Mother’s Day – Great Start . . . Crap Finish!

 

It would have been too much to ask for a perfect day, wouldn’t it?

It started well.

I’d requested a Cornus plant/shrub thingy from my son, Matt, and went into great detail re colour and size. Yes, I would have loved a tree-size one BUT I’d visited the plant centre a week earlier and saw the price of the tree-size ones, and to be frank I didn’t think I was worth that much. That’s a bit sad isn’t it? But you know me – the original shrinking violet. Shut up it’s true!

So, knowing Matt obeys my every fancy and whim (mostly) I was pretty confident that a lovely little Cornus would produce itself from Matt’s car boot come Mothering Sunday.

10.00 a.m. arrived and right on time (another quality he gets from me – always being on time) his work truck chugged to a halt outside the house and there, swaying, slightly seasick was my pressie – a small tree-size Cornus.

Obviously I was overjoyed that, A. I’d got a super-duper big plant and B. that apparently I WAS worth that much.

The grand kiddies piled in followed shortly by a plant and Matt somewhere behind it. I showered him with thanks before scolding him for spending that much on me when I would have been perfectly happy with a titchy one – well, maybe not a titchy but it is the thought that counts, you know.

The plant was placed in the garden awaiting planting. I already had the area mapped out and I told Matt that I’d be planting it when they left. At this point he said, ‘You might like to water it first?’

Good point I thought.

‘It’s been in the garage for two days,’ he added.

‘WHAT!’ I exclaimed. ‘So it’s been in the dark for two days with no water and then rattled up the motorway in an open truck?’

He grinned.

‘You lazy git,’ I said, ‘you just couldn’t be bothered to carry it round to the back of your house, could you?’

He opened his mouth to deny it but then changed his mind and continued to grin.

‘And YOU call yourself a gardener? I said.

He laughed.

This information set me back a bit, so when they had gone I watered it in its pot and then this morning I planted it. It looks OK . . . well, brilliant it fact. I think if it could talk it would breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t think it enjoyed the M1 that much?

As I said . . . Great Start, Crap Finish, because . . .

Later that day I toggled up the garden to tuck-in the greenhouse plants. A frost was forecast so they had to have their little duvets pulled-up round their delicate stems. As I was saying goodnight to the baby cosmos (Prince Charles talks to HIS plants so don’t go thinking I’m mad and alone in this), through the greenhouse glass I caught sight of a bird, on the floor, in front of Richard’s shed. It looked perfect, not cat struck at all. I couldn’t bear investigating so I shrugged down to the house and asked Richard to go and see if it was dead. He did so.

It was dead. I believe it had flown into the shed window. He described it to me (he’s no ornithologist) and I realised in was a bullfinch. Last year there had been a pair visiting the garden and only yesterday I was thinking that I hadn’t seen them this year. I was devastated really. I don’t do ‘dead’ animals very well, but then who does. I kept thinking that its mate would also be devastated. I tried telling myself that it would be fickle and find another mate, a prettier, better-at-finding-food-for-the-chicks mate. Then I told myself perhaps it would be happy knowing that its true love hadn’t had a horrible ending in the jaws of some rotten kitty . . . but none of that helped. The vision of the little thing stayed with me for the rest of the day . . . and has carried over to this morning. Yes, I’m a dick. What more can I say?

Whenever I see roadkill in the distance I have to close my eyes until we have passed it. Last year a muntjac had been hit on the busy road at the side of the wood and it had managed to make it to the gate of the wood. It had two broken legs. I still have nightmares now. It looked perfect, except for the two broken legs – and the fact that it was bloody dead. How long had it been there until shock had claimed it? How much pain did it suffer dragging itself from the road and along the grass verge to the gate? Yes, I think too much!

Last week, as we arrived at the wood, we noticed what looked like snow around the shed. On closer inspection (I sent Richard ahead to investigate) it was, or had been, a wood-pigeon. Feathers were everywhere. I never knew they had so many feathers!

Two days ago I raked the feathers together and burnt them.

So, there you go. A lovely Mother’s Day in many respects . . . I spent time with my son and grand kiddies and received exactly what I wanted but how much nicer it would have been if Mr Bullfinch hadn’t committed suicide?

This I guess is the balance of life, hey?

Right, dashing off to sand some wood. A craft fair looms and I must focus on making stock.

Stay Happy xxx

 

Into The Wilds Of Derbyshire

This Sunday I’m popping over the border and entering the wilds of Derbyshire. I will have the car loaded to the roof with fairy houses and all things wooden as we make our way to a craft fair. I’m not expecting to have a fortnight in Hawaii off the back of this one but it is for a good cause and we all need to support those from time to time, don’t we? It’s at The Cat’s Adoption Centre.

This, you realise is tricky. I fear selling two tea lights and coming home having adopted eight cats and a litter of kittens! Chea (existing family feline) would do her fruit and we would never hear the last of it. No amount of Purina Gourmet Gold would swing it back round to our favour. She has principles. She is the one-and-only and there is only ONE in one-and-only.

I had a brilliant idea for changing the staging on the table – until I realised that it was less of a brilliant idea and more than likely a stupid idea. I don’t know what table they are providing but it would have to hold a small elephant if I stuck to my brilliant idea. Even my super-duper table in my craft shed would be on its knees so “brilliant idea” has been shelved.

I have a few new things to take to this one.

The Shabby Kinda-Chic Dwellings have extended into Shabby Kinda-Chic Cottages and are due to extend further, towards the Christmas fairs, as Shabby Kinda-Chic Snow-Scene Cottages – a suggestion from a friend of mine, Claire Chambers. I might have to seriously rethink the name though.

Shabby Kinda-Chic Dwellings

Another newbie is the Weathered Wood Fat Ball Feeder. This has been home-tested and I can vouch that it will hold a flock of flapping jackdaws in a feeding frenzy, the weight of which put my homemade rose frame thingy, under great pressure.

Weathered Wood Hanging Fat Ball Feeders

Along with the fairy houses I now have the Hobbit Homes – originally named Gnome Homes until I realised that the younger generation probably doesn’t have a clue what a gnome is, so I’m playing safe with Hobbit Homes. Everyone has seen Lord of the Rings, right?

Fairy Houses

Hobbit Homes

This week there has been a slight problem with something entering the closed outside run (ex chicken run) where I keep the mossed fairy houses so that the moss won’t dry out. Something has been in and removed the moss from one of the house roofs. It now looks like it has a case of galloping alopecia. I can only suggest a wren because I know of nothing else that could squeeze through the wire. Initially, I thought that I might have left the outside door open and something had accessed it that way, so blaming myself for my oversight I closed the door, top and bottom, closed two catches, two bolts and padlocked it. Nothing was going to get in this time. Yesterday morning I went in after having lost the key and taking ten minutes to realise that it was in my shirt pocket, in the wash basket, and lo and behold – the alopecia had spread. More moss had been taken. I do know wrens make their nests with moss and I do know we’ve had nesting wrens in the garden most years so . . . Jenny Wren is the main suspect as I write. Today I will repair the missing moss.

Wren Wreckage?

Another new item – the Weathered Wood Succulents. These are made with the same kind of wood as the Hanging Fat Ball Feeders. I particularly like these and having recently removed a spider plant – that would look more at home in the jungle – from my kitchen window sill, I’m planning on nicking a couple for myself.

Weathered Wood Succulents

So, that’s me for now. I’m off to repair the wren’s wreckage and see if I can come up with a better idea for the staging. I probably won’t. The thing is I have so much staging and backboards etc. that last time we had to take the trailer. This goes down like an arrowed balloon with Richard but, as he is from Derbyshire and knows where he is going, I’d better try to keep him sweet. Yes, it’s a hard call and quite a novelty to be honest but perhaps you can teach an old dog new tricks . . . possibly . . . or not!

Wish me luck? Mainly – NOT to come home with twelve cats!!

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The Mating Ritual

It happens every year at this time. Bug-eyed little darlings hopping and waddling their fat shiny bodies towards the water and – sex. Lots of it. In human terms it would be called something rather naughty, in frog terms it is merely ‘the mating ritual.’

I like frogs – as long as they give me plenty of warning of their presence. If I’m plucking out the odd weed and they suddenly leap-up in front of me then that’s a whole new ball game. Then, I’m having a heart attack and backing off to a safe distance. But, I do like them. In fact, I’ve even written the script for a ‘froggy’ children’s book. Done nothing with it, obviously.

So, for the past week or so I have skirted the pond on my way to the greenhouse etc. with great stealth, hoping to catch the first arrivals unaware. They feel the vibration of approaching footsteps and, like Nemo’s Nautilus, dive . . . dive . . . dive. Yesterday I saw the first arrivals, already in a tower-block stance with the female somewhere in the heaving pile.

This year there is a slight problem.

The pond is now twenty-six years old and during this time our little fish shoal has diminished to just one remaining orf. He is the size of a small dolphin. He has never had a name – until now. He is Solo, for obvious reasons.

Solo is not going to last much longer. His once perfect carrot-shaped, bright orange form is bent this way and that and he spends much of his time flat-out at the top of the water, so much so that on two occasions, both when Richard had toddled off to see his mother, I texted him to say, ‘Come home in the light you need to bury the fish, he’s dead.’ Richard, obedient as ever, has arrived home in the light, sought the spade from the shed and grabbed the net. Moments later he has replaced the spade in the shed, returned the net, and informed me that, ‘Solo isn’t dead.’ If there’s a part going for a bent oaf in one of those costume dramas or similar perhaps we could send him to work because he’s a bloody good actor!

I should say that despite his ‘bent’ and ‘dead’ impressions he’s a happy-ish fish, sometimes taking to rather exhausting laps of the pond, and floating up to watch me rearranging the odd rock or two.

But, this is the problem. These sex-mad grab-anything-that-moves frogs are going to rape the poor lad. They have, in the past, grabbed onto the face of a fish and performed their sexual acts with the poor fish pinned down beneath their pulsing bodies. Solo will not live through this kind of behaviour. He’s a game old boy but this, I fear, is a little too much at his age?

A couple of months ago he also survived a near squashing.

My grandson, Jake, was bending over the pond, pointing at him, when his darling sister, Grace, came up behind him and with two hands slapped hard to Jake’s buttocks pushed him in.

Richard instantly grabbed Jake and hauled him out.

So much mud and debris had been stirred-up that we couldn’t tell if Solo had survived or not. Fortunately, he had.

Jake was a mess. Duck weed and other stuff (?) stuck to him and of course he was crying. I whisked him into the shower and made him stay there until his goose-flesh had disappeared and he was at last beginning to see the funny side of it – no mean feat I’ll tell you. Then, I dressed him in a pair of my leggings and a jumper. He soon recovered – such is life, and the remedial effects of chocolate is amazing.  Mind, it was kinda worrying because the leggings almost fit him. I mean, he’s ten. I can only hope that he is growing fast and that I am not shrinking fast?

And that is that. The frogs are returning in their droves and we must now be on ‘frog-on-the-face-of-Solo watch. Have you ever tried unhooking a frog off a fish’s face? No, I thought not.

Some people find it hard to believe that this is my life. Trust me – it is.

Between starting this post and finishing it I have popped up the garden to check on Solo. He is still ‘frog-free,’ but the first small heap of frog spawn has appeared. This might be the first year that most of the tadpoles/froglets survive. Solo is too old to bother eating the tadpoles and now that the chucks are no longer present the baby frogs will make it safely from the pond, across the lawn, and into the damp shrubbery – so, again – something positive comes from the negative!

Take care x

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Keep Breathing. It’ll All Be Fine.

So, the Ho Ho Ho’s have subsided for another year. Food, that is hard to place into any worthwhile food group, has been noshed, digested, and forgotten about. The decorations have been banished to the attic (they don’t usually survive Boxing Day but this year I was ‘more in the spirit’ and they remained until New Year’s Eve). Christmas, and 2016, is now firmly behind me.

I’ve heard so many people say that 2016 was their worst year . . . ever and, yes, I also had a few downers.

Richard took redundancy this time last year and is still cluttering up my day and my life. I fear he will never go back to work. Though, to be honest, he is now running a little internet thingy selling playing cards and it is meeting with some small success. Then, I had those awful retinal migraines start-up this time last year. I won’t pretend that I’m not terrified that they will recur but, other than chopping off my head, I am at a loss of what to do to prevent it happening? I also lost the chucks. I have resisted having more. I would love to restock but I dare not. I miss them dreadfully. So, yes, shit happened but you know what, that’s life. Shit does happen. We just have to put it behind us and move on . . . and that’s what I’m doing/have done . . .

I’ve welcomed this year with open arms. It doesn’t have to be spectacular, or mind-blowing. I don’t have to find gold hidden beneath the compost heap, or sell a million books on Amazon – though, let’s be truthful here, a few would be nice.  All I truly ask is that this year is a little kind to me. If loved ones are kept safe. If I can go on appreciating the simple things in life (I don’t necessarily mean Richard). Then this coming year won’t disappoint and I dare not ask for more.

I will have my fists raised in times of anguish, times when life deals a nasty blow, and I will do my best to battle through. I might win the fight. I might not. But I will attempt to – always.

So, what have I done so far this year? Well, I’ve tidied and rearranged my kitchen cupboards. I have, with the help of my darlin’ grandson, Jake, moved and pulled out all the twiggy stuff from the two compost heaps. I have scattered compost on the newly sorted flower area. Now that the chucks are no more I have every scrap of garden back and can grow anything, anywhere. I have baked small cakes for the freezer and 3 large fruit cakes for . . . me.  I have accompanied Richard to buy a new chain saw, risky I know, all things considered but the old one expired and what is the use of a log burner without logs?

Frankly, I’m amazed that the old one (a cheap B and Q version) lasted as long as it did, almost ten years. It had been terribly abused. On one occasion Richard had a leaping up-and-down-in-the-air tantrum and threw the poor thing into the ground, still running. He’s not safe with anything mechanical.

This time I decided that it was time he bought something better – I worked on the principle that if it cost a small fortune he would respect it more. Of course, it would also do the job easier and better. So a new Stihl saw was purchased and Richard, being Richard, had to try it the second we got home.

We had an all-out screaming session because he didn’t have any protective clothing and wanted to do his usual thing and just ‘wing’ it. He isn’t allowed to use a chainsaw without me present. I mean, if the daft bugger chops off his leg how the hell am I going to get that into a freezer bag with ice cubes, and then get him, on one bleeding stump, and a leg in a bag, down the garden? So, I am ALWAYS present. I insist on it, even though I merely stand there until logs are cut and then load them into the barrow. On this, the first attempt with the super-duper saw he shouted, above the noise, ‘where are you?’

‘Here!’ I shouted back, standing up from tickling Chea.

‘Move to the left a bit,’ he shouted, ‘you need to shield the greenhouse from anything that might fly that way.’

See? This is why I’ve purposely run out of ice cubes and binned the large freezer bags.

He has now ordered the whole protective ensemble from eBay. The hat, face shield, pants with braces, gloves etc. They don’t come until Friday so the little wood-cutter is redundant till then. And that’s that – the start of my year.

So . . . having written the first blog of the year and added it to my list of ‘things accomplished’ I’m off to make the fire and eat half a fruit cake! The healthier eating has started but I figure fruit cake is OK. After all, fruit is good for you, right?

Happy New Year All.

It might not be perfect but keep breathing and we will all make it out the other side.

Take Care xx

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

Perhaps A Little Less Sugar?

Hi All

I’ve been in the garden this morning doing my ‘standing and staring’ bit. There’s nothing different about me going into the garden at the crack of dawn, I do that every day, to tend the chucks. To make sure they have made it through the night and to give them fresh water (with the life-saving apple cider vinegar and garlic) and to have my fingers attacked in their manic eagerness to find treats, so, as I say, nothing different regarding the time of day, but I don’t usually do the standing and staring bit quite so early because Chea is always at my heels, waiting for her breakfast.

I have a system; Chucks, fish, open the greenhouse, Chea, and finally, me …a cup of tea. The standing and staring bit comes later, usually.

It has to be my favourite blossom …apple?

Somehow I couldn’t resist the ‘greenness’ of it all …and the apple blossom that is bursting, pink and perfect. I love apple blossom – fragile, almost transparent with the sun behind it. And the greenery, never as green as in May. Vibrant. The green of all greens.

The blackcurrant bushes are laden with baby blackcurrants. I have no idea what to do with them this year. Last year I made jam – and we still have some left. Two years ago we made wine – and there is none left. Nothing to do with me, obviously, but Richard enjoys the fruits of my labour …

He, Richard, has become quite a little home-made wine enthusiast and makes the stuff on a regular basis. He has become quite good at it …that is to say quite good! For some strange reason, known only to him and the gods, he decided to make a spicy Cabernet Sauvignon last November and produced many bottles of the stuff. Last week, Wednesday, as he toddled off back to work after his 4 month recuperation break, I came down to a cork, abandoned on the kitchen floor. Then I noticed a red streak across the tiles.  First, I smiled and thought, how sweet, he’s thrown that cork on the floor for Chea to play with. Then, I thought, idiot, Chea has no interest at all in playing with corks, she only likes her smelly piece of felt that once resembled a bird. Then, I thought, he’s spilt wine on the floor and attempted to disguise it by scuffing his socked foot across it. THEN I saw a scuffed red trail leading all the way to the fridge. That confirmed it. He had obviously been pissed, spilt half of it on the floor and been too gaga to bother cleaning it up. I left it.

When he came home he instantly noticed it.

‘What’s that?’ he said.

‘It’s where you, pissed and stupid, spilt wine and scuffed it along the tiles with your sock.’

He frowned and had the audacity to throw me a look that suggested I was the idiot.

In true Poirot fashion he followed the smear back to the wine rack and with an over exaggerated flourish snatched up a bottle from the rack and held it before me. ‘Look, look,’ he said, wiggling it and sloshing the remaining wine around the bottle. ‘It’s obviously popped its cork overnight.’

Popped its cork overnight? Popped its cork overnight?

On closer examination we tracked down wine splashes and stains …on the skirting, on the cupboard doors, on the radiator …

The proof was there. It had popped its cork overnight. Richard was right. BUT he had also, quite obviously, put too much sugar in the wine or bottled it when it was still working. I had little choice but to bend my knee, bow to his great powers of deduction, and clean it up. I didn’t have to clean it up but he wouldn’t have done it properly so…

As I mentioned last time, or the time before, hard for me to stay focused sometimes, I couldn’t wait for Richard to go back to work and to get back to my routine, so, yesterday, having popped to Tesco to have tea with a friend, come back and had the chucks out, thrown a wash load into the tumbler, I sat down to watch the latest Vikings episode. Chea decided to grace me with her presence and settled on my knee.

This was bliss. A fire crackling away. Chea, content and purring (not out terrorising birds) and an episode of Vikings.

Ten minutes in and there was an almighty bang …and I mean an almighty bang, followed by the harsh sound of running water. Chea leapt for her life, scrabbling through my leggings, leaving nail marks in my flesh and pinprick holes in said leggings. My instant reaction was …SHIT the kitchen tap has burst at the pipe (it’s been dripping for some time) and I don’t know where the stopcock is. With Chea plastered against the wall, tail like a Christmas tree, and eyes as wide as saucers, I had to leave Ragnar Lothbrok storming the English and rush into the kitchen.

A sea of red greeted me …spicy Cabernet Sauvignon red to be precise. A cork floated in the crimson stream like a little boat. I followed the stream back to the source and there, in the wine rack, a bottle pulsed-out its contents.

Chea appeared behind me, still in Christmas-tree-tail-mode. As I looked down at her she looked up at me. Her expression clearly said, ‘what the *uc*!’

‘Yes, Chea,’ I said, watching the wine running down the bin, the radiator, the cupboards, under the fridge, soaking a sack of potatoes, ‘what the *uc*?’

After my heart had returned to near normal I threw a tea towel over the main pool and decided to go back to Ragnar, leader of the marauding Vikings. It wasn’t my wine. It wasn’t my responsibility. I was bloody annoyed, not just because I’d received the fright of my life but if Chea had happened to be sauntering past the wine rack when the bottle exploded it would have taken off her pretty little head.

I stood and watched the wine soaking into the tea towel and realised, what if the others explode? They needed moving to outside. But, what if they exploded when I touched them? They could wait. No, they couldn’t. Chea’s life was at risk.

Fortunately, only 3 bottles of that type remained so, gingerly, VERY gingerly, like I was diffusing a bomb, with corks facing forwards, and Chea safe on high ground (the kitchen table) I carried them out into the garden. Then I cleaned up the entire mess. Well, I am OCD, aren’t I? Couldn’t possibly rest knowing that my kitchen resembled the Red Sea.

Baby blackcurrants already!

I won’t bore you with the aftermath, other than to say that Richard has decided he needs to quickly drink the remaining 3 bottles …for Chea’s sake at least.

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

Cabbages, Chickens And Game Of Thrones.

Hi All

The weather here in good old Leicestershire has been quite nice for the last few days. Unfortunately, I’ve not really sat around in it much. The mornings have found me watering baby plants that look fine one minute and then down on their knees the next, and carefully placing slug pellets in places where the slugs can munch but nothing else can.

This, of course, leaves several areas pellet-free. None are applied in the areas where the chucks scratch, none where Chea might decide to wander, and none where other ‘visitors’ to the garden might access.

Talking of the chucks I can now state with an abundant amount of optimism that Flight has made it back to the land of the living. I honestly thought she wouldn’t make it, as day after day she seemed to be losing the will to live. Frankly, I guess I shouldn’t have used that as a ‘sign’ because even I do that sometimes but I always bounce back.

Blimey, that was a touch depressing wasn’t it? Sorry, I didn’t intend it to be.

Anyway, Flight has returned to her normal self and all, for now, is well. Little looked a bit ‘suspicious’ and I’m therefore keeping an eagle eye on her. I guess being caught by Richard carefully separating a large pooh, kindly dropped by Little on the outside mat, didn’t confirm my sanity but there you go. I won’t bore you with the details but it looked a bit ‘wrong.’

I put this return from the dead down to my Victoria sandwich cake, grapes, bananas and garlic and cider apple vinegar …but I may be wrong.

So, this is my morning routine, which leaves the afternoons to sit in the sun. Er …yes, however, my son, bless his little doodah, supplied me with the first 2 seasons of Game of Thrones, stating that, ‘I don’t know if you’ll like it, Mum, but give it a go,’ and seeing how the TV is utter crap at night, I did just that – I gave it a go.

My first impression wasn’t great. I couldn’t see how it needed quite so much blood spilled, quite so many decapitations, and I also wasn’t sure that all the naked flesh on show really added to the storyline? I was informed by my friend Philip Earland that was the genre, so who am I to ague. I stuck with the next few episodes and then I realised that I was hooked. I loved several of the characters – I won’t say which characters because one of you will kindly tell me that they die in season 4!

So, this has become my afternoon sin – I watch back to back episodes of Game of Thrones. The sun shines outside and I, pale and cuddled beneath a throw (the lounge is bitterly cold) watch Game of Thrones. Of course it came to an abrupt end as I realised that my son had missed out an episode in season 4. I had words with him and the said episode is, as I write, winging its way to me in the post. See, my son is a very obedient child and obviously loves me to bits. Either that or he just can’t stand my constant wittering, and demands, and has learnt from an early age simply to go with the flow.

Richard loves all of this. No, honestly he does. I’m centre stage in the lounge with my tea, sweeties, salted cashews, the remote control, the blood and guts, and he toddles off for a ride in the countryside on his motorbike. Then, he returns, changes transport to the car and pops to McDonalds and returns with a caramel sundae thingy. I’m actually now beginning to think that I might miss him when he goes back to work next week …YES he IS going back to work next week, after 4 months convalescing after his shoulder op. Now I shall have to do all the sodding vacuuming and stuff that he has been religiously doing day-to-day. Mind, without him the house and his bloody black socks that shed black fluff all the way up the stairs, there won’t be so vacuuming to do.

This Game of Thrones thingy has had a weird effect on me to be honest. The other day I treated myself to a new battery operated hedge trimmer (I know how to get my kicks!) and we decided to try it out. As I stood with said tool in my hands, ready to go, Richard grovelled on his hands and knees to place the tarpaulin around the conifer that was about to get ‘rounded’ (massacred.) His little head was bowed and the back of his neck clearly available. The thought ran through my mind (only for a nano second!!!!!!) that it would only take the swiftest of moves from my hand and new toy and his head would be off and rolling across the gravel….and stop with the wide eyes and the look of horror that’s spreading across your face …of course I wouldn’t really do it. I love the man. Adore him. Don’t I? And besides, it was a hedge trimmer for Pete’s sake, not a flipping chainsaw!

As I say, Game of Thrones does have an impact and probably isn’t for the easily influenced …or the faint-hearted.

So, off I trot to save a baby plant of some description, and to let the chucks out to terrorise every living insect, and then, hopefully, if episode 4 of season 4 drops through the letter box I’ll be curled up inside with my caramel sundae! Yes, I know it’s wrong. But hey-ho.

Take care my lovelies x

Let Them Eat Cake?

Hi All

I told you in my last blog that I feared for Flight, that I thought she was on that downward spiral to chicken heaven – or should that be an upward spiral to chicken heaven? Possibly.

For days I tempted her with the odd squashed grape, watching while she cocked her head, as if half blind, to stare drunkenly at it until Little barged in and scoffed the grape in one. I tempted and wiggled cooked spaghetti beneath her tightly closed beak …until Little barged in and scoffed it in one.

As Flight grew thinner, Little grew fatter. I will be renaming her Big at this rate.

And then – Flight pecked at, and swallowed, a grape seed. An hour later she murdered an ant and managed to eat it after 4 attempts. I left them out in the sunshine for most of the day and by roosting time she had taken a few bits of lettuce and a piece of banana. Obviously not the best diet for a chicken but I didn’t care, anything down her throat was better than nothing. The following morning she looked a bit brighter and again spent most of the day in the garden, in the sunshine, pecking at a few strands of grass and occasionally accepting my humble offerings. I breathed a deep sigh of relief and for the first time actually thought that she might not be flapping up to chicken heaven.

The following morning saw her hunched up again and refusing everything. She remained that way all day and into the following day. I went to bed that night knowing beyond doubt that she wouldn’t see the sun come up.

Weirdly, Richard was up at the crack of dawn (it’s OK to say this as long as I don’t mistakenly spell dawn with a capital D) and when I came down ten minutes later he had let the chucks out. Little was bouncing on the spot, at the gate, waiting for me and my delicacies, and Flight stood some way behind her. Amazed to see that she was alive, let alone standing, I grabbed the only thing available for their morning treat – a piece of Victoria sandwich base that I’d removed from the freezer the previous night. As I approached the gate they spotted the cake. Little continued bouncing in expectation and Flight trotted to the gate to join her. As I crumbled the cake they BOTH dived on it and devoured it. Yes! Bloody devoured it!

Was that it? Was my home-made Victoria sandwich the answer? Well, I can’t say for sure but all I will say is that Flight took some lettuce, dandelion leaves, a few grubs and more cake yesterday and this morning she snaffled more and is looking much brighter.

Of course this could all still end in tears because she has bounced back before and then deteriorated again …but I am slightly more hopeful. I also put her on garlic and cider apple vinegar as I suspected a bit of sour crop. Not sure if this is having, or has had, any effect but it’s certainly jazzed-up Little, she’s running around the place like a creature insane, tail feathers flying!

Today I shall attempt to get Flight to take something more sensible but …if cake is all she will stomach right now, and admittedly only a teaspoon  at a time, then cake it will have to be. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it. Spring grass, vitamin D and home-made Victoria sandwich is on the menu just now …

 

To be continued …

Take care my lovelies x