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 . . .

 

 

Instrument Of Torture

Hi All

So, I toddled off to get the instrument of torture fitted (24 hr blood pressure monitor) and, as my luck would have it, waiting for me in the consulting room was a boy-child, resplendent in a crisp, white coat, all smiles and adjusting his nappy. The nappy bit is not true, but why do I get these child or Adonis types when my flesh has to be exposed. Remember the Greek god who kindly repaired my groin hernia to the background track of Mama Mia? The one who delighted in patting-up my shaved pubic hair with a sticky-backed glove, and then delighted in showing it to me amid comments like, ‘Look, these sticky things are very effective. They pick up everyhair.’ This was said with a slight Greek accent – not that I would know a slight Greek accent if it slapped me in the face, but it wasn’t what I term as my native tongue. I digress.

The thing triggered every twenty minutes until 10.00 p.m. and then it kindly reduced its arm crippling tactics to every thirty minutes. By the time I got to sleep it was time to get up.

And then the fun really began when I attempted to upload files to Createspace. This isn’t right.  That isn’t right. Are you a robot? Do you actually know what you are doing? Are you are total moron?  The monitor went into meltdown, beep, beep, beeping, telling me that the reading hadn’t registered. I stopped typing and did as instructed . . . relax the arm and unclench the fingers. More beep, beep, beeping. Why they had to put the thing on my right arm when I said I was right-handed is beyond me. Well, actually it isn’t, apparently my blood pressure is higher in my right arm than my left. Perhaps my pulse is stronger in my right big toe than my left big toe? Who knows? Another mystery of life?

Then I uploaded to Amazon Kindle. Better. Just one little problem . . . I entered the wrong title. I think my brain should undergo the twenty-four hour monitoring.

But you all know me, I always find the positive in every negative, and the positive from this? Well, it has tested my blood pressure under extreme stress and manic yelling at Createspace, and later my own good self. What dickhead can’t remember the title of her own book? Don’t answer that. I know the answer.

Then, of course, I had the ‘normal’ daily stresses to contend with. Whoever said cats are stress reducing hasn’t met Chea. She can’t stay out, or in, for more than thirty minutes maximum, and pleading to her better nature is a waste of time.

‘Chea, wait a minute, I’m trying to upload this file,’ falls on deaf ears as she stands at the door wanting to go out, and I sit at the laptop with my hair turning greyer by the hour. This first instruction brings a mardy meow that I ignore. Next comes a louder mardy meow that I can’t ignore. ‘Wait a MINUTE!’ I say. She throws her heart and soul into caterwauling. ‘For shit’s sake, WAIT A MINUTE!’

Now she’s springing up the door, bouncing on her back legs, scattering cat litter. Obviously I stop what I’m doing and get up and let her out, with the instrument of torture beeping and tightening . . .  and tightening.

Within five minutes she’s back, banging on the glass with her wet paws and giving me evil stares. The look clearly says that if I don’t let her in she’s calling the RSPCA. I get up and let her in. This goes on for most of the day, or until she’s decided she’s had enough of playing silly buggers and settles at the side of the laptop, occasional stretching out in her sleep and sneakily operating screen lock!

Another word that you may as well save your breath over is, ‘quick!’ or ‘hurry!’ Both instructions have the same effect as I stand with the door open, waiting for her to saunter down the path and come in. Prior to me opening the door I can see her trotting down the path and heading for home with great enthusiasm, because let’s face it, another full dish of food might have miraculously appeared since she last came in to check, thirty minutes ago.

Now she stops to watch a starling on the garage roof. I shout the instruction again. ‘Hurry up, Chea, I’m trying to upload something!’ No response. She’s wondering what her chances are of catching the starling. ‘Chea, come on, move it!’ I hiss. It has some effect – for two strides – then she drops to her hairy bum and starts cleaning her whiskers. She’s been in the greenhouse and has spiders’ webs festooning her face.

By evening the uploading is done. Chea has settled at the side of the laptop, purring and galloping back into my affections (surprise, surprise) and the blood pressure monitor is ticking away nicely.

All in all I’d say uploading files and pandering to Chea’s every whim was a jolly good test of my stress levels.

Oh, I forgot to say that during the first two hours of having it fitted, and while I was stirring the soup, Richard shouted me from the lounge. I ignored him at first – well you do, don’t you? When he sounded like he was about to burst into tears I sauntered in just as the monitor beeped. There was Richard, hanging on to the TV that he’d just broken. The whole thing had been snapped off its central leg and it was see-sawing in his hands.

Apparently, it had been ‘dicky’ for a while. Bloody news to me. I can turn the screen to my ideal viewing position without breaking it. I won’t bore you with further details, other than to say that the soup had to be turned off, Richard had to find the ladder from his tip of a garage, and then crawl up into the loft where, fortunately, we had a spare stand.

Be interesting to know who, or what, was the biggest ‘trigger’ to cause the old blood pressure to peak? Createspace, Chea, or Richard?

Take care my lovelies x

P.S Apologies if email notifications arrived twice . . . I posted the original on the wrong page. See, I’m a complete div!

Just A Little Update . . .

Hi All

Yes, it’s been a while. I think we have had a change of season since I was last here. Without boring you all to death, and without wallowing in self-pity, I’ll just say that continual migraines/ headaches/visual auras have flattened me over the last fourteen days. Each time I attempt to look at a computer screen my vision starts to object.

I stuck it out for as long as I could but after receiving an ear bashing from my son, toddled off to the doctor. She was very sweet and informed me that, in her opinion, my stress levels were through the roof. Can’t imagine why? Anyway, we have a few ‘idea’s’ in hand – 24 hour blood pressure monitoring, blood tests and meds. Obviously the meds zonk me out, but at least they give me a valid reason for being half brain-dead!

As I mentioned – the season has changed since I was last here. Chea has already grown a thick coat, probably in preparation for a cold winter? She looks twice her normal size. Mind, this could also have something to do with the fact that she never stops eating and Richard never stops giving her treats, even though he swears that he doesn’t.

The chucks are in various stages of baldness. Little has just about replaced her lost feathers and Flight’s tail feathers are slightly visible. She still looks like a well-used dirty feather duster. They have taken to coming down to the house of late and stand outside the patio doors, on the mat, preening and poohing. And Flight has become rather brave and risks excursions into the kitchen when I’m not looking to raid any leftover bits in Chea’s food bowl. Once upon a time, the chucks gave Chea a wide berth. This has now changed and three days ago Little pecked Chea on the nose. A new ‘pecking’ order is now firmly in place.

The garden has been given over to caterpillars. Hundreds and thousands of the sodding things. And here’s the thing, in a tantrum, I shook some from the broccoli, for the chickens, because it felt slightly less cruel providing food for them, rather than shaking them off and leaving them abandoned on the ground. They freakishly eyed them before turning and running off into the shrubbery. I didn’t realise, until I went back to the house and took off my wellies, that a caterpillar had fallen into my left boot and it came out squashed but still squirming. Yuck . . . and double yuck!

The slug brigade is less evident in the garden, but when I lifted some old broccoli leaves in the compost heap, I came across several very large families of the horrid things – all pink and slimy. I left them. I couldn’t bring myself to evict them somehow.

The greenhouse is full of spiders. Big. Medium. Small. Black ones. Brown ones. Beige ones. The worst thing is forgetting this fact because you then find yourself wearing a web, usually with a dead fly, in some state of decay, attached.

I know many people love this time of year. Glorious reds and yellows of falling leaves. Low morning mists. That autumnal chill in the air. Wood smoke. It appeals to me, to a certain degree, but to be honest I find it all rather sad – the end of another year. Everything shutting down. Soon the garden will sleep. I won’t have reason to go up there – although, having said that, the chucks are allowed up there throughout the autumn and winter, but only under supervision as the garden backs on to a regular ‘fox run.’ I think the wood burner in Richard’s summerhouse (shed) will be put to use and I’ll relax while I babysit the wrecking crew? Relax? Did I actually write that word? Lord, I can’t think of anything more boring . . .

And, because I am half brain-dead . . .  and because I don’t want to bore the pants off you, I will toddle off and hopefully be back soon, brighter and whatever . . .

Take care my lovelies x

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Two-Chucks-Tabby-Cat-2012-ebook/dp/B0140A4RMC

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

This Black Magic Just Needs A Little Refining.

Hi All

I thought I had it sussed this week. I thought I had found an inroad to wealth. And this is how and why.

I received a letter from my bank kindly informing me that they were dropping the interest rate on my ISA to .25% from July. Effing .25%. That’s a quarter of a percent. A frigging quarter of a percent! How kind.  Anyway, it suited me to pop into the bank to pay in an enormous cheque of £25.00 from the Premium Bonds so I thought I’d sort out the ISA at the same time.

The bank was just opening as I got there and so I was first to the ‘Customer Services’ desk. I pounced on the assistant, explaining that I wanted to close the account because it was crap and open another. She said I couldn’t do that. I opened my mouth, preparatory to blasting her out and telling her exactly where she could stick the Black Horse, when she said, ‘But I’ll put it up to .75%.’

I blinked – and closed my mouth. ‘Can you do that?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Just like that?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘So … if I slipped you some money you could put it up to 10%?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Shame.’

‘Are you trying to bribe me,’ she said.

‘Yes, I am,’ I said. ‘Is it working?’

‘No’ she said.

And that was that. We had a jolly good laugh about it and I took my leave. I’ve been with this bank for longer than my memory allows me to remember, but mainly because I like horses. Ditch the horse logo and I’m outta there! Seriously, they are good. I give them silly shit from time to time but they simple shovel it into the general pile of silly shit that they receive daily, and we all move on. Better the devil you know.

Talking of which … devils, and things of the supernatural ilk, I think I need to brush-up on my channelling.

I have a voodoo doll. Not a ‘real’ voodoo doll. Not one that resembles anyone living or known to me, just a little voodoo doll that I found somewhere, as you do. He/she was found recently in the back of the ‘icing’ drawer. This is the drawer where all things to do with er …icing are kept. I decided, one day, to have a major clear out of the kitchen drawers and cupboards and came across the voodoo thing.

As a joke I hung it on a hook on the ‘kitchen implements’ rail and when Richard came home I said, ‘Look what I’ve found in the drawer.’

He took a step backward and blinked a bit. ‘Oh God, who’s for it now? Not me I hope?’

Now, I’ll let you into a secret. Not long ago someone really shit on me and so, as a joke (possibly), I said, ‘Horace!’ (The person who had done the poohing – name changed, obviously).  I’d just taken a freezer bag-tie off a bag and again, as a joke, I twisted it around the voodoo doll’s neck and rolled my eyes, whilst thinking of this Horace person. Within 6 hours, and whilst eBaying, Richard squeaked, ‘I’ve got a really sore throat. It’s just come on, just like that.’

I buried my head in True Blood. The series not the real stuff, I’m not quite that manic, and pretended not to hear.

Last Saturday, as my son and grandchildren left, I grabbed the voodoo doll from the hook and was just going to show it to Matt, when she fell from my fingers and landed in the electric toaster.

An hour later, as Richard and I sat eating our lunch, a dreadful noise like an elephant passing wind came from the hall where the electricity box is situated …and all the electrics blew.

Obviously I exited the house and scurried into the garden not wishing to be electrocuted, whilst Richard, following orders, set about trotting off down the road to where he said he could see neighbours standing on the pavement with mobiles strapped to their ears. I did a bit of deadheading of the petunias while I waited and then …the elephant wind-passing noise again. I moved further up the garden.

Richard said, on his return, that the electricity guy had shaken his head, stared at the blackened out junction box thingy and said, ‘Shit. This doesn’t look good.’

I was pretty sodding annoyed because Morrison’s had recently had salmon at half price and I’d done my hunter-gatherer thing and filled the bloody freezer with the stuff.

The electric came back on after 3 hours. Pretty good by all accounts. And no soggy salmon.

Richard said if I’m going to practice the art of voodoo I should refine my channelling.

If I was Richard I wouldn’t be so cocky about everything because I have the doll, I have skewers and I can soon find a few implements of torture.

Thinking about it …maybe the voodoo doll should have accompanied me to the bank and my ISA would now be earning 50% interest and not .75%? Might not be too late…

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

Memories, Testicles …And Fat Thighs.

Hi All

I’ve slipped back into pure nostalgia today.

My brother visited last week and asked if I had any pictures of dad – he passed away in 2007, dad, not my brother, obviously. I scurried around a bit in the drawer under the bed, fighting cobwebs, as you do, and found an old tin that I’d brought away from the family home, when dad passed away, with a very random selection of old prints. No one has pictures printed any more, do they? Don’t we keep everything on hard drives, pen drives and such like? Anyway …

We sorted through them, ahhing, whooing and remembering the people and places that we, at the time, simply took for granted. They would always be there, wouldn’t they? These people. These places? A fault of the young, I fear, thinking that things will continue.

My brother started to laugh. ‘God, I remember this foal …it was a killer!’

I took the photograph from him and my eyes fell on a very different period of my life. The time when I was married to my vet, and the time shortly thereafter – when I wasn’t married to my vet!

At the time my son was eighteen months old and I decided it would be nice to buy him a pony. Long story short, I found this little two-year old filly at a horse auction and had to buy her. She was a skinny little thing, only held together by skin to be honest but that wasn’t a problem, I had the technology to ‘get her right.’ She needed me and what could be better than her going to a loving home with a qualified riding instructress (me) and a vet (he)? Perfect. And by the time she had filled out, and grown, my son would be old enough to ride her – albeit on the lead-rein.

Four weeks after her arrival and with her still looking like she was wearing a coat that was six sizes too big, unannounced and unexpected, she raised her tail and dropped a foal. – The ‘killer’ that my brother mentioned. How in God’s name had she managed to keep that a secret from me and from ‘a vet?’

The foal was alive but hopelessly weak. For twenty-four hours we struggled to get it on its feet. If it had been born on the moors it would have died. It took three days before it could stand and suckle, without help, but after that point it bloomed – and so did the filly, so much so that she was unrecognisable as the poor bag-of-bones that I’d brought home. The colt went from strength to strength growing in stature and self-importance. It would run at me, for fun, and bite me in the chest. It needed gelding but it only had one testicle descended and so the ‘op’ was put on hold. Eventually the offended testicle dropped and we castrated him with slight smiles and great relief.

He was still a stroppy little bugger and no son of mine was going anywhere near a creature like that, so a home (knowledgeable) was found for him and off he trotted, snapping and snarling. I think my son, although very small, was no idiot and preferred the ‘A Team’ figures to a real live pony and so the mare went to a loving new home too.

After the divorce I toddled off and bought and sold horses for a time. My brother had another little snigger and shoved several pictures of me astride a couple of the equine beasties.

As I say – we never realise at the time that these are the days of our lives and looking back now they were – days of my life – days that have led me here …and now.

I can’t ride these critters any more, too many disc-aches, all down to wear and tear, no doubt, but I still have the memories.

To be honest I’m not a great got-to-have-lots-of-photos-and-memorabilia, type of person, to remember things. I keep my memories in my heart. They are safe there. No one can destroy them and I’ll never lose them…

Also, I don’t have to physically see my thighs in an old photo, slim-ish and toned, squeezed into jodhpurs and realise that I’d need a sodding shoehorn and the wind in the right direction to get them on now!

Yep, some memories are best kept in the mind or in a tin under the bed.

Take care my lovelies x

The Games People Play …Eventually!

Hi All

To be honest, I don’t think I ever ‘pencilled in’ grandchildren as a possibility in my life. Don’t ask me why, I just didn’t. Maybe I thought that I would always be too young to have grandchildren? Yeah, well that moment has passed by on a fast bike – so here I am about to ‘mention’ them – grandchildren that is, not fast bikes.

Something else that I never thought I would do is play ‘games.’ I don’t mean monopoly or leapfrog or stuff like that, been there and done that, no, I mean games that you play on a tablet. In my opinion they are as time-wasting and pointless as anything else that I find time-wasting and pointless but …and this is where I link to the grandchildren…

Grace, 3, whose first words on entering granny’s house are, ‘Can I take my clothes off?’ (weird even by my standards) had a tablet for Christmas and insisted that I had a go at Panda Pop. Panda frigging Pop, I ask you. This caused great shrieks of fun and barely hidden scorn as grandma couldn’t pop a panda, and this was on level 8 after Grace had achieved all previous levels!

Soooo, Richard suggested that he put Panda Pop on his tablet and then grandma could practise in the week and show Grace how much she’d improved by the next time she came over. Big deal. Later that evening – in the middle of me ridiculing someone on The Voice – Richard passed his tablet to me and said, ‘Well go on then, get practising, Grace will expect you to be at least on level 10 by next weekend.’

Cheeky sod. Even I could do better than that. Do you see what he did there? He threw down a subliminal challenge, knowing that I am one of the most competitive people alive.

Long story short …I found myself addicted and merrily and greedily set about releasing all the dear, sweet little pandas from their prison bubbles, until …level 89. Then I got stuck …for 2 days.

Fortunately, Jake and Grace were due over last weekend so I explained to Jake that I couldn’t achieve level 89 and he set about helping me. It took him a few goes but he did it by storing up all the thingamabobs that you aim (haven’t quite mastered the lingo yet) and blasting the whole thing.

I cannot describe to you the look on his little face. It was one of those moments that you would like to capture in a bottle and to keep for all time. Priceless. The pride he oozed was almost palpable.

I have now trotted on from level 89 and I’m on level 112. I say this with a huge degree of embarrassment because I really do think these things are a waste of time, but hey-ho, until someone deems otherwise I actually do have the time to waste. If only I wasn’t so sodding competitive. Mind, I am a Scorpio, so our boredom levels are pretty low. Next week it could be something else.

I’m not sure how Jake and Grace view me. I think it’s a mixture of mad and fun. But then, most people view me that way …if you remove the fun bit.

I guess telling them that Little and Flight (chucks) have started laying cream eggs didn’t help. Grace’s eyes were as big as saucers as she said, ‘Really, Grandma, wow?’ Jake took a split second before he rolled his eyes and said, ‘Not really, Grace. It’s a trick, isn’t it Grandma?’

I wasn’t prepared to say one way or the other so I just winked. These children believe in Santa and The Tooth Fairy, so why not chucks that lay cream eggs.

Of course, Richard had to breeze up and say, ‘Blimey, I bet the silver paper hurt their bums when they laid those.’

Silly Richard.

Anyway, time and tide and all that. Must dash. I need to blitz level 113…or not!

Take care my lovelies

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

Hi

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 lovelies