Those Weeds Fight Back . . . And How!

There was I – full of the joys of spring and, fuelled by my over enthusiasm, I declared to my newly formed gardening group, ‘I’m off to weed a border!’ No harm there. Nothing at all ominous about that. Just off to weed a border at the side of the path.

Two hours later and after tugging, pulling, swearing and sweating I stood up, stood back, and admired my work. Brilliant! Nothing short of brilliant. Gone was the awful couch grass invading from my neighbour’s garden and tangling itself around willow roots and under the path. Gone were the thick, stubbornly rooted spring-flowering creeper thingy’s. Just lovely rich soil smiled back at me. Happy with my work I toddled back into the house. This was Saturday.

At 3 a.m. Sunday I woke thinking someone had dropped a house brick on my head. The pain was excruciating – I kid you not – I couldn’t raise my head at all without searing pain. Pain so bad that all I could do was lie there – and as we all know pain in the early hours is always far worse.

By sliding my flattened hand under the side of my face and supporting my head I eventually managed to sit up and make it downstairs where I suffered a Weetabix followed by two paracetamol and an ice pack to my neck bones. This went down well in the freezing cold kitchen! By 5 a.m. I struggled back to bed.

Sunday had been prearranged. It was Richard’s birthday and I’d organised a family meal out. When he caught a glimpse of me, shuffling along, imitating the Hunch Back of Notre Dame, he said, ‘You need to go back to bed.’ Yeah. Cheers for that. Back to bed where he could ignore my pain until I died a slow and lingering death because he’d forgotten all about me!’ At this point I had to tell him I couldn’t go back to bed because being the lovely, wonderful person that I am I’d arranged a fricking surprise meal for him. This was met with scepticism, a narrowing of the eyes and a slight nod of the head. You see, he’s a simple soul, enjoying the simple pleasures in life and never really celebrates his birthday. Unfortunately, my mum died on his birthday, some eighteen years ago now and, originally, it did rather take the shine off the celebrations. The twelth of March became the day  mum died, not the day Richard was born. Nowadays, I put him first – after taking flowers to the church.

So, off we went. I looked like the walking dead. I felt worse. I sat at the end of the table so that I could, by staring straight ahead, see everyone without moving a muscle – literally.

Somehow I made it home alive. Richard had a lovely time – and he even liked my gift to him – a new Samsung tablet. However, when, later, he came up to bed he found me sobbing. Yeah, OK, so I’m a wimp. I couldn’t help it. The pain level that had, I suppose, been around eight had soared to ten. The slight window of least pain, if I held my head just right, had slammed shut. Everything hurt. At this point he said, ‘Right, we’re going to the hospital!’

Earlier I’d said, ‘I think I need to go to the hospital’.

My son had said, ‘They won’t do anything Mum.’

Richard had said, ‘Do you really want to sit in A and E for twelve hours?’

I knew they wouldn’t ‘do’ anything and no I did not want to ‘sit in A and E for twelve hours,’ but don’t they have things like heroin, morphine and stuff?

Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to get my clothes back on so he held me till I stopped sobbing, rubbed my neck (it didn’t help but he was trying bless him) and then fetched me some yogurt and honey so that I could take some painkillers.See how I always try to eat something before taking painkillers? This way I figure I won’t be adding stomach ulcers to my fast-growing list of complaints?

Monday and Tuesday were spent in bed, unable to move. Wednesday and Thursday I got up in the morning and went back to bed in the afternoon. Friday I made it through most of the day and so on and so on. . .

It still isn’t right but I can now live with it without turning into a pathetic, sobbing female. That’s not me, you see.

I know how it happened. Having three degenerative neck discs, whose soft protective padding is fast disappearing, stretching over the borders and applying all that pressure on my discs just didn’t work. They couldn’t support the weight of my head.

But, positives from negatives – I read three novels (I’d hardly read anything at all till then) and I had some rest – although enforced – but rest all the same.

I’ve started pottering in the garden again. Managed to toddle round a couple of garden centres and purchase a few bits . . .  so there you go.

I have found that the hardest thing about growing older is accepting it. I expect my body to keep up with my mind. It can’t. I have things to do popping into it constantly. I remember my darling father, it his last years, getting very frustrated and angry with himself because, due to his ever-increasing health problems he felt useless. He couldn’t do this and he couldn’t do that. I, of course, being the sensible and logical person that I am told him, ‘No, of course you can’t do those things. BUT instead of focusing what you can’t do focus on what you can do.’ At the time it made perfect sense to me – but that was before I was reaching the point of realising that I can’t do some of the things that I used to do.

No more throwing paving slabs around. No more climbing the apple tree to prune the odd branch. No more throwing bags of compost around. And . . . it appears, no more digging borders! I’m sorry, Daddy, I was an insensitive idiot.

 

https://www.facebook.com/groups/255925658182426/?ref=bookmarks

 

 

A Bit Like Writing A Novel?

So, I’ve been warbling on and on about this chicken shed that is no longer a chicken shed but now a craft shed and a few readers have queried what I’m actually doing in there. Some of my antics I can speak of – some not.

I’m joking.

If you remember I started by making plaques and hearts? I still have these in my ‘portfolio’ but I’m pretty sure I won’t be making many more of these. They were a tad like a rough copy and as I progressed I edited them a few times, finally deciding that as a stand-alone item they are fine but a sequel will not follow.

I can totally relate this ‘craft’ thing to writing a novel . . . or at least to the way I write a novel. I start at the beginning with an idea and then see what happens. Usually, my characters write the novel for me and at times I have to rein them back with a firm hand. The same can be said of my ‘crafting.’ I start with an idea and see what happens. Quite often, like the novel, I end up with something that surprises even me – and not always in a good way.

I have days where everything I touch is utter crap and I  sit there staring at the debris, listening to Ken Bruce on the radio and watching Chea cleaning her bottom, stretched out across my work area. I don’t mind because frankly I’m not using it.

Then there are days when things go well and for a while I’m chuffed with what I’ve produced. Unfortunately, I have always been my own worst enemy and critic and usually, by the next day, I’m back to thinking it could be better.

I am fortunate that we have a log burner in the lounge. This is my plan B for the wooden failures. See, I am practical.

I’m liking the direction in which I appear to be going . . . large, chunky fairy houses and embossed pictures. It’s a bit like starting out writing romance and ending up in the horror genre. I like using rough wood, recycled and brought back to life. I love the way each piece is different and responds uniquely to sanding and painting etc.

Apologies, I’m wittering as usual. I only popped on here to post some pictures of what I’ve recently produced. The pics’ aren’t great but I think it gives the general impression. See, if I blame the images you’ll believe the items are better than they look. Sneaky, hey?

So, for Malla, Elaine, Evelyn etc. here you go . . .

Not The Adonis Kind

So . . . I guess I was only kidding myself that if I removed all chicken perches, nest boxes, feed and water containers etc. from the chucks summer-house it would help with the loss of my little feathered friends?

It seemed like a sound idea at the time and I have to admit that the summer-house does make a great ‘craft shed.’ It has changed beyond all recognition and now houses all things ‘crafty,’ including a few home comforts . . . two chairs, a radio/C.D. player, a heater and a small T.V. These items are not to be viewed as expensive luxuries, far from it, they were all kicking around the place and have been rounded up and herded into my shed. I did treat myself to a lovely little palm hand-sander and it works a treat, buzzing and sanding away in the early hours of the morning, sending clouds of wood dust up into the air and over the fence into the neighbour’s garden.

I might buy myself a little Workmate – the metal and wood kind – not the hard muscled, tanned, Adonis kind! I find the second kind highly overrated and frankly I’ll get more use out of the metal and wood kind. Well, I have always told you that I’m not ‘girlie,’ what more proof do you want?

I’ve become a tad side tracked here. Back to the point I was going to make.

At this time of the year I usually open the green wooden gate leading into the top of the garden, where the fruit and vegetables are grown, and the chucks are allowed in there. This year, as I stood at the gate and surveyed the yellowing courgette leaves and the fallen apple leaves it suddenly hit me – there would be no delighted clucks and frenzied scratching-up of dying leaves and the terribly unfair assault on all bugs great and small. I wouldn’t sit with the autumn sun, still warm on my face, sipping tea as I watched the antics of Rita Raptor and Mable. Wouldn’t watch as Chea stalked them, thinking that they hadn’t seen her hiding behind a bare gooseberry bush. These things are petty, I know. And silly, no doubt. But this is my life, you see. Little things please little minds.

The greenhouse is now empty, having produced a bumper crop of tomatoes this year. For some reason Richard stepped in and took great interest in watering them ‘correctly’ – obviously I have been doing this incorrectly for the last twenty-five years – and he takes full credit for the bumper crop. He said, ‘Monty (Monty Don, Gardeners’ World) said you have to water them like this. Flood them out and keep them wet.’

No comment.

Seemed to work though – until nearing the end of their growth spurt – then their leaves developed grey mould because they were growing in the equivalent of a paddy field.

They have now been pulled out and thrown in the compost bin. The borders have been dug over and Chea now delights in using both greenhouse borders as giant litter trays, digging out a huge bowl-shaped hole and squatting peacefully, relief all over her little tabby face. I’m not sure what effect this will have on next year’s crop? Or, even if I will eat tomatoes next year, all things considered.

I have to admit to simply standing at staring at the changing leaves, looking, to all intents, that I have lost the plot, or at least walked into the garden for a reason and then forgotten the reason. I can’t help it. I love the changing colours and the way the autumn sunshine accentuates them.

A few more weeks and the leaves will all have fallen, the garden will sleep through the darker, shorter days and it, and I, will wait for the spring. Then we will both start all over again – God willing.

Take Care x

How Can I Be Lonely With 3 Bats, A Spider And A Witch?

Hi

First, let me say how surprised I was at the response to my previous post – the loss of Rita Raptor and the heartbreaking episode of deciding to part with Mable. I thought everyone would laugh themselves half to death, after all, they were only chickens, but that didn’t happen. Everyone sympathised and understood. In fact, many of the comments made me at best, tear-up, and at worst, cry. I still miss them terribly but accept that I can’t continue to whine on and on about it so . . . I’ve attempted to move on – and this is how. . .

I told you that Richard had kindly dismantled all things ‘chicken’ in the summer-house and had taken it back to four walls, well, I decided to move all my junk off the kitchen table and into said summer-house. It was no longer going to be a chicken coop, a shrine to all that went before, it was now going to be a craft shed where I could make my er . . . crafts.

We (I) decided that the roof needed double skinning so that it was a bit warmer, with the winter coming and all, and he agreed, in theory, but when it came to lifting heavy MDF up above our heads and attempting to nail it to the ceiling the arguments started. He stood swaying under the weight and inconvenience of a 4’ x 8’ sheet of MDF stating that he couldn’t do it and I threw a wobbly and told him to forget the sodding thing and that I was going back to house and that I wouldn’t have a stupid craft shed. He calmed down and virtually begged me to let him attempt it again even though it was causing his two-year-old operation site in his shoulder, where they’d severed a tendon, great pain. Such a frigging hero!

Of course, I stropped a tad more and then we got on with it. We now have half of the roof double boarded, the other half is waiting for new M.D.F, that hasn’t even been ordered yet – but I’m sure we will get around to it.

I bought a few bits for in there – a clock, a blind (pinched 3 others from Richard’s shed) 2 lampshades, 3 bats (don’t ask) a huge black spider (don’t ask) and other crap that I’m pretty sure I didn’t and don’t need but I’m grieving and this kinda helps –  a bit.

I’m hoping to expand my range and go into other things to add to my portfolio, trouble is most of these ‘other things’ involve Richard getting out his Work Mate and rusting tools that hardly work, because he abuses them, and helping me. To be continued . . .

Some of you might think this is a lonely existence for me stuck a third of the way up the garden? It isn’t. I have a radio, CD player, head phones, a comfy chair for when I’m exhausted, a rocking chair for when I’m ‘rockin’,’ and a witch to keep me company. Obviously the witch isn’t real – though to be honest I do have my doubts. Sometimes, when I go into the shed first thing in the morning, she seems to be not ‘quite’ where I left her.

Some might say that I’ve lost the plot but how do you lose something you never had? Have to admit that I made a plaque this morning with a chicken on it and the wording ‘Go Chuck Yourself.’ I’ll leave you to form your own opinion and rescue the Quorn and potato pie from the oven. See, I still find time to cook proper food. Well, I figure Richard needs to keep up his energy levels if he is going to be of any use whatsoever? He’s kinda in favour at the moment because yesterday he bought me a lovely heater for my shed. He said I needed to keep warm in the winter. Frankly, I think he bought it to keep Chea warm in the winter  as she spends more time in the comfy chair than I do.

Again, thank you all for your kind words.

Take care x

OK, So I Was A Tad Rude . . .Whatever!

Hi

Yesterday I sank to an all-time low – even for me. I’d like to state my case here and have you all say that my actions were well justified but I doubt that you will.

I have been suffering from migraine and visual disturbances since last Friday. Migraine is nothing new to me – I have suffered with it for a large part of my life, but the pattern with this latest attack was different. It hung on . . .  and hung on, one hour lessening . . . the next returning. Intermittently my right eye lost clarity, with flashing silver and black triangles, dancing like manic witches, on the periphery. This has happened 7 times, the seventh time being yesterday morning when I attempted to go to Morrison’s to buy cat food for Chea. Between the ‘chicken with gravy’ and the ‘chicken with jelly,’ my right eye vision started its familiar flashing.

Now, I have my own theory on the cause of all these migraines but no bugger will take me seriously. I truly believe that they are triggered by my 3 degenerative neck discs that have very little of that ‘spongy’ bit separating them now and are aggravating this condition.

So, I decided to call in at the doctors on my way home – that is if I could find my way home with only perfect vision in one eye – and explain this to the doctor and ask to be referred for another neck scan etc. I mean, less face it, no better time than when I’m in the throes of pain and semi blindness, hey?

The receptionist announced that there were no more appointments for that day and if I wanted to see my doctor of choice (brilliant, caring, and wonderful all round, by the way) I could come back next year. Yes, that is a slight exaggeration, but only slight. Had I been able to see the stupid woman I might have been tempted to stick her Biro up her prominent snout, but I was feeling less than confrontational, all things considered.

I felt my way home having settled for a phone call from the doctor – basically to see if I was worthy of being squeezed into his precious day.

After tending the chucks and cleaning the loo, with my mobile strapped to my person so that I didn’t miss the call, I waited . . . and waited.

Eventually the call arrived. It was a nurse. Now, I have nothing against nurses, not at all but . . .

She questioned me, listened, tapped away on the PC (I could hear it distinctly and it hurt my head) and then said, ‘Can you come down now?’

Well, yeah. I could have ‘come down’ two hours ago . . . in fact wasn’t I already there two hours ago, or had I imagined it?

Long story short now. Saw the doctor I had sworn I would never see (by choice) ever again and he insisted it was migraine – nothing to do with my neck – didn’t matter that the ‘pattern’ was totally different – no he couldn’t ‘do’ a referral, not unless ‘he’ thought there was a problem with my neck – no my neck would not cause this.

He struggled to realise that I’ve tried every medication on this planet over the years and nothing works. Medication makes me worse. I’m sensitive. Side affects almost kill me. However, he decided in his infinite wisdom that I should try a different ‘variation’ of a drug previously taken and printed off a prescription. He said, ‘Take one of these – see if they work.’

‘And if they don’t?’ I said.

‘Come back because it isn’t migraine.’

WTF!

For the first time in my life I was rude, snatching up the damn thing and stropping off to the door.

‘Well, bye then,’ he said.

I didn’t answer.

As you can see this is very unlike me. Usually I’m charming, cheerful and hugely polite. I blame it on my brain. But there was more to come.

I walked into the pharmacy next door and the lovely assistant, who always seems to remember my name, said, ‘Hello, are you alright?’

She really should not have asked.

‘NO!’ I said, snatching her pen and filling in my name on the back of the prescription. ‘That lot are useless.’ I nodded in the direction of the surgery, next door. And then I said it . . . ‘Fucking useless!’

She didn’t look too distressed . . . or surprised and said, ‘Yes, we do hear that from time to time.’

‘Bastard!’ I said. ‘Useless bastards.’

We chatted for a bit and then I released her and took a seat . . . for 20 seconds. The other assistant called my name and I navigated my way to the counter. She fluttered the prescription in her hand and said, ‘Sorry, we don’t have these. We can get them for tomorrow?’

My first assistant screeched, ‘Oh, God, no, don’t tell her that!’

I simply held up my palms to the heavens and said calmly and with a bit of a snort, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll just drop down dead and save everyone any further trouble.’ I can do drama when required.

She looked worried . . . but then I laughed – well, snorted really. My vision had returned, some of my good humour – though I did hurl out mumbled curses into the ether as I walked back to the car, determined to fondle my voodoo doll on my return and twist a leg or two. Maybe even bang its head against the wall?  My imagination had no limit.

Someone once asked me if ‘they’ were in my novel. I replied, ‘Why would you be? I only write about interesting characters.’ In fact, I have never fashioned a fictional character on a real character but this may change.

I may include this ‘doctor’ in my next novel. He will be the character that dies a slow and painful death after having his ‘bits’ stung by a thousand bees. There will be a life-saving prescription on hand but, sadly, the pharmacy will have to order it in. Alas too late to save him. Oh, and perhaps a slight sting to his right eye?

Hell hath no fury like a migraine victim scorned . . . trust me on this one.

I’m off. Shouldn’t be looking at this bright screen!

And besides, I have to pick up the prescription that I won’t be taking.

Take care my lovelies x

PS A huge welcome to new blog followers! Thank you x

 

 

26th November And The Christmas Pressie Shopping Is Done!

Hi

I can’t believe I’m going to say this because it is so unlike me, usually I’m a 24^th December shopper, but . . . I now have all my Christmas presents – bought, wrapped, and stored away from prying eyes.

To be honest it’s a great feeling but I do have to account most of this early bird activity to Richard – the ‘let’s-click-on-that-and-buy-it-even-though-we-don’t-need-it’ manic Ebayer.  His little fingers are almost worn down to the bone with all the internet activity.

Instead of trotting along to Argos, or Toys R Us, Richard has bought from the internet. This is OK, in theory, but he clears off to work and I’m having to stay focused on the front door as parcel after parcel arrives.

We had a little scan around Tesco last Saturday, looking for wrapping paper and any other ‘bits’ for stocking fillers for Jake and Grace. They didn’t need anything else but while Richard was watching some woman fingering bras in the clothes section, I came across a lovely little parrot in a cage. Not a real parrot, obviously, no, a stuffed toy thingy. It had one of those little button things that you press and it squawks and such like – so I pressed it – and yep, it squawked. Then I happened to read the box and it said it repeated anything you said to it, so I tried it out, and it did. I was having great fun as Richard sidled up, having lost interest in the woman buying the bra. Either that or she’d reported him to the store’s security team?

‘Look at this!’ I exclaimed. ‘Isn’t it brilliant? It repeats everything you say. I think we should get it for Grace.’

Richard squinted a bit (he’s half blind at close range) and then pressed the button. Then, standing in the middle of Tesco’s he spoke his message into the parrot. A second later it squawked out, ‘Shop at ASDA!’

‘You idiot?’ I said. This only served to make him laugh louder. Then he pressed the buttons on every parrot on the shelf and within seconds the place was filled with, ‘Shop at Asda! Shop at Asda! Shop at Asda!’ etc. etc.

He thought this most amusing – did I mention that he has a weird sense of humour?

Richard, being Richard, couldn’t leave it at that and strains of, ‘you sexy beast, you sexy beast, you sexy beast,’ echoed up and down the aisle.

I grabbed one parrot for Grace and left him to it.

We giggled most of the way home as the parrot, squashed under 3 bags of frozen oven chips and 2 bags of Quorn sausages, gave intermittent squawks each time the car went over a bump and a frozen sausage triggered its button thingy.

So, then, when we got home, we wrapped everything. When I say ‘we’ I mean Richard sat at the table playing with the parrot, teaching it a whole new vocabulary, and I wrapped everything.

The only present remaining to buy is mine – and Richard’s. But we probably won’t bother. That’s not because we are mean or don’t think enough of each other to buy gifts, no, it’s because neither of us can ever come up with something we need, or would like.

At least the ‘Tesco’ trip was less stressful than the Morrison’s shop the other day.

I was there at the crack of dawn, stuffing cat food into the basket – 7 foils for £3 – so I bought 21. Chea is like a blancmange, slipping out sideways when she squats. I must, in her defence –  and mine, because I don’t want you thinking that I’m such a crap owner that I over feed her,  admit to her having grown a coat so thick that it isn’t dissimilar to the 70s shag pile that frequented homes. Anyway, I digress . . .

Back to Morrison’s. I’d thrown the cat food foils into the trolley and was just fingering a cheapo Christmas jumper when there was an almighty thud and the whole store blacked out. This has never happened to me before and frankly it was a tad worrying. I half expected armed robbers to be swooping down the aisles at any moment demanding my pearls and best leather boots. I thought these places had emergency generators that kicked in?

I stood chatting to a woman – as you do – for ages, well, ten minutes, and then with a thud the lights came back on. I then made a fast retreat to the checkout only to find that I’d thrown the Christmas jumper, that I was merely looking at, into the trolley and was, now, loading it onto the conveyor belt.

So, I now have a penguin Christmas jumper. Yep, I know, sad or what?

Actually, thinking about it, perhaps I do know what I can get Richard for Christmas . . . but then again, could I live with the squawking? But, then again, I already live with his!

Later dudes . . .

 

 

Pricks … Jam … And Nuts In My Bra!

Not been around for a while. I’ve been lost in the darkest, deepest depths of my garden. That is, until the secateurs were taken in hand and used to clip, cut-back and chop away anything that broke boundaries.

I blame this, to a certain extent, on my OCD tendencies.  Do you know what I mean? All tins have to be facing the same way in the cupboard, anything square has to be placed exactly squarely, blinds have to hang dead level …I won’t go on.

So, when broccoli leaves brown at the base they have to go. When the manic gooseberry bushes have had their precious fruit picked, straggly bits have to be chopped back so that they look balanced, and I can’t cope with plants that ‘overlap’ into each other, either. Everything has a right to its own ‘space’ in my opinion. However, I digress. . .

Regarding the blackcurrants.

This year I had the help (?) of my two grandchildren. Schools out and so they came to spend the day and help me (?) in the garden. First on the list was the picking of the blackcurrants. It didn’t matter how many their little fingers dropped on the ground because the bushes were weighed down to the ground with them – blackcurrants not little fingers!

It took a good ninety minutes to pick them (taking time out to apply plasters to thorn pricks as the ‘littles’ became side-tracked into picking and eating gooseberries), but eventually we toggled back to the house with our harvest. I had to carry all the bowls, obviously, because the killer chucks were patrolling and anything that resembles food, treats etc. turns them instantly into velociraptors on the hunt. I, of course, understand this and so do Jake and Grace and cling to me like second and third skins.

Then followed another hour of washing the fruit, and flooding out the kitchen, and dropping blackcurrants that became squashed beneath bare toes. The work surface resembled an approaching tsunami at one stage. Eventually I stopped moaning at them and settled with the thought that, like usual, I would put the house back to normal after they had gone. ‘Cos this was fun, wasn’t it? Doing cool, big-person stuff with Grandma Gail? Yeah – whatever.

There was no way I could actually make the jam with the kiddies there, way too dangerous, so we left the washed blackcurrants in bowls and went off to ‘mini monster hunt’ in the garden. This necessitated using my lovely plastic containers (with lids) so that the ‘monsters’ couldn’t escape. I did question if we would be releasing these creatures afterwards and Jake assured me that we would. As it turned out they were too scared to turn over logs and bricks, and I refused to, on the grounds that I didn’t think we should be catching ‘monsters’ in the first place, so the game only produced one woodlouse and a sick looking slug. But they had fun…

The following morning, and still slightly hung over from child minding two very loud little people, I set about making the jam.

There was so much fruit that I had to use both jam pans, but that was fine, I’m a woman, I can do two things at once!

Pan one bubbled nicely.

Pan two bubbled nicely.

Thermometer was held precariously in pan one for a while, until it confirmed that the temperature was perfect and that the jam would set. Off went pan one.

Thermometer was held precariously in pan two, and ditto, done and ready.

As I removed the thermometer I noticed that it looked slightly odd. Scowling, I realised that the sodding thing had broken …in the jam …in pan two. At least, I thought it was in pan two. Did it matter? Really? There was only a bit of glass missing. Just the bulby bit. And Richard had scoffed soup with the bouquet garni paper bag left on, and absent-mindedly blended in, if you remember? And perhaps I could sieve it? Turn it into blackcurrant jelly? Give it to people I didn’t really like …mind I’d have to have a bloody lot of jam! I’m joking. Sort of. The decision was taken out of my hands as, at that precise moment of indecision, Richard walked in.

I won’t say we argued the point but the jam was outta there and tipped down the drain before I could draw breath. So …20lbs of jam ditched, pronto. I still have far more than I need, cos that’s me, the great ‘hunter-gatherer.’ The birds and insects can have the remaining blackcurrants … and the gooseberries …and the raspberries.

I’ve never thought of myself as particularly accident prone but since smashing the thermometer (I   now realise it was my fault because I’d clipped it on the side of the smaller jam pan and it had hit the bottom) I have trapped my hand in the ironing board, dropped the iron on my heel and opened-up the side of my finger picking gooseberries.

And …this morning, the piece de resistance!

Mrs OCD wanted the newly purchased cereal boxes placing neatly on the top shelf of the cupboard. Straightforward enough? Yeah, except, like a big-bottomed girl the bag of Crunchy Oat Granola – with raisins and almonds – had settled, and I couldn’t get all the boxes in so I reached up, lifted out the bag, turned it upside down, so that the contents would settle in a level manner, and some idiot hadn’t closed it. Before I could do anything about it half a packet of muesli showered down on my head, all over the floor, in the toaster, on every shelf, and down my shirt. I uttered, ‘shit,’ – a bigger word, and said with more force, would have resulted in me choking on the stuff. Even little Chea removed her face from her feed bowl and came to have a look at the lovely new flooring. I actually had to free my … er…breasts from my bra and shake the wheat out of it, to say nothing of the nuts and raisins.

I was bloody annoyed because, for one thing, I had no intention of vacuuming today!

So, I guess it is official. I’m OCD and accident prone. Never mind, it could be worse. I could be insane. It’s these little things that we have to be grateful for…

Take care my lovelies x

Mange Tout Much Of A Good Thing?

Hi All

Just as I am starting to reap my bountiful harvest I have to question myself.

Whacking in seeds right left and centre and finding a bit of spare ground, here and there, to slip in just one more row of Brussels plants might, in retrospect, have been a bit over the top.

Richard is almost being force-fed mange tout peas and broad beans on a daily basis. He questions, now and then, albeit very quietly, if mange tout peas go with oven chips and baked beans? You can see I’m a jolly good producer of balanced meals?

It may have been the broad beans with the omelette that caused him to politely ask, ‘Are there many more of these left?’ Well, yes my little sweetie there are. Hundreds. Millions in fact. The mother plants are standing so close together, laden with swelling pods, that if you venture down the rows you may well disappear and never be seen again. Yes, it has most certainly has been a good year for the bean.

Billions of fat gooseberries hang, ready to be picked. They are jolly nice just to pluck from the bush and eat in passing. Although, once I start plucking and munching I fail to pass or to stop at the sensible stopping point and spend half the night in the loo, holding my lower gut and moaning to anyone who will listen that I’ll never eat another half-ripe gooseberry ever again. I’m not good with gut pain. All severe bellyache brings back the memory of the pain of giving birth and that is not something I wish to revisit. Dear God they really do need to invent an easier, less painful way of giving birth. Anyway …moving on…

The blackcurrants will need picking by the end of the week and that means resurrecting the jam making equipment, washing out jars, purchasing endless bags of sugar and suffering third degree burns to my lower arms. This year I am jam making at a weekend. This is so that Richard can help. He eats half a jar at a time so he can witness, and be part of, the hard work that goes into it.

I’ve actually started looking forward to things dying off. The first to fit this category was a tub of early mange tout that I’d started off in the greenhouse way back at the beginning of the year in my attempt to have a longer fruiting period. Had I known that Richard wasn’t that keen to have them with pizza and oven chips I probably wouldn’t have bothered.

So, dead keen to remove the spent peas to the compost heap, and the potting compost back to the garden, I grabbed the peas and attempted to yank them from the tub. They wouldn’t budge. Obviously they wanted to hang around for a bit longer just to pee me off. Not to be deterred I carried the whole tub over to the compost heap by the plant tops. Once there I gave it all a good shake and covered myself in compost. Still they held firm. I cut a bit of string and pulled out a few pea sticks and tried again, this time lifting the whole tub, with peas intact, up to waist level and shook it.

Something leapt at me. As it passed my head I recognised four legs and an open-mouthed look of horror on the frogs face as it missed my mouth by coat of paint.

Had I been cussing at the time my mouth would have been ajar and I would really have had a frog in my throat. As the creature from hell landed in the rhubarb I screamed, ‘Godddddddddd, for fucks sake.’

In retrospect I wish I hadn’t, as it alerted the neighbour – the one who lives under the conifer hedge waiting to ‘catch me’ for a chat. I then had to stand there nodding and smiling and contributing to the conversation with a smile on my face. Not only that, when I got back to the house the said face was covered in black compost, and with the odd greenfly thrown in for good measure. Don’t you just hate that? When you have a bug on your nose and the other person fails to mention it? You realise, in retrospect, that it wasn’t your riveting conversation that was keeping the other person glued to your features, but the insect that was halfway up your snout!

I love my garden. It is my escape. My little Shangri-La. I just wish the sodding frogs didn’t love it as well. And I could also do without half of the slugs and snails in Leicestershire congregating and planing their killing manoeuvres on all things green.

Oh well, off to dead-head the roses and pick a few hundred mange tout and broad bean pods. Might be kind and cook them with a piece of salmon tonight and give the old love a change.

Take care my lovelies x

Less Puss In Boots – More Mouse In Crocs!

Hi All

I have been reluctant to report on how well Chea, the ‘nest raiding’ puss, is behaving these days because I firmly believe that once I shout it out to the world she will instantly prove me wrong . So, I’m going to whisper this …she hasn’t, to my knowledge, raided a robin’s nest this year and returned home with her cache of fledglings. However…

This week she has changed her prey of preference – or is it just availability? – to the humble field mouse.

I ventured to look up from the laptop on Monday morning and there, before my eyes was Chea, on the other side of the patio doors, scuttling round the shoe rack and Richard’s Crocs that he had left on the floor. I know her movements and actions now. Scuttling doesn’t mean a bird. Scuttling means a rodent of some description.

Now, call me pathetic but I have a real ‘hang-up’ about approaching mice and all members of that genus. I think it’s some weird ingrained thing. I think it has something to do with the fact that I could make matters worse. If I approach, and the mouse makes a break for it, and Chea takes advantage of that and catches it and kills it, then the poor creature’s demise is down to me. Also, it might run across my toes!

Like the worst person on the planet I watched from the safety of the kitchen and saw the mouse break cover. Chea pounced – and the mouse ran into one of Richard’s Crocs. Chea ran ten circles around the shoe before coming to a halt at the toe. I could see the mouse’s little nose pushing forward through one of the Crocs holes at the front as it tried to squeeze its body through it. Chea sat waiting licking her lips and flexing her claws. This obviously wasn’t the most intelligent mouse. Forward, through the toe of the shoe into Chea’s waiting clutches was not the way to go.

Like old Butch Cassidy and Sundance, racing out only to be gunned down, I left the security of the kitchen and blundered out on tiptoe and grabbed Chea. She was most unimpressed and continued to strut back and forth, back and forth, across the patio doors for a good ten minutes.

After an hour the mouse was still pressed into the Croc, its little nose shoved hard into the hole at the toe, still considering that as a means of escape. Richard would be home soon and I had this awful vision of me being in the loo, him coming in, going straight out the back door, slipping his feet into the Crocs to go up the garden to look for me (thinking I was out there) and squashing the poor mouse, so I locked the back doors and kept the key on my person.

Five minutes before Richard walked in the mouse was still there. As he entered the house I yelled, ‘There’s a mouse in your Croc.’ He looked slightly confused but that’s nothing new and frankly, the day he stops looking confused is the day I’ll worry. We scurried to the door and he, like the Great White Hunter set about freeing the mouse. However, in those few minutes, Mr Mouse had made his own escape and there was no sign of him. Richard banged the old Crocs a bit and looked behind the shoe rack but the mouse had gone.

The following day Chea returned with a baby mouse. Dead.

The following day Chea returned with a baby mouse. Dead.

No I didn’t type that twice. Well, I did, but not by mistake.

The following day I was merrily removing the tips from the broad beans, as a swarm of blackfly were attempting to move in, when Chea came trotting down the path. Again, I knew that movement. That proud, ‘Look what I’ve got. Am I not clever? Am I not a great hunter?’

‘No Chea, you are a little shit!’

Hanging from her jaws was another baby mouse – wriggling. To be honest many of the things she brings back are still alive and live to fly, or scuttle, off to tell their loved ones about their near death experience. I was instantly pissed off. First, she’d brought back what I considered to be mummy mouse, and then, one by one – baby mouse, baby mouse and baby mouse. I threw the broad bean tips at her and she ran off, dropping the mouse who raced into the shrubbery. I caught her and put her in the house.

So …Chea 2. Gail 2.

I still can’t get the idea out of my head of slipping my foot into a gardening shoe with a mouse in it. If I ever did that I would die. Seriously. I would die. Needless to say I now upend everything and bang them hard on the floor before daring to access.

Mind you, if the mouse in Richard’s Croc had passed away, and not escaped back into the wild, I just might not have bothered telling him.

Other than mice everything else in the garden is flourishing. So much so that I have lost the garden paths beneath courgette and rhubarb leaves. Mother spiders have had bumper crops of babies and they, the baby spiders, are hatching by the thousands and floating throughout the greenhouse on tiny strands. Removing baby spiders from my hair is the daily ‘thing.’

The chucks are reasonably well and enjoy dust bathing with the sun on their feathers. In fact, everything in the garden is rosy – as long as you don’t include mice in the equation.

Take care my lovelies x

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back Into The Water..

Hi All

You know that line from Jaws …just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water… yes? Well, like the good people of ‘wherever-it-was,’ I too thought that I had conquered every known wee beastie that creeps, flies or crawls in my garden. I thought it was pretty safe to go back into the water…or, in my case, back into the garden, and that once there the ‘aliens’ would be well under control. Wrong.

As I stood admiring my broad beans, with the pride and love that only a mother would know, I did a double take. Their lovely, beautifully rounded leaves weren’t lovely and/or beautifully rounded any more. ‘What the frig!’ I muttered – loudly. Yes, OK, I know I shouldn’t talk to them but you have your little idiosyncrasies and I’ll have mine. ’What the frig?’ – again. Louder.

On closer examination I noticed that the leaves had been munched in a very strange fashion. This was not the work of slugs or snails. No, this was the work of something nasty and most unkind and instantly …or even sooner …its slaughter took over my every rational thought.

After thrashing my way through containers of slug pellets, sachets of cool glass, boxes of Epsom salts, bone meal, all-round jolly-good-for-everything-feed I came across the ‘killer spray.’ And yes, it did take some finding because, as I have stated many times, I don’t kill anything unless it really pees me off. Slugs and snails really pee me off – sorry, they have to go …but I will wing them into the neighbour’s garden, alive and whole, if I can.) I digress …

The killer-spray bottle info was extremely helpful and I instantly identified the culprit …The Bean and Pea Weevil! A bloody evil weevil. I read the info again. Yes. That was it. Notched leaves. I definitely had notched leaves.

I sprayed.

I must add that I searched high and low for one offending weevil and not as much as a hairy leg was found. Little shits. They obviously came under the cover of darkness. Little fly by nights? No, that’s something totally different, isn’t it?

Pea and bean weevil? Never heard of such a thing but, for now, my shark has been held at bay and another garden pest conquered. However, I fear that although this battle has been won, the war will go on. Soon the black fly, greenfly and every coloured fly under the rainbow will move in and the battle will commence.

Flight (poorly, on the-verge-of-death chuck) has shaken her tail feathers and made a full recovery (crossing fingers) and has charged back into her old ways, attacking with a rapier-like beak anything that slightly resembles food. She will happily leap the leap of a gazelle on stilts and rid me of anything that I happen to walk up the garden munching. Two days ago I carried a piece of leftover cake up the garden, wrapped in cling film, to give to them after I’d pooh-picked. Flight spotted the cake with one upturned eye, flew up my body, snatched the whole thing out of my hand and took off. The cake, unnoticed by the beast, fell out of the cling film and Little snaffled the lot. Flight bolted across the lawn and up the garden.

This was not good. I’d dragged the stupid creature back from the grim reaper and here she was, legging-it, with a sheet of cling film flapping over her face and beak. She vacated the lawn and ran into the shrubbery (fancy word meaning a few odd bushes) with me fast on her heels. This went on for a minute or two, looking like something out of an old Benny Hill sketch …Flight, followed by me, cussing …followed by Little, hoping that there might still be a few crumbs left in the cling film. This whole thing was watched through slit eyes and a furrowed brow by Chea, whom, at the time, was trying to fish-out a beached tadpole from the pond.

Fortunately, or not, blinded and probably half suffocated, Flight ran into a lavender bush and stopped. I caught her and, still cussing, snatched the cling film from her beak. She shook a bit and ran off, chasing Little, who had the misfortune to still have a bit of cake hanging visibly from her beak.

See, a lavender plant ruined as well.

As I write I look into the garden and I can see the trees and shrubs swaying. A windy day. I suppose this means that I had better move my butt and go and tie-up the broad beans before the poor things succumb and end up on the ground?

Sometimes, I think …wouldn’t it be easier to visit Iceland (the shop …not the place) and buy all this veg frozen, grown, picked and ready to tip into a saucepan?

Sometimes I think this…but then, I often think many silly things.

Gone to find the string…and let out the chucks.

Take care my lovelies x