of compost to a fine tilth. All we need is some top soil and a bit of polythene to cover the whole bed for a week or two to warm it up a bit more and we can plant seeds straight outside. I went into the greenhouse and stared optimistically at the seeds I planted on Monday. They're catching quite a bit of sun today and I've even remembered to water them. But no sign of growth yet. Ditto the stuff in the propagator and the conservatory a.k.a growing facility number two. Am I being too impatient? Probably.
I've also been investigating the idea of growing hops. My family on my mum's side were Kent hop growers. Hops are supposed to be good for helping sleep. Many were the hop pickers who were given a swift kick by the hop farmer for falling asleep on the job, so soporific is this plant. I'm thinking, I could grow some hops and hand- craft Andy a hop pillow to help him sleep better. Or maybe a hop duvet, just to make sure the job's done properly. And now is the right time of the year to get them started. The trouble is that they grow extremely tall. We're talking 16-20 foot high. There's a 'dwarf' variety which grows 10-12 feet. In order to harvest hops you have to have either a very tall ladder, a trapeze or, as is more traditional, stilts. Now, Andy has a unicycle which apart from being too wobbly for hop picking, isn't tall enough. But I'm thinking, if I learn to stilt walk for the purposes of hop picking, Andy and I could start a circus act as a side-line. He could ride his unicycle and I could balance on his shoulders on my stilts! I bet that would draw the crowds in! We could do carnivals and the like, earn a bit of extra cash to go towards our small-holding. And we can both juggle - well, Andy can juggle, I can juggle if I concentrate but I tend to be a dropper and if I drop balls on Andy's head whilst I am balancing on my stilts on his shoulders whilst he rides his unicycle, it could go horribly wrong.
But then, if I learn to walk on stilts I could also start a hydroponic growing system for peas, cucumbers and tomatoes in the guttering on the roof! Hydroponics is the growing of veg using water only. You feed all the nutrients the plant needs and would normally get from soil straight into the water system. And then I wouldn't need to worry about whether the ground was warm enough to plant seed. All I would need to do would be to dip my elbow in the water to test the temperature, much as you would to test bath water for a baby. I could use my bottom, only I think it would get stuck.
And if there is one thing you must be able to do in the world of veg growing and that's to be able to tell your a**e from your elbow.
Firstly, you can drop your trousers and sit on the bare earth with your bare bottom and if you don't leap into the air immediately, cursing and swearing about your frozen tush, then the soil is warm enough for planting. Secondly, you can have a look for leaf buds appearing on trees and hedges, and the first signs of weed growth. If it's warm enough for weed growth, it's warm enough for carrots.
So, there I was first thing this morning, trousers around my ankles, perched on our new raised bed in the back garden and...no, no, I jest, I joke!! Too horrible an image to contemplate!
'Don't you believe her!' says Mrs Poo. 'I've got photographic evidence but I'm warning you that if you want to see it, I don't come cheap.'
'But you go cheep sometimes,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Not since I was a chick,' says Poo. 'Now it's more of a 'bokk, bok, barkkkkk.'
Ignore them. They've had far too many worms these last few days and you know what an excess of protein did for Oliver Twist, don't you?
I reckon the raised bed is almost ready for some outside planting. The hens have done a fine job of breaking down the larger clods of compost to a fine tilth. All we need is some top soil and a bit of polythene to cover the whole bed for a week or two to warm it up a bit more and we can plant seeds straight outside. I went into the greenhouse and stared optimistically at the seeds I planted on Monday. They're catching quite a bit of sun today and I've even remembered to water them. But no sign of growth yet. Ditto the stuff in the propagator and the conservatory a.k.a growing facility number two. Am I being too impatient? Probably.
I've also been investigating the idea of growing hops. My family on my mum's side were Kent hop growers. Hops are supposed to be good for helping sleep. Many were the hop pickers who were given a swift kick by the hop farmer for falling asleep on the job, so soporific is this plant. I'm thinking, I could grow some hops and hand- craft Andy a hop pillow to help him sleep better. Or maybe a hop duvet, just to make sure the job's done properly. And now is the right time of the year to get them started. The trouble is that they grow extremely tall. We're talking 16-20 foot high. There's a 'dwarf' variety which grows 10-12 feet. In order to harvest hops you have to have either a very tall ladder, a trapeze or, as is more traditional, stilts. Now, Andy has a unicycle which apart from being too wobbly for hop picking, isn't tall enough. But I'm thinking, if I learn to stilt walk for the purposes of hop picking, Andy and I could start a circus act as a side-line. He could ride his unicycle and I could balance on his shoulders on my stilts! I bet that would draw the crowds in! We could do carnivals and the like, earn a bit of extra cash to go towards our small-holding. And we can both juggle - well, Andy can juggle, I can juggle if I concentrate but I tend to be a dropper and if I drop balls on Andy's head whilst I am balancing on my stilts on his shoulders whilst he rides his unicycle, it could go horribly wrong.
But then, if I learn to walk on stilts I could also start a hydroponic growing system for peas, cucumbers and tomatoes in the guttering on the roof! Hydroponics is the growing of veg using water only. You feed all the nutrients the plant needs and would normally get from soil straight into the water system. And then I wouldn't need to worry about whether the ground was warm enough to plant seed. All I would need to do would be to dip my elbow in the water to test the temperature, much as you would to test bath water for a baby. I could use my bottom, only I think it would get stuck.
And if there is one thing you must be able to do in the world of veg growing and that's to be able to tell your a**e from your elbow.
Tuesday, 3 March 2009
The gas bill cameth...
After basking in the sun for the last few days and thinking, 'Cor, this is nice and warm after the long, cold months,' it appears winter hasn't quite left after all and was lulling us into a false sense of security because...
...IT'S BLOOMIN' FREEZING TODAY!
Having got a 'cor blimey' size gas bill this week, I went into town to pay it before I spent the money on something frivolous like, oh, food, for example. The electricity company had thoughtfully sent their bill at the same time but luckily it wasn't half so scary as the gas bill (must be all the energy saving light bulbs and using the washine machine at 30 degrees and stomping around the house yelling 'Do we have to have ALL these lights on? And why is the freezer door swinging wide open AGAIN??'.) I also needed to get some birthday cards as several of our friends and family very inconsiderately decided to bunch their birthdays close together in March without a thought for us trying to balance our budget. (Okay, I take responsibility for one of those birthdays, the one belonging to my son, but he was supposed to arrive on 7th April so in effect it was his fault for arriving too early. To compensate, he's been late for everything else ever since.)
So I trotted into town, paid some money into my bank account, went to the Post Office to pay the utility bills and then into a card shop to purchase cards. And in the time it took me to read every card in the shop to make sure I got the right one for the right person, the weather had gone from a bit grey and cloudy to force ten gale and sleety showers.
'How on EARTH did that happen?' I exclaimed as I stepped from the shop, causing an elderly man to back away in alarm (did I say it out loud? I didn't plan to. Must have though. I'll need to watch that - yelling out things in public.)
I had planned to look for birthday pressies, too, but due to the buffeting wind and icy rain lashing into my face and rendering me unable to see where I was going, I battled my way home for a cup of tea instead. And as I waited for the kettle to boil and watched the hens running around the garden looking a bit soggy and trying to get into the greenhouse which is now shut and out of bounds on account of it being full of freshly planted seed which I DO NOT want digging up, I listened to the radio and they were talking about this year's 'Big Day Out.'
Now, the Big Day Out is an annual event peculiar to Kent for Kent people when you can go on-line and book two free tickets for entry to one of the participating venues. This year it is happening on 28th March. So I thought, well, we're on a budget this year, we don't get out much, I'll have a look and see what's on offer.' And since the booking line had only been open since 10 am today and it was only 11 a.m I thought, 'there'll be plenty to choose from.'
Wrong! Despite there being well over a hundred participating venues, many were already booked out. I scanned the list of venues. And there, at the very bottom, was the Yalding Organic Garden which Andy and I have oft thought of visiting (being v. keen on stuff like that) but never got around to. Because I was feeling a bit miserable now on account of the dire weather, the fact I am going to feel guilty about putting the heating on and the 'Go Ape!' tickets at Leeds Castle being all gone, I thought, I bet all the tickets have gone for this attraction, too, but NO! They hadn't! So I was applying and printing like a mad thing and we've now got tickets for a free day out! How exciting is that, Andy!??!! Gardening + veg growing + organics + lunch in a slow food cafe = Denise is happy again. (Little things, little minds etc etc blah, blah, blah)
I know what Heather is thinking. She's thinking, 'Mum wanted to go on the 'Go Ape!' attraction at Leeds Castle? That's most unlike her.' And she'd be right. Of course I don't want to be flinging myself from trees on ropes and hurtling down zip wires at an alarming rate towards the ground and certain death. But it was the principle of the matter, you see. The principle!
So, what with the water board decreasing our annual bill by 50%, the mortgage coming down, not having to buy eggs, a free day out at Yalding Organic Garden and the electricity bill being smaller than anticipated I reckon the gas bill was actually free! All I need to do now is hand-craft Chris a golf club from a broomstick and a baked bean tin for his birthday present and I'll be quids in!
You see, it all balances out eventually. I think I shall put the heating on after all.
...IT'S BLOOMIN' FREEZING TODAY!
Having got a 'cor blimey' size gas bill this week, I went into town to pay it before I spent the money on something frivolous like, oh, food, for example. The electricity company had thoughtfully sent their bill at the same time but luckily it wasn't half so scary as the gas bill (must be all the energy saving light bulbs and using the washine machine at 30 degrees and stomping around the house yelling 'Do we have to have ALL these lights on? And why is the freezer door swinging wide open AGAIN??'.) I also needed to get some birthday cards as several of our friends and family very inconsiderately decided to bunch their birthdays close together in March without a thought for us trying to balance our budget. (Okay, I take responsibility for one of those birthdays, the one belonging to my son, but he was supposed to arrive on 7th April so in effect it was his fault for arriving too early. To compensate, he's been late for everything else ever since.)
So I trotted into town, paid some money into my bank account, went to the Post Office to pay the utility bills and then into a card shop to purchase cards. And in the time it took me to read every card in the shop to make sure I got the right one for the right person, the weather had gone from a bit grey and cloudy to force ten gale and sleety showers.
'How on EARTH did that happen?' I exclaimed as I stepped from the shop, causing an elderly man to back away in alarm (did I say it out loud? I didn't plan to. Must have though. I'll need to watch that - yelling out things in public.)
I had planned to look for birthday pressies, too, but due to the buffeting wind and icy rain lashing into my face and rendering me unable to see where I was going, I battled my way home for a cup of tea instead. And as I waited for the kettle to boil and watched the hens running around the garden looking a bit soggy and trying to get into the greenhouse which is now shut and out of bounds on account of it being full of freshly planted seed which I DO NOT want digging up, I listened to the radio and they were talking about this year's 'Big Day Out.'
Now, the Big Day Out is an annual event peculiar to Kent for Kent people when you can go on-line and book two free tickets for entry to one of the participating venues. This year it is happening on 28th March. So I thought, well, we're on a budget this year, we don't get out much, I'll have a look and see what's on offer.' And since the booking line had only been open since 10 am today and it was only 11 a.m I thought, 'there'll be plenty to choose from.'
Wrong! Despite there being well over a hundred participating venues, many were already booked out. I scanned the list of venues. And there, at the very bottom, was the Yalding Organic Garden which Andy and I have oft thought of visiting (being v. keen on stuff like that) but never got around to. Because I was feeling a bit miserable now on account of the dire weather, the fact I am going to feel guilty about putting the heating on and the 'Go Ape!' tickets at Leeds Castle being all gone, I thought, I bet all the tickets have gone for this attraction, too, but NO! They hadn't! So I was applying and printing like a mad thing and we've now got tickets for a free day out! How exciting is that, Andy!??!! Gardening + veg growing + organics + lunch in a slow food cafe = Denise is happy again. (Little things, little minds etc etc blah, blah, blah)
I know what Heather is thinking. She's thinking, 'Mum wanted to go on the 'Go Ape!' attraction at Leeds Castle? That's most unlike her.' And she'd be right. Of course I don't want to be flinging myself from trees on ropes and hurtling down zip wires at an alarming rate towards the ground and certain death. But it was the principle of the matter, you see. The principle!
So, what with the water board decreasing our annual bill by 50%, the mortgage coming down, not having to buy eggs, a free day out at Yalding Organic Garden and the electricity bill being smaller than anticipated I reckon the gas bill was actually free! All I need to do now is hand-craft Chris a golf club from a broomstick and a baked bean tin for his birthday present and I'll be quids in!
You see, it all balances out eventually. I think I shall put the heating on after all.
Monday, 2 March 2009
A spring in my step
Or rather, THE spring in my step. Spring as in the long awaited season which is well on its way. It's been a busy day today, so here is the news...
First of all, what's this? A modern art installation maybe?
I washed out many pots this morning. And when I say 'many', then 'many' I mean. There was a minor contretemps with one of those big, fat, hairy-legged, 'I-can-bench-push-the-weight-of-a-hippo' spiders where I screamed a bit and he/she/it made a run for it TOWARDS me, and then AWAY from me when I did a bit more screaming but other than that the pot cleaning went well.
And then, I spent a very pleasant afternoon in a sunny greenhouse, singing along to my pink radio, sowing the first seeds of 2009. I had to do a considerable amount of planning first to decide what to put in today because this year I'm determined to get to grips with successional sowing in order to avoid the problems of the last couple of years when we've flung everything in in one fell swoop and found ourselves with a glut come harvest time.
'Another parsnip with your parsnip, dear?'
'Why yes, that would be delightful. Maybe I could have a parsnip or two on the side?'
'Of course. And for pudding?'
'Why, parsnip of course. Unless we've any courgette left?'
'No. Only parsnip, I fear.'
'So did I.'
So today I have planted pointy cabbage, red cabbage, cauliflower, leek, pepper, jalapeno pepper (so Andy can re-create his Pizza Express Mount Etna moment in the privacy of our own home), cherry tomatoes, stripey tomatoes, aubergine, mixed salad leaves, peas, runner beans and a big tray of basil so I can have a go at making pesto. And on the flower front I planted some sweet peas but only because I went a bit overboard with my home-crafted root trainers.
The hens, meanwhile, continued to dig over our new raised bed. Not that it needed digging over.
'Quick! Get down! She's seen us!' hissed Mrs Miggins.
'She won't see me,' said the cunning Mrs Poo. 'Not with my head buried in the ground.'
'Ah,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'the old emu trick.'
Once the seeds were watered and the ones that needed putting in the propagator were propagated, I went indoors to cook dinner and make some scones.
We had parsnip for dinner. We had other stuff as well, like chicken and roast potatoes (the remaining few of our crop from last year) broccoli and peas, but I thought you'd like to see how big our parsnips got last season.
What's that song? 'Long ones, short ones, some as big as your head...'
'That's a coconut,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'No. It's definitely a parsnip,' I said.
And that was my day. And it was FAB!!
First of all, what's this? A modern art installation maybe? 
Or an elaborate bee-hive for enormous bees?
No, of course not! It's loo rolls stuck together with masking tape. Otherwise known as 'Denise's Home-crafted Root Trainers for Beans, Peas and Sweetcorn.' It's recycling in its purest form - cheap, useful AND biodegradable. However, if someone from the Tate Modern is reading this and wants to make me an offer, well, then my 'art' can be whatever you want it to be. And if a giant bee is reading this and thinking, 'Hmmm, nice penthouse,' then I've clearly inhaled some hallucinogenic spores in the greenhouse today...
I washed out many pots this morning. And when I say 'many', then 'many' I mean. There was a minor contretemps with one of those big, fat, hairy-legged, 'I-can-bench-push-the-weight-of-a-hippo' spiders where I screamed a bit and he/she/it made a run for it TOWARDS me, and then AWAY from me when I did a bit more screaming but other than that the pot cleaning went well.And then, I spent a very pleasant afternoon in a sunny greenhouse, singing along to my pink radio, sowing the first seeds of 2009. I had to do a considerable amount of planning first to decide what to put in today because this year I'm determined to get to grips with successional sowing in order to avoid the problems of the last couple of years when we've flung everything in in one fell swoop and found ourselves with a glut come harvest time.
'Another parsnip with your parsnip, dear?'
'Why yes, that would be delightful. Maybe I could have a parsnip or two on the side?'
'Of course. And for pudding?'
'Why, parsnip of course. Unless we've any courgette left?'
'No. Only parsnip, I fear.'
'So did I.'
So today I have planted pointy cabbage, red cabbage, cauliflower, leek, pepper, jalapeno pepper (so Andy can re-create his Pizza Express Mount Etna moment in the privacy of our own home), cherry tomatoes, stripey tomatoes, aubergine, mixed salad leaves, peas, runner beans and a big tray of basil so I can have a go at making pesto. And on the flower front I planted some sweet peas but only because I went a bit overboard with my home-crafted root trainers.
The hens, meanwhile, continued to dig over our new raised bed. Not that it needed digging over.
'Quick! Get down! She's seen us!' hissed Mrs Miggins.'She won't see me,' said the cunning Mrs Poo. 'Not with my head buried in the ground.'
'Ah,' said Mrs Pumphrey, 'the old emu trick.'
Once the seeds were watered and the ones that needed putting in the propagator were propagated, I went indoors to cook dinner and make some scones.
We had parsnip for dinner. We had other stuff as well, like chicken and roast potatoes (the remaining few of our crop from last year) broccoli and peas, but I thought you'd like to see how big our parsnips got last season.What's that song? 'Long ones, short ones, some as big as your head...'
'That's a coconut,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'No. It's definitely a parsnip,' I said.
And that was my day. And it was FAB!!Sunday, 1 March 2009
The best laid plans of mice and hens...
...before I start I wish to say there are no mice involved in today's blog. There were nearly some rabbits. On the way back from Norwich last night ,where we had gone to see Heather perform in a cabaret show,(which was excellent and made me want to take singing lessons and take to the stage myself), the roadsides were scattered with bunnies. Masses of them. I love bunnies. I said to Andy, casual like, 'Can we stop and catch some and take them home?' 'No,' he said. 'The hens wouldn't like them and we have no grass.' I thought, 'I'll pretend I need to stop for a tiddle break and whilst the car is at a standstill and I am off in the bushes, I'll nab a few bunnies, shove 'em in the boot and Andy won't be any the wiser. And when he says tomorrow morning 'Where did all those bunnies come from?' I can say, 'What, these old things? Had them for ages.'
I decided, on reflection, and without any bunny catching equipment on my person, this was not a good plan. The mice in the title are a purely tenuous link to getting onto the subject of hens and my plans going astray.
So, this morning I went into the greenhouse. My plan for today was 'Get the flowerpots, take to kitchen and clean ready for seed planting.' End of. In the greenhouse I got sidetracked into cleaning the floor and taking the old compost out front to the bee garden, ably assisted by the chickens. Andy appears.
'Wotcha doin'?' he asks. I ignore his casual use of slang. It is the weekend after all and he did drive up and down to Norwich yesterday.
'I'm giving the greenhouse a tidy, pre-seed planting,' I say.
'Call this tidying?' says Miggins, kicking a couple of flowerpots from one end of greenhouse to t'other.
'Shush,' I say.
'I need to start making my raised bed for the back garden,' says Andy. He has a faraway look in his eye, as if the sudden rush of fresh air has triggered a primaeval digging urge somewhere within.
'That means we need to empty the compost bin,' I say.
Now, this compost bin is one we started a few years ago. It was our first action towards leading a green life. We know it has needed emptying for a while although it does seem to possess Tardis like qualities in that no matter how much stuff we put in there, it rarely fills to the brim. But it is full now. And THE PLAN has been to use the contents of the bin as a base for Andy's raised bed. I am wary about what we might find inside when we release the contents. Horrors like sludge and foul smelling mud. Tree branches. Rats. Shergar. Lord Lucan...
'LET'S EMPTY IT NOW!' I shout, because it's one of those days when the urge to grab the bull by the horns and tell it what for is the air and I'm having a 'no-time-like-the-present' moment.
'OKAY!' shouts Andy because once I start, he starts and so does everyone else.
'HURRAH!' shout the hens, because they know that compost=worms which they like enormously. (Apparently, they taste like chicken. The worms, not the chickens which do taste like chicken because, well, it's in their nature, isn't it?).
So, Andy grabs the compost bin in a bear hug (I think this is because it looks like a Dalek and he can be a bit weird like that) and lifts it into the air with a flourish (this is a Victorian device made from a skirt hoop and 80 dernier stockings). The contents spill everywhere. I am hiding at the other end of the garden under some waterproof sheeting with an air freshner and a big stick with which to clobber the plague of rats.
BUT NO! What is released is compost! Proper compost. No foul smelling sludge, no rats, no missing lords or racehorses.The top third is not yet fully composted but is riddled with handfuls of proper pink squirmy compost bin worms like you see advertised in the magazines to buy for your wormery. Only we got ours for free!
'ELEVENSES!' yell the hens, falling on the worms like protein deprived crazed things.
'Oi,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'I am a protein deprived crazed thing.'
'NO!' I yell. 'DON'T EAT ALL THE WORMS. THEY NEED TO GO BACK IN THE COMPOST BIN!'
'TRY AND STOP US!' the hens yell. I do wish they wouldn't talk with their beaks full. You try to teach them manners but it's hard work sometimes.
So there is a frantic five minutes when I mount a Mission Impossible-style worm rescue before the hens eat them all. I could mention there was some foul play involved but that would be a very bad joke, so I shan't.
And then we shovel the proper compost into the raised bed area and surround it with wooden edging and breeze blocks all recycled from the garden. And then the hens came and had a good dig around and tried to kick it all out again. And Andy said, 'Oi, pack it in you naughty girls,' and waves his spade at them in a comedy-like fashion and a good time is had by all.
By the middle of the afternoon we had made a raised bed, relocated the compost bin (now only a third full) and I had dug up most of the roots of the shrubs I had pruned back last Autumn. And the flowerpots? Still waiting to be washed I'm afraid.
But like I said at the start -' The best laid plans of mice and hens...'
I decided, on reflection, and without any bunny catching equipment on my person, this was not a good plan. The mice in the title are a purely tenuous link to getting onto the subject of hens and my plans going astray.
So, this morning I went into the greenhouse. My plan for today was 'Get the flowerpots, take to kitchen and clean ready for seed planting.' End of. In the greenhouse I got sidetracked into cleaning the floor and taking the old compost out front to the bee garden, ably assisted by the chickens. Andy appears.
'Wotcha doin'?' he asks. I ignore his casual use of slang. It is the weekend after all and he did drive up and down to Norwich yesterday.
'I'm giving the greenhouse a tidy, pre-seed planting,' I say.
'Call this tidying?' says Miggins, kicking a couple of flowerpots from one end of greenhouse to t'other.
'Shush,' I say.
'I need to start making my raised bed for the back garden,' says Andy. He has a faraway look in his eye, as if the sudden rush of fresh air has triggered a primaeval digging urge somewhere within.
'That means we need to empty the compost bin,' I say.
Now, this compost bin is one we started a few years ago. It was our first action towards leading a green life. We know it has needed emptying for a while although it does seem to possess Tardis like qualities in that no matter how much stuff we put in there, it rarely fills to the brim. But it is full now. And THE PLAN has been to use the contents of the bin as a base for Andy's raised bed. I am wary about what we might find inside when we release the contents. Horrors like sludge and foul smelling mud. Tree branches. Rats. Shergar. Lord Lucan...
'LET'S EMPTY IT NOW!' I shout, because it's one of those days when the urge to grab the bull by the horns and tell it what for is the air and I'm having a 'no-time-like-the-present' moment.
'OKAY!' shouts Andy because once I start, he starts and so does everyone else.
'HURRAH!' shout the hens, because they know that compost=worms which they like enormously. (Apparently, they taste like chicken. The worms, not the chickens which do taste like chicken because, well, it's in their nature, isn't it?).
So, Andy grabs the compost bin in a bear hug (I think this is because it looks like a Dalek and he can be a bit weird like that) and lifts it into the air with a flourish (this is a Victorian device made from a skirt hoop and 80 dernier stockings). The contents spill everywhere. I am hiding at the other end of the garden under some waterproof sheeting with an air freshner and a big stick with which to clobber the plague of rats.
BUT NO! What is released is compost! Proper compost. No foul smelling sludge, no rats, no missing lords or racehorses.The top third is not yet fully composted but is riddled with handfuls of proper pink squirmy compost bin worms like you see advertised in the magazines to buy for your wormery. Only we got ours for free!
'ELEVENSES!' yell the hens, falling on the worms like protein deprived crazed things.
'Oi,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'I am a protein deprived crazed thing.'
'NO!' I yell. 'DON'T EAT ALL THE WORMS. THEY NEED TO GO BACK IN THE COMPOST BIN!'
'TRY AND STOP US!' the hens yell. I do wish they wouldn't talk with their beaks full. You try to teach them manners but it's hard work sometimes.
So there is a frantic five minutes when I mount a Mission Impossible-style worm rescue before the hens eat them all. I could mention there was some foul play involved but that would be a very bad joke, so I shan't.
And then we shovel the proper compost into the raised bed area and surround it with wooden edging and breeze blocks all recycled from the garden. And then the hens came and had a good dig around and tried to kick it all out again. And Andy said, 'Oi, pack it in you naughty girls,' and waves his spade at them in a comedy-like fashion and a good time is had by all.
By the middle of the afternoon we had made a raised bed, relocated the compost bin (now only a third full) and I had dug up most of the roots of the shrubs I had pruned back last Autumn. And the flowerpots? Still waiting to be washed I'm afraid.
But like I said at the start -' The best laid plans of mice and hens...'
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