Chicken Pooh On Legs ?

Hi All

Do you ever think you are too nice? I mean, I’m sure you are nice anyway, but I know, for a fact, that it’s possible to be too nice. Too friendly. And today I paid the price.

Picture this – I park the car and make my way to the bank. No problem. The bank has a queue right back to the door. Still no problem, because it’s 10.05 and I have an appointment, across the road at the hairdressers, for 10.30. It’s also raining, I forgot to mention that.

So, this suits me just fine. I figure that by the time I get to the front of the queue it will be approaching 10.30. I’ll quickly pay in the cheque and then pop across the road, nice and dry, and promptly on time. Good plan? Of course it was.

Then . . .  the elderly guy behind me, in the queue, makes a comment that I don’t quite catch, because he kinda mumbled. Either that or Richard has finally sent me deaf with his booming voice. This is the point at which I made the mistake of smiling and nodding. This has always been my stand-by reaction when I don’t quite catch what someone has said. Either that, or scowl and shake my head. I’ve perfected it over the years. I just catch the drift, the tone if you like, and adapt the face. Nice tone . . . smile and nod. Sad tone . . . scowl and shake my head. This works very well and I don’t have to listen to people!

The bank person thingy (yes I really do type ‘thingy’ when I can’t be bothered to think of the right word) toddled up and asked if she could help with anything – pay stuff into the hole in the wall. I said no thanks, I’ve an appointment over the road that I’m early for so it suits me to wait. Off she scooted.

Now the guy behind me informs me, in clear words that I do catch, that he will be fine when he gets his half a million at the end of the month.

My little ears pricked up at that and I, never being one to miss an attempt at being witty, guffawed, ‘Half a million! Blimey, are you married?’

And that was that. A harmless little quip and away he went. Married twice. Served in the army. 5 canines. Never leaves the house without leaving one dog behind. Grandson . . . blah, blah, blah . . . shoe size, known allergies, more blah, blah, blah. Then, he discussed how dogs ‘picked up’ on menstruating women. He faltered slightly at this and quickly concluded with, ‘Well, you’re a lady so you know what I mean.’ He then coughed a bit and changed the subject to the price of Morrison’s doughnuts, closely followed by uneven pavements and a hundred uses for fine graded sandpaper.

Dear God. All I did was attempt to show what a witty, friendly, little person I am, and I had twenty-five minutes of face-to-face, in-my-face, sodding dialogue from some guy who was almost halfway to being a millionaire. I will never again go to the bank on a Monday morning at 10.05.

To be honest, I did bloody well. I didn’t let the smile drop for a second and nodded and frowned in all the right places for a full twenty-five minutes. I guess I made an old man very happy . . . or not. Whatever. . . .

Needless to say, my hair has been cut wobbly and strange because I sat in the chair ranting and raving for ten minutes, with my hair stylist laughing and trying to catch my swinging hair.

Actually, I’m lying. My hair is fine. She didn’t cut it wobbly. (She may read this blog so . . .) Just joking sweet Emma.

Then I came home and had the chucks out. I was quite concerned because when I pooh-picked there was a huge pooh in the sleeping area. Far too big for a chuck to pass. I leant down to pick it up and it leapt up at me. Yep. My worst nightmare – a leaping frog. After I’d run screaming from the chuck cage, and calmed down a bit, I returned with the fishing net and caught said frog. I released it at the side of the pond and it hopped off, covered in wood shavings and grey feathers – the chucks are moulting, remember?

I’d put money on it being the same frog that has found its way in there five times now. Just how it escaped being ripped to shreds by the chucks is a bit of a mystery. Maybe, with it covered in feathers, like that, they thought it was a very bouncy chick!

So, that was the start to my day. Tomorrow I may avoid people, and try to regroup my good nature. In fact, I may avoid people until Thursday when I have to toddle off to have this 24 hour blood pressure monitor fitted. That’ll be fun without laughing to be sure. The last time they tied me into one of those things I didn’t sleep a wink. Every hour the tourniquet armband expanded with a loud rumble, and the duvet rose up into the air.

Now I am going to remove Chea from the laptop and go and ‘pot up’ some winter heathers into hanging baskets. Not keen on heather. Don’t know why I bought it to be honest. I guess it will give a bit of colour over the coming grey days? Weirdly, one seems to have disappeared overnight. I bought nine and now there are only eight – which totally throws out my planting scheme. This, along with how the frog got into the chuck cage, is another mystery.

Re Chea and the laptop . . . since becoming the ‘star’ of the Two Chucks and a Tabby Cat book, she is even more persistent at hogging the laptop. She cuddles next to it each night as I type some rubbish of one kind or another, as if keeping an eye on what might come next. I get the distinct impression that she thought the book should be titled, A Tabby Cat and Two Chucks?

20151004_225021Take care my lovelies x

Nothing Wrong With My Erections …Even With The Wind!

Hi All

OK, so I jumped the gun and pretended that spring had sprung and that now was the time to start planting things in the garden. To be honest I did whack in some broad bean seeds a few weeks ago, as per instructions, but they, acceptably, have yet to surface so no worries on that score. However, yesterday I planted a double row of peas and a double row of mange tout. Perfect so far.

Knowing full well that I had to attempt to give them some sort of cover, if only to prevent Chea from using the finely raked soil as a litter tray, I struggled against the increasing wind to erect and peg down a super-duper, holey, plastic, protection tunnel thingy.

Richard, of course, was his usual non-helpful self, standing on the path issuing forth stupid suggestions, until I issued forth a few of my own, resulting in him legging it back to the house muttering something about he was only trying to help. Yes, TRYING being the operative word. What that man knows about gardening and plastic tunnel erection could be printed on a postage stamp and there would still be room to spare.

So, being the cocky cow that I am, I struggled alone, navigating  the spiky blueberry bushes that tried to take out my left eye, and narrowly avoiding  a fat green frog that had misread its satnav and was heading away from the pond rather than towards it, where its mates were already into a major mating session with a few willing female frogs.

The gathering wind obliged by whipping up the plastic from the manured soil and wrapping it around my head, causing me to break off temporarily to remove a piece of dung from my left eye. Forty-five minutes later, and with most of the sodding plastic pegged down, Richard reappeared with a mug of tea, his eyes running over my handiwork and saying nothing. He does learn – eventually.

So, with the plastic beautifully pegged down, and with the tea drunk, I rinsed my grubby little hands under the flow from the rain barrel and trotted off back to the house, imagining my little peas, snug and warm, and protected from cat pooh, lying in the lovely earth, impatient to sprout.

Around two in the morning the wind increased to hurricane proportions, slamming shut the bedroom window and rattling the chimney pots. My tunnel was never going to stand up to that. It crossed my mind to dash off out into the garden like Gabriel Oak in Far From The Madding Crowd, where he fought the elements to tie down and save the hay ricks, but the moment passed as I knew my tunnel would already be in the apple tree, hanging there like an empty parachute, whose owner had long vacated. Brilliant. Where, I ask you, is Gabriel Oak when you need him?

So, with a mug of tea, a roll of string and a pair of scissors, I sulked up the garden this morning to retrieve the tunnel from the tree, and lo and behold …it wasn’t in the tree, but exactly where I’d erected it. Hah! The wind hadn’t torn it to shreds. So there you go Richard. Keep your opinions on erections to yourself!

Besides, I learnt from the best …my father. He was a master erector of all things. I knew of nothing that toppled after dad had his way with it. Not a ‘screw man’ by any means, oh no, if a nut and bolt could be involved then a nut and bolt was involved. I think he had a standing order with Screwfix! I remember, on one occasion, building an outside run for an aviary and dad trotted round with a collection of various sized nuts and bolts and gave me clear and precise instructions as to where to put them. Years later I had to take a sledge-hammer to demolish that erection.

Perhaps I should bear that it mind for future erections? #wink

Take care my lovelies x

My perfect gardening companion ...No opinions offered!
My perfect gardening companion …No opinions offered!

With Spring In My Heart And A Pain In My Butt.


I’m excited. No, really excited. I think spring is definitely on its way. Yes, OK, I accept that it’s still bitterly cold and we are still having heavy frosts at night BUT …the snowdrops have bravely pushed through the hard icy ground and are standing proud on strong stems, their heads dipping in respect to the stirring of life.

The visitation will soon commence. A dozen or so frogs creeping through the fencing, their expectant little faces heading towards the fish pond, where a mating frenzy will begin. There always appears to be an uneven balance of males to females, with each female having 3 or 4 suitors. Those who can’t get the closest to the female, pile onto the back of the successful male and appear to be just as happy being a part of the gyrating tower.

And the birds have now started to sing in the mornings. They aren’t exactly up to the deafening chorus part yet but the song has well and truly started. And two robins threaten each other daily, from branches yet to bud, promising to beat the other to death in a territorial battle if it doesn’t look elsewhere for garden ownership. For such beautiful little birds, and incidentally my favourite, they sure are little monsters, fluffing-up and lowering their rapier-like beaks, ready for the attack.

Flight (grey chuck) has now replaced her tail feathers and is looking more like a living chicken and less like a table-ready chuck. Little (light Sussex) is once again proud to be seen out in the garden with her and will even give up the odd worm or grub to her, cluck-clucking until Flight rushes up and devours it. Such a ‘giving’ little creature is little Little.

AND …the veggie plot is also ready for the lengthening of days and the steady rise in temperature. Two days ago I emptied the horse muck compost bin and spread the detritus evenly and fairly across the ground and then dug it in.  I am only sharing this information with you and not my new physio, Andrew (name changed) who incidentally looks too young to be out of Pampers! But then, that’s my sodding luck these days.

After the sudden onset of a very painful lower back, and when the pain was so bad that I was more than convinced that I needed an emergency hip replacement, I had no choice but to bother the doctor with it. She was extremely helpful, referring me to a local ‘Specialised’ back and neck physio thingy/person. The appointment came through faster than poo off a shovel and along I trotted.

This guy, all smiles and testosterone, jogged down the corridor and gushing said, ‘Gail?’

Gail hey? And on our first meeting. I stood (painfully) and accepted his hand expecting it to have traces of Jelly Babies or SMA sticking to it, but no …

After the initially, “do you know how it happened?” bit, to which I lied and said, “No,” (and I’m not telling you lot either!) he requested that I placed my bones on his couch. Once there, and with my head protruding through the hole thingy, came his subtle question. “Is it OK to ease down your pants?”

I closed my eyes. I’ve led a full and varied life and this is NOT a query I have come across before. Of course it wasn’t OK to ease down my pants. I’m a person of a certain age and this dear child was …well …a child. “Sure,’ I said.

I based my positive answer on the fact that I’ve given birth and had an inguinal hernia op, both of which I was conscious for, so this would be child’s play …though hopefully not literally.

My left bum muscle was massaged to within an inch of its life, with Andrew periodically asking if I was OK. There really was no answer to that. I don’t know what hurt more …my bum or my embarrassment? A bit of a photo finish me thinks?

So, back to the spreading of the horse shit. Andrew says I shouldn’t be doing much at all. My instructions are to heat-treat my bum every twenty minutes in the hour (yeah right) not to sit or stand in one position for longer than twenty minutes (yeah, double right) and to do some knee-bend exercises on the bed every morning and night. (?)

I hate exercises. Isn’t digging the garden exercising? Isn’t clearing out the garage and carrying a deep freezer and tumbler dryer up the garden exercise? Isn’t playing hide and seek in the garden with Chea and the chucks exercising?

Anyway, I’ve had 3 of these sessions now. They won’t get any better. My embarrassment level will be constant. And another thing, like most men, Andrew, takes these things for granted because, other than our first-time meeting, when he actually did the polite thing and asked if he could lower my bloomers, he now takes it for granted that he may and dives straight in. Kids hey?

Obviously, I have had to source a new hot water bottle in order to heat my bum because stupid Richard burst the other one by leaning his crappy shoulder against it and flooding out my lovely new cushion. He moaned and said that I was more concerned about the cushion than his burnt back. True.

He is still driving me mental. In fact, I think I had heart palpitations last night. I’m sure he is sending my stress levels through the roof and I’m going to die. I’m not frigging joking either and you heard it here first.

The other night he was slurping his way through one of my tangerines (he doesn’t do fruit) coughed, and spluttering said, “I’ve just swallowed a pip! Will it hurt me?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you sure?” he said

How dare he doubt me?

“I said, will it hurt me?” he repeated.

“NO IT WON’T HURT YOU,” I repeated. “Not unless it attaches to your bowel and you get an orange tree growing out of your arse!”

He laughed …and then I laughed. Such is life.

Take care my lovelies017

Just A Quickie.

Hi All

Just a quickie to stay in touch.

The garden is still taking up masses of my time – but then I figure that’s OK.

Life isn’t always about batting along at a rate of knots, is it? Sometimes – often in my case, it’s about standing and watching the bees on the lavender, and the butterflies on the buddleia. It’s about smelling the roses – literally. It’s about collecting the hordes of snails that chomp their way through the sunflower leaves and seemingly anything else that’s slightly green. I often wonder how long it takes them to make it back to my garden after they have been winged over the hedge and into the neighbour’s garden. (I’m pretty sure someone wrote a book about that? The time it takes for snails to return to a garden? But I may have dreamt it!)… It’s about watching Chea trying to get herself stung by irritating the bees, patting and pawing at them until they buzz off, laden with pollen. She hooked out a little yellow frog the other day and left it lying on the ground with its skinny legs akimbo, looking like something out of The Kama Sutra (not that I know anything about that). I was so pissed off with her, and her continual attempts to kill everything that moves, that, after a very harsh scolding, I shut her in the house. Unfortunately the postman caught the gist of it. We tend not to get much mail these days.

The courgettes are manic. I think they grow just to spite me. Four-inch long babies suddenly grow into teenagers overnight and in the morning they are lying there, all grown up and waiting to be picked. This has caused a glut so last week I made nine jars of courgette chutney. As I mentioned, in the previous post, the boiling vinegar gives me a migraine so to combat this I have to dip a tea towel in water and then tie the tea towel around my face so that the acidic stench cannot get to me.  This works out quite well – in private, but it’s kinda scary for anyone who might venture to the door during the cooking process. The fact that all my tea towels are black probably doesn’t help. 2014-07-24 10.51.32

I’m now waiting for the tomatoes to ripen and then I’ll make a batch of tomato chutney – red with the ripe ones and then green with the ones that don’t make it through the ripening process before autumn shuts everything down. And I decided today to make some apple and ginger and apple and blackberry jam. The apple trees are full of fruit this year, so many that as they grow and expand they push against each other, lose their grip and hurtle to earth. It’s quite dangerous, actually, because an apple could hit you on the bonce at any time.2014-07-24 18.55.10

The other hugely time-consuming thing is the new book. It’s coming along quite well – although some days I do lose control of my characters and the following day I have to delete half the dialogue. It’s currently around 46,000 words so I’m reasonably happy with that.

And, of course, there is Richard. He is the least time-consuming, but nonetheless he does require some of my time so I’ll pop and see if I can find something from the bottom of the freezer for his tea. Freshly concocted delights are a rarity at the moment.  I’m pretty sure that the last time I was head-down in the freezer I saw a lasagna from the Beatle’s era. That’ll do.

So, dudes, happy gardening, preserve making, writing, snail throwing…and whatever else takes your fancy. Oh, by the way, I sprayed the little yellow frog with my plant spray and thirty minutes later it crept back into the beetroot patch. Result!

Take care my lovelies x



No Boiling Water Or Ripped-Up Petticoats Required …

Hi All

Well the people at the farm certainly weren’t stretching the truth when they said Maran and Flight were point of lay because yesterday afternoon Maran laid her very first egg, just four days after being here. And how proud was she? Lordy. The peaceful, summer afternoon was shattered by her piercing announcement of the event, shouted out in the loudest chicken speak imaginable. And of course, Flight was so massively impressed that she had to join in as well.

I was there at the moment of nesting and egg dropping. Well, I am the proud mum after all and she may have found herself in difficulties and I’d have had to boil water and rip up petticoats  and such like …or is that just for childbirth portrayed in ancient films?

The first egg!
The first egg!

The egg is a perfect first effort, small and perfectly formed. I have to admit to actually being quite fond of Maran already. She may launch the odd sword-like thrust at Flight, now and then, but she is the sweetest chuck and lets me stroke her and feed her by hand …but then, so does Flight. I’m really happy with the way they are settling in. Of course Dust still has them both firmly on her agenda and thinks nothing of running the length of the lawn to attack them. As I said before – baby steps. Rome wasn’t built in a day and bonds won’t form immediately either.

My brother called in yesterday afternoon and we sat on the lawn next to the pond chatting away. Suddenly Chea appeared and launched herself into the shrubbery and a frog leapt out. She was most interested, never having come across such a slimy creature before and jumped on it. I shrieked and demanded that my brother move the frog before it was murdered by Chea and she took a nibble of it and started manically salivating again. He just looked at me like I’d suggested he catch a sabre toothed tiger with his bare hands and I had to grab Chea from off the top of the frog, with my eyes shut, and go and put her in the house.

This is the same unsupportive brother that I was moaning about yesterday for not downloading my books. The same brother who shares one teabag between two mugs. Well I got my own back on him for that because that’s exactly what I did. Two mugs. One teabag. Ha ha. And I had the first swish and squeezing. His tea looked like dish water. That’ll teach him to mess with his big sister.

Back to the subject of frogs. I noticed, a couple of days ago, that the tadpoles are now baby frog-lets and no bigger than my small finger nail. They hop precariously around the edge of the pond and I fear that one or two may well get taken by the chucks if their paths inadvertently cross. It’s a real battle of life and death in my garden! The balance can tip from heaven to hell in the blinking of an eye.

The garden produce is doing exceptionally well. The blackcurrant are now ripening, so I figure it is sugar buying time. I’m going to make jam this year. Last year it was wine. This year it’s jam – quite a lot of jam – looking at the potential yield that is weighing down the bushes almost to ground level.

The strawberries are also doing well. I saw a lovely strawberry flan thing on my blogging friend’s site, so I’ve bought the flan base and some good old reliable quick gel and I’m going to throw a few ripe strawberries into that – in time for the arrival of the wrecking crew (grandchildren) in the morning. I’m sure it will be met with disappointed faces because it won’t be chocolate. And I’m also sure that Richard – out of the kindness of his heart – will manage to polish it off in a couple of sittings.

Right my little poppets, I must dash, I have a busy day today and you know what they say – time and tide wait for no man (or woman). Have a super-duper weekend and remember – always turn to face the sun and shadow will always fall behind you.

Take care my lovelies x

Flight, looking more confident and settled.
Flight, looking more confident and settled.

A Shortage Of Tits In General?

Good Morning

One of my orfe is missing. At least I think it is missing. It didn’t raise a fin and say, ‘Here!’ when I risked my life by walking up the garden last night to check on them. I say risked my life because my garden, as night falls, is a scary place. If you don’t want to tread on slugs or crunch snails it’s best not to wander too far from the beaten track. And then there are the frogs. Little jumpers zooming all over the place. Have you ever stepped on a frog? Not nice and the guilt felt is unbelievable as the poor thing limps off casting backward glances that clearly say, ‘Why can’t you look where you are going?’HPIM2757

I say I ventured up the garden to check on the fish but that isn’t exactly true. I ventured to check on the chucks. I had this suspicion that they were roosting outside. This suspicion was formed by the fact that there really isn’t enough chuck-pooh in the sleeping box first thing in the morning.

Is this necessary, I hear you say?

Of course, is my answer. It’s what comes out of an animal that tells you what is going on inside an animal. But that wasn’t the point in this instance. I didn’t want the daft creatures to roost outside and be frightened to death if a fox or cat should approach through the darkness.

My suspicions were unfounded as both chucks were tucked up in the sleeping box, clucking bedtime stories to each other and planning bug-murdering tactics for the morning.

They have been brilliant egg-layers until recently but just now Dust isn’t laying and looks like a plucked vulture and Beautiful is laying a thin-skinned egg which they are having great delight in bursting and eating. They have access to more grit than the local council but still the soft-skinned egg appears. If these chucks were in a ‘production unit’ they would have been culled months ago.HPIM2761

I spent time in the garden yesterday titivating – as you do – although there isn’t a great deal to titivate. The nights are still cold and we have had a ground frost for the last three nights. The spring onions haven’t yet sprung and the radish have yet refused to push off their soil duvet. Early days.

I did have a chat with the neighbour – intentionally. I needed his opinion on staking, or not, green beans. Bit of a wrong move because once he enters the stage there is no getting him off it. Perched, as I was, on the ledge of the greenhouse base, I almost fell off as he informed me, ‘I’ve not seen many tits this year.’

I self-consciously wrapped my vest a little tighter around my upper-torso and murmured, ‘No?’

‘No,’ he said.

At this point I mumbled something about having to go and look for Chea who had become positively bored with the conversation and wandered off.

‘I went to a talk on tits,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’ I said.

‘I went to a talk on tits. It was so fascinating. I discovered more in an hour than I ever knew.’

At this point Chea cruised up thus wrecking my excuse for cutting short this extremely fascinating conversation on tits.

‘Did you know that they are attracted to ‘moving’ food and that you have to change their nuts every three days because they like fresh nuts?’

At this point I’m wondering just who the nut is here? Fortunately, and I don’t know how, the conversation swung to dandelions. Apparently he  had lots. So never being one to miss an opportunity, or a way out, I said, ‘Dandelions? Oh brilliant. Could I have some for the chickens?’

Good move because off he trotted, returning with an armful of dandelion leaves, which I graciously took and bombed off to give them to the chucks.

Richards mother has sent a packet of sunflower seeds for me to grow for her. I’m assuming I have to use my own compost and plant pots? Like the two-dozen cosmos I am also growing for her? I’ll pop them in today and they can join my other babies in the greenhouse.HPIM2751

It is another sunny day so I’m off to have another look for that missing fish, hang out the bedding and await the riveting conversation from beyond the hedge.

Joking apart – if there is ANYTHING you want to know about tits (of all sizes and kinds) just ask  – and if I can’t help I do know a man who can.

Take care my lovelies x


I Know An Old Lady Who Swallowed A Spider …

Hi All

Because by nature I am not a lazy person, I don’t want to give in to this feeling of exhaustion and collapse in front of the TV watching an old black and white film. Although, a bit of Johnny Depp in the afternoon could never be termed as a waste of time, could it? A quick shifty on the old Black Pearl? Keep a weather-eye on the horizon? Shiver me timbers – whatever that might mean? Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum.

After being woken the night previously by the charming duo of wailing cats beneath my bedroom window I was really hoping for better things last night. No such luck. At one thirty I woke up coughing. I instantly knew the cause because I have read somewhere recently that the average adult will, in their lifetime, swallow three spiders whilst sleeping – hopefully not all together because that is just plain greedy!

Not having a particular phobia to spiders it didn’t freak me out too much but after a further thirty minutes of coughing I decided to get up and get a sucky sweet or a lozenge. I soon discovered that there was no power and had to creep my way downstairs (with my mouth shut in case of spiders dangling on webs in the dark) and made my way to the kitchen. I managed to lay my hand on two fruit drops before slowly making my way back upstairs.

I finally drifted off to sleep after the sweet had been sucked to death. Thirty minutes later I woke to the blood-curdling screams from the same two feuding cats from the night previously, obviously returning for a rematch. I won’t bore you with the details other than to say that sleep did not engulf me until half an hour before I had to wake, owing to the fact that one of the chucks looked very poorly last night and I wanted to check her the second it was light.

The power was still off. The thought crossed my mind that maybe the power loss wasn’t general and that our extremely sensitive trip switch had tripped out. It often happens at this time of the year. An over exuberant frog has been known to attempt to mate the pond pump, usually resulting in the poor thing getting stuck in it in some ugly manner and blowing the electric. Our electricity box is under the stairs, behind a very heavy wine rack, so after struggling with that so that I could see the trip switch I soon realised that it was still too dark to see anything. I found a candle and returned like Wee Willy Winkie on a bad day. Sure enough the trip had tripped.

With lights restored I ventured out to the chucks and thankfully Beautiful was OK. Not brilliant. But OK. I then checked the pond and that was still running. So the mystery of what tripped the electrics was not discovered.

I then trotted off to Morrison’s where I had a lovely chat with a man in the cat food isle. Apparently he has two spoilt-rotten cats as well. I left him mulling over a new yoghurt-type product for cats. It looked rather too disgusting for me. A brown yoghurt concoction that didn’t look too dissimilar to what you might expect to come out of a cat, rather than what you’d expect to put into it!

Richard had surfaced by the time I got home so I directed him to where he would find the shopping and asked him to bring it in. He only has a bad shoulder remember? I have an inguinal hernia repair and two slipped neck discs – far superior problems! I had my theory on the tripped electrics and when he had finished unloading the car and checking that I hadn’t pranged it, I dived in.

‘What time did you come to bed last night? Did you overload the electric? Do you know we had no power all night? What were you doing down here till the early hours?’

Richard can only handle and deal with one question at a time. I don’t know if it’s a man thing or a Richard thing – I’m sure someone will tell me? Again, I did read somewhere that a man can only think of one thing at a time – and frankly I know what that one thing is!!

He denied everything so I lampooned him about leaving a cereal dish on the floor in the lounge and leaving the TV remote on Chea’s throw.

He has just tootled off to work, relieved to be going I reckon,  but honestly, am I supposed to have to sort out electricity problems in the middle of the night and do everything myself when I have a sodding spider stuck down my throat? I still think he blew it, in some way, shape or form. He’s a sneaky bugger when left to his own devices. I haven’t finished my Poirot act yet. I shall beat the truth out of him later. The only trouble with that is – knowing Richard he will like it too much and won’t look on it as a form of punishment at all!

Think I’ll pop and make a cup of tea. The old throat’s feeling a tad tickly. I hope that spider isn’t on its way back up?


Take care my lovelies x

The Mating Millions …Room For One More On Top?

Good Morning All

Yesterday gave me real hope that spring is finally here. There was a cold wind but even so, the sun held a little warmth. I thought I’d have a bit of a go at laying some slabs for the base of the new shed so I let the chucks and Chea out into the garden with me and began the task.

As usual I lost track of the time and became engrossed in slab moving. After a while I realised that one of the chucks was missing so I went in search, eventually finding her in the kitchen having walked mud everywhere and emptied Chea’s bowls of crunchies and roast chicken. The thought of a chicken eating chicken didn’t appeal much.

I soon realised that another chicken problem was imminent – the frogs are back in the pond. Masses of frog spawn sat at the water’s edge and the pond almost bubbled with frogs piggybacking and mating. These critters will grab onto and attempt to rape anything within paddling distance. If they stay in the water they are safe but if they venture out of the pond when the chucks are out they will nab them.

Beautiful caught a frog last year and did a Benny Hill sketch type thing all around the garden. Tearing round, tail feathers flying, with the other two chucks racing after her attempting to grab the swinging frog. Flowerpot was still alive then. And before you go thinking what stupid names for chickens I might as well tell you that little Jake named them – at least, that’s my excuse!

I nearly had a fit listening to that poor little frog screaming (yes they do!) and had to hide in the greenhouse with my hands over my ears until the deathly deed was done. Even if I’d managed to catch the chuck I wouldn’t have been able to resurrect a three-legged frog. Chickens are cruel little shits, they really are, but I do love them. I couldn’t touch their eggs for a fortnight – just the thought of frog flavoured eggs turned my stomach. No worries though because I dished up omelette after omelette for Richard and he never passed a comment. However, he did walk with an occasional hop for a week and croaked when spoken to! No he didn’t, I’m joking.

We dashed off to buy some shed paint in the afternoon and managed to agree on the colour and quantity (amazing) so I may get started on that later, after I’ve laid the other slabs and if I’m not chasing chucks away from the mating millions and retrieving Chea from the conifer.

I can barely contain my childish enthusiasm for the weekend. My new shed, which has stood waiting for the snow drifts to dissolve for the past ten days, should finally get erected. Then the rubbish from the summer-house and the greenhouses can be loaded into it and I will get my greenhouses back and then I can start setting seeds and all manner of things. They do say that little things please little minds and I guess it could be true.

The summer-house, which officially is Richards and is actually more like a large shed, other than for the fact that it has a sofa and a wood burner in it, needs a spring clean. Richard is a great fan of Ade In Britain, where Ade Edmondson tours Britain towing a small caravan which is basically a kitchen on wheels. So the other day Richard announced, seriously mind, ‘I might do some cooking this year.’

I didn’t comment, well it’s virtually impossible to comment when I’m suffocating with laughter.

‘Up at the summerhouse.’

I still didn’t comment, just sputtered a bit and tried to get my breath back.

‘Get a cooker like Ade’s and prepare some meals up there,’ he said.

I’m sure the man is trying to kill me.

‘Get a cooker and prepare meals out in the garden?’ I said.


‘Prepare meals out in the garden? You? You only know how to cook oven chips!’

‘Well I can cook oven chips in it can’t I?’

‘Why would you want to?’ I said.

‘Well I can’t cook anything else.’

‘So we are going to go to the expense of buying an oven so that it can sit rusting up the garden at the side of the rusting barbecue just so that you can cook oven chips?’

‘Yeah. What do you think?’

I did tell him what I thought – but I won’t tell you!

010Take care my lovelies x