The Lady Adventurer

'That was a bit quick, wasn't it?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Mrs Slocombe popping off like that.'
'Yes,' I say, 'it was. Although I had my suspicions she wasn't long for this world yesterday morning when she started mooching about looking miserable as sin.'
'It's jolly inconvenient of her,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'How so?' says I.
'She's left all her smalls drip-drying over the roll-top claw leg bath in the Louis XIV suite,' says Mrs P. 'Which means I'll have to go and wring them out before my guest arrives.'
'You have a guest coming?' I say.
'You almost typed 'gusset' then, didn't you?' says Mrs P.
'I did,' I say. 'It's all the talk about smalls that did it.'

Mrs Pumphrey gives me a look that says, 'you are very easily distracted, aren't you?'

'Anyway, back to my guest,' she says.
'Indeed,' says I. 'Who's visiting that is too important to tangle with Mrs Slocombe's freshly washed knick-knacks?'
'Ah,' says Mrs Pumphrey, and the air around her becomes clouded with mystery. It makes us both cough abit, but luckily we have an industrial fan to hand so it isn't long before the mystery is dispersed.
Mrs Pumphrey continues. 'My visitor is none other than Lady Clementine Flatulette Digby-Dogby-Dugby, the great-great-grand-daughter of that famous Lady Adventurer Lady Jane Digby.'
'You mean, her who has been called one of the most remarkable women of the nineteenth century?' I say.
'You're reading that from your biography of her, aren't you?' says Mrs P.
'The Lady Jane Digby who married a Lord, then left him for an Austrian Prince before becoming mistress of King Ludwig of Bavaria, and then eloping with a young Greek Count?' I say.
'Still reading?' says Mrs P.
'And then left her Greek husband to travel in the Orient where she became mistress of an Albanian general and lived in a cave before meeting the love of her life in Syria, who was twenty years younger than her?' I say, although I am running out of breath now and really out to shut up.
'I'd be more impressed if you were spouting that stuff from the top of your head,' sighs Mrs Pumphrey, 'but yes, that is the Lady Jane Digby to whom my guest is related.'
'Wait a minute,' I say. 'You're telling me that Lady Jane Digby was a chicken?'
'Hardly,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'By all accounts she was very brave, doing all that she did in the time she did it.'
'That's not what I mean,' I say. 'If you are telling me that Lady Jane Digby was a hen, then I think that's a fairly big fact to have been missed out of her biography, don't you?'
Mrs Pumphrey shrugs. 'It happens. Not a lot of people know, for example, that Jane Austen was a guinea fowl.'
'Hmmmm...' I say.

'Anyway, Lady Clementine Flatulette Digby-Dogby-Dugby is arriving this evening in time for sherry, Twiglets and backgammon,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'So I'd better get on and do some tidying.'
'May I ask why she is visiting?' I say.
'You may,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'and because I am feeling benevolent I shall tell you. Because I have been rendered a chicken on my own by the sudden demise of Mrs Slocombe, I have decided to use my new-found status as a reason to go travel-adventuring. Lady Clementine is going to give me some tips and advice before I set off. A possibly lend me a camel. We haven't negotiated terms yet.'
'Oh,' I say. 'Well, that's an idea, I suppose.'
'Not for long, you understand,' says Mrs P. 'I'll be back. But I want to write a book about my adventures. I need to earn a living now, being a lady of limited means.'
'Like Jane Austen the Guinea Fowl?' I say.
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Exactly like her. Only more raunchy.'
'That's a good idea,' I say. 'Everyone should write a book. It's a most fulfilling occupation.'
'Better than teaching?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I'll say,' I say.
'I've come up with a title already,' says Mrs P.
'Which is?'
'Well, two titles actually,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I want to call it 'Travel In My Pants.'
'Very wise,' I say. 'Always travel in pants. Saves a lot of embarrassment, especially if you should fall over on a railway station in the rush hour.'
'But now I'm thinking that I should call it 'Travel WITH My Pants. Or more precisely, with Mrs Slocombe's pants. I could take some of her smalls with me, recognition of her friendship and company these last four years.'
'A lovely gesture,' I say. 'But I think 'Travel In My Pants' sounds better, because the context of the ownership of the pants is important and after all it is going to be YOUR adventure.'
Mrs Pumphrey sighs. 'Yes,' she says. 'I suppose Mrs Slocombe's adventure is over, isn't it?'

I nod, and we pause for a moment to remember that mad old chicken with a funny glint in her eye, a wobbly comb and a penchant for human kneecap flesh.

'Dedicate your book to her,' I say. 'She'd like that.'
'She would, wouldn't she?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Well, I'm off to prepare for the arrival of Lady Clementine. See you tomorrow.'
'Take care,' I say. 'Take the salad spinner, too. It'll dry Mrs S's smalls a treat.'

This blog is dedicated to the memory of Mrs Betty Slocombe with the promise that, just for her, the madness will continue.

And then there was one...

Poor Mrs Slocombe has gone to chicken heaven. And poor Mrs Pumphrey is now all alone. All in all, it has been rather a sad day and we really don't know what to do.

Spring Clean

Well now, what do you think? Yesterday morning I commissioned a highly talented artist (aka my hubbie Andy) to create a new Welcome to Much Malarkey Manor picture for the blog, and by lunchtime it was done! It's a work of fiction in that the image is something we are aspiring to at our 'forever house' if we find it, when we find it.

There's Andy digging the enormous vegetable plot, and the cat in the foreground is none other than Pandora Kitten. And the figure in the background amongst the flowers is moi, wrestling a chicken because chickens need wrestling, especially when after nearly a year, they suddenly discover how to get over the fence into the herb garden, facilitating the need to raise the height of the aforesaid fence by 6 feet in order to prevent them from doing it again. (Knew the old fruit cage would come in handy!)

'To be honest,' says Mrs Slocombe, 'I didn't make the conscious decision to get into the herb garden. I was balanced on top of the fence and I fell in, and whilst I was there I thought I'd use the opportunity to have a bit of a dig around.'
'Whilst I,' says Mrs Pumphrey, 'jumped in on purpose because I could see some nice fresh greenery that needed pruning.'

The bees are buzzing under the apple tree (the rest of the orchard is out of sight of the picture, but rest assured it is there.) And the front of the cottage is covered in wisteria because every cottage should be.

Isn't it a fab picture?!

And not only did Andy create this marvellous work of art, he also created marvellous bread, too. Like this focaccia....

...and these rolls....

...and not to be left out, I made a chocolate gateau for Easter day lunch. Haven't made one of these for YEARS, and am not likely to again for a while 'cause I feel a bit sick just thinking about it now. (We had quite a feast yesterday, so today has been designated 'Be Kind to your Digestive System Day.')

Chicken Surprise

'I had the shock of my life this morning,' says Mrs Pumphrey. Mrs Pumphrey has come to help me sort out some school paperwork and is being a darn sight more helpful than Pandora Kitten whose idea of helping is to sit on a pile of sorted paper and rip it to shreds, starting at the outside and working her way gradually inwards with all the skill of a cat who has done this sort of thing a million times before.

'What were we talking about?' I say, filing odds and sods of 'Macbeth' in a file labelled 'SKS3/4' for Shakespeare Key Stages 3/ 4.
'Oh, you and your excessively long, explanatory sentences,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Call yourself a writer?'
'Yes, I do,' I say. 'It's just a pity the people who dish out the book deals don't.'
'We were talking about the shock I sustained this morning,' says Mrs P. 'Where would you like me to put 'Writing to Inform?'
'In the Writing Triplets File KS4,' I say. 'There....under The Great Gatsby KS5 and Dickens KS3.'
'And Tips for SLD?' says Mrs P.
'AEN file. Next to 'How to Manage ODD and EBDS.'
'It's all initials in teaching, isn't it?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Why's that then?'
'We don't have time to say things in full,' I say. 'So what was this shock you had this morning?'

'Ooooh, my heart is still fair thumping at the thought of it,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'You see, I was making my breakfast. The usual.'
'And what is the usual?' I say, because Mrs Pumphrey can be very fickle and changes her usual on a regular basis.
'Chopped grapes, cold pasta, a sprinkle of garlic powder and some cornmeal if the weather looks chilly,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'Nice,' I say.
'I know,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And I thought, I know I'll add some frozen slug. I like a sprinkle of frozen slug. Adds a good crunch.'
'I can imagine,' I say.
'They've been a Godsend really,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'They've cut down on my biscuit consumption a lot. Been a great help in maintaining my trim figure.'
'Are frozen slugs particularly low in calories?' I say.
'No,' says Mrs P, 'but they're more difficult to eat than biscuits. On account of them being so small.'

'So what was the shock?' says I. 'Mrs Slocombe finished the bag off, did she?'
'Oh no,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'She won't touch anything that's been frozen. Says you never know what undesirable 'things' might have got in during the freezing process.'
'A wise bird,' I say.
'As it turns out, yes she is,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'For there I was, sprinkling some frozen slug on my breakfast and something odd plopped out of the bag.'
'Really?' I say.
'Yes,' says Mrs P. 'At first I thought it was a pink rhinestone from Tango Pete's professional dance cod-piece, then I thought, what would a pink rhinestone from Tango Pete's professional dance cod-piece be doing in my bag of frozen slug?'
'The mind boggles,' I say.
'So I looked at this 'thing',' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'It seemed very familiar. And then my mind went back to Spring last year when I went on that 'Detoxify With Assorted Berries' health farm weekend. Remember?'
'I do,' I say. 'When you came home you self-seeded an entire bed of redcurrants by yourself.'
'Yes,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And then I realised what had plopped out with the frozen slugs.'
'Go on,' I say.

'It was a frozen....' began Mrs Pumphrey, and here she gave an almighty shudder. '....raspberry! YUKKK! How disgusting is THAT?'

'I can imagine,' I say.

Un Lamaca della Lampones

I'm not sure the above sentence is grammatically correct but the two nouns are and this morning I found one in a bag of the other and practising my Italian on it makes the experience seem less yukky.

I love frozen raspberries. I get through many frozen raspberries in a week. Frozen raspberries are my subsitute biscuits. And I'm just waiting for the Daily Rant to publish a story warning of the many dangers and deadly diseases that can be had through excess consumption of frozen raspberries. But even if that story does appear it won't stop me eating them. I love them too much.

Anyway, that love almost came to an abrupt halt this morning when I was putting together my breakfast. One kiwi fruit, sliced, one dollop of rhubarb yogurt, one teaspoon of ground cinnamon and then, la piece de resistance, a handful (maybe slightly more, maybe a handful the size of King Kong) of frozen raspberries. And as I tipped the raspberries from the packet something un-raspberrish tipped out with them.

At first I thought it was a cat toe nail. We get a lot of those around the house, having three cats who do a lot of furniture stropping between them. Then I thought, 'How would a cat toe nail get into a bag of frozen raspberries?'

I picked the 'thing' from the bowl, and examined it closely. It was quite small, about half an inch long. Tapered at either end, a bit fatter in the middle. It looked strangely familiar. 'I'm sure I've seen one of these before,' I thought. 'But where? Why is this shape and colour so familiar?'

And then I realised. A flashback to the middle of Spring last year, to the allotment, to a morning spent weeding around the edge of the polytunnel, where the ground was moist, the air was warm, the conditions were perfect for the development of baby...

....SLUGS!!!!

OH YUKK! Yes, on very close inspection, the 'thing' that had plopped onto my bowl of breakfast fruit was a frozen solid baby slug whose last memory had probably been, 'Oooh, I love a wander in the undergrowth of a field of raspberry canes, when the fruit is at its most lush and delicious. What's that noise? Sounds like a harvester with a freezer unit attac....'

You know that sometimes you have those moments when your body tells you to do one thing and your brain tells you to do another? And usually the brain and the body are at odds with the correct cause of action. Well, that is exactly what happened next.

'Eat the breakfast,' said the body. 'You were brought up not to waste food. '
'But there was a slug on it,' said the brain. 'A slimey, yukky, ikky sluggy slug.'
'It was frozen,' said the body. 'No slime involved.'
'It might have had a massive slime-fest in its death throw,' said the brain. 'That whole bag of raspberries could have been smothered in slug slime.'
'Well, she's been eating them all week. They haven't done any damage...' said the body.
'....yet,' finished the brain.
'Just eat the food. Don't think about it,' said the body.
'Hardly a vegetarian course of action,' said the brain.
'I didn't say 'Pop the slug back on as an exotic garnish', did I?' said the body.

And whilst this was going on, I popped the frozen slug in the food recycle bin.

And then, because it usually does, the body won the argument and I ate my breakfast, and it's only now, thinking about it, that it's making me feel slightly nauseous.

I did toy with the idea of taking a photo of the offending slug then storming Sainsbugs and claiming a refund on my contaminated bag of raspberries.

But they probably would have said, 'We're called 'Sainsbugs' aren't we? What else do you expect?? Watch out for the woodlouse in your peas.'

So I didn't.

I like kiwi fruit and yogurt and cinnamon and raspberries. I don't like slugs. The slug had been, albeit briefly, balanced on my breakfast.

Italiano

So I have begun my mission to learn Italian. This has been helped by being able to download various fun and furious apps onto my I-pad enabling me to indulge in various fun and furious games which are basically making me learn the language through sheer panic. So far I am fluent in various words to do with cars - una decappottabile, un cofano, benzina and una serratura for example - and words to do with animals e.g un ape, una gallina, un gatto, un cane etc, so I shall be okay if I break down in a car near a farm.

I have tried to get to grips with counting which involves playing a game about stopping fish drowning but this proved traumatic and noisy and today the only numbers I can remember are uno, tre, sei, sette,otto and nove. Anything in the teens was too complicated - I murdered many fish trying to learn those.

I know the games are being successful because I woke this morning and the first things that came into my head was Italian vocabulary!

Exploring the apps one can get for the I-pad has been an eye opening experience. There are educational ones, like learning languages, various types of diary, many free and quite awful books, ones for tracking stars and, bizarrely, one for recording one's bowel habits. I passed on that one (!) So far I have downloaded a diary, a novel writing one, two learn Italian ones and one for English teachers. And I have invented two of my own, but Andy is doubtful they will catch on. One is called 'Peticure' in which you can enter your pet's illness symptoms and do your own diagnosis, thereby cutting out the middle man, and the second is called 'Gwhat-a-mole' for recording and tracking your moles. The beauty of this one is that it is dual purpose i.e you can record the moles on your body AND the moles in your garden!

Be warned - now I am in an inventing mood, there may be more on the way...

I Pad

Today , my blog post is coming to you from my new I-pad! Yes, Andy made me buy one. He will

deny it of course, and say that he has seen the lustful glint in my eye ever since I started playing with his I-pad and knew it would only be a matter of time before I decided to get one as well.

Today was the day. I did responsible things with my hard earned cash to start with, like buying cat food and cat litter and doing a weekly shop at Sainsbugs. And paying another wedge off the mortgage so we are a step closer to moving to a little house with a big garden in the countryside.

And then, because cat accoutrements and food and washing up liquid and motgages are generally boring in the grand scheme of funness, I thought "get the i-pad and join the next step up on the technology ladder!"

So I did, and here I am typing away and making mistakes like somehow managing to change the font colour without knowing it, and knowing even less how to change it back, so it will have to stay, because the last thing one wants to do with one's new toy is throw it at the wall in a fit of pique.

One of the things that I immediately like about this little machine is that the keyboard, if you can call it that, makes little tic-ticketty noises like an old-fashioned type-writer. And the text is automatically checked for spelling so you don't have to correct spelling errors unless it does something like thinking your made up work of 'funness' is, in fact, Furness, as in 'Barrow-in'.

And I like the fact that it is instant in its switch-on-ness unlike my desk top which can take a while to crank itself up. However, I can see a couple of downsides. Like my back is already aching with staring down at the screen, so I shall have to find one of those groovy prop up case doo-dahs (probably in a funky flower design), and I have already incurred a butter smudge where I tried to carry the I-pad, a cup of tea and a buttered hot cross bun all at the same time. So multi-tasking could be a no-no.

Actually, this could be a new slimming aid, because I suspect that the consumption of any food stuff, including cream crackers, is likely to leave smudgy fingerprints everywhere. So no eating when I-padding!

There is also a camera thing where you can picture yourself in various guises like 'wind tunnel' and 'kaleidoscope' and 'hall of mirrors'. There are 9 options and at least seven of them are an improvement on the original, but that is only because I am in a state of raddledness following a stint of Kayleigh baby sitting duty last night which involved lots of playing of wild toddler games, a late night and an early morning because the plumber was coming to sort out the bendy shower tray. And I had to get up to clean the bathroom before he arrived so he didn't think he'd just installed a nice new shiny bathroom in the house of a slattern.

So there we go. My Easter holiday is off to a flying start on the techno-front. The weather is looking a bit rubbish after a week of sunshine, and snow was mentioned on the radio this morning. People have just about stopped panic buying petrol, and I am not bothered about the whole Budget pasty VAT debacle because pretty much all the pasties I know contain bits of dead animal and the last veggie pasty I ate gave me food poisoning.

I have books waiting to be read. I am going into school on Monday and Tuesday morning to do Easter revision sessions for which I am being paid extra and that extra will almost cover the cost of the I-pad. And on Tuesday afternoon, Kayleigh and I are having a girly outing which will no doubt involve more wild toddler games.

And yesterday I was presented with much chocolate at work. And the exciting piece of dietary news this week is this people who eat a lot of chocolate don't put on weight because 'chocolate calories are different.'

I shall be testing this theory. I shall let you know how I progress!