Oh, My Days!

A few kind folk have voiced to me their concerns about me being ‘lonely’ now that now I am a home person/ housewife/keeper of my own company/ employment drop out. And yes, my interactions with fellow human beings has fallen, nay plummeted, since I left my teaching job almost six weeks ago. I have gone from working in an environment with lots of people to one where, if I stayed home all week, the only people I would see would be our lovely neighbours in passing (they are retired but have full on social lives) and the chap who delivers the veg box on a Tuesday. But does that matter to me? At the moment, no. I am enjoying being in my own company, with cats, chickens and the radio for background noise (if I want it), furry snuggles and eggs (when I can find them.) When I do go out (because I do go out!) I can reassure myself people are still out there and the zombie apocalypse hasn’t happened whilst I’ve been doing my own thing in a home surrounded by fields. Talking of eggs...here is

I like cats. I like plants. Unfortunately, cats + plants = mess + destruction x my patience going ‘BANG!’ This is because cats like chewing on plants. I don’t know why, given they are carnivorous, and I suspect if I dished up a side order of broccoli with the dinner of Miss Flora Bijou Mybug and Master Bambino Bobble Wilson they would upturn their little kitty noses in disgust. Also, there are many plants that are poisonous to cats, for example, lilies. I once had a tuxedo cat called Lily. Oh, the irony. Anyway, you’d think this poison plant thing would be another reason for cats to keep their teeth to themselves, but will they listen? Oh no, they won’t. They’d rather dice with Death By Poison and risk a visit to their veterinary (a.k.a Andy) to have their stomachs pumped with something in order to purge them of their stupidity. So in order to introduce houseplants to a cat-occupied household, one must do one’s research into appropriate i.e non-toxic plants. Which is what I did, beca

Wild Edric was a Saxon Lord from Shropshire. ‘Twas he that led the Saxon resistance when the Naughty Normans were doing their spot of conquering. Wild Edric, it is said, married a fairy princess (like you do) but one day he made the error of reproaching her (idiot Wild Edric) and she packed up her Fairy Princess set of matching luggage and vanished...POOF! Just like that. And now Wild Edric’s heartbroken ghost can be seen riding across the Shropshire hills searching for her. Good luck with that, Wild Edric. Wild Edric also happens to be the name of the rose hedge that borders the front of our cottage. Or ‘Bastard Wild Edric’ as I have come to know it over the previous almost three years we’ve lived here and I’ve had to deal with pruning it and weeding underneath it. Oh, it looks innocent enough. Smells gorgeous, too... ...but it is loaded, and I mean properly loaded, like a pizza loaded with all the toppings possible in the Land of Pizza Toppings, with the most vicious bloody ba

My goodness, but Chester is a rough place to be when they are turfing out the punters after a day at the races. Unfortunately, Friday was one such day, and thus Andy and I did find ourselves surrounded by men in dubious (i.e tasteless, tight and so much polyester you could hear them crackle) suits and women in wholly unsuitable frocks and hats, most of whom were completely rat-arsed at 4 p.m. The air was rank with the stench of after-shave strong enough to rip the lining from your lungs and our eyes were assaulted by the sight of women of all ages, shapes and sizes wearing ‘foof’ skirts. I had to explain the term ‘foof’ skirt to Andy, and for those of you feeling similarly confused, a foof skirt is one that is soooooooo short you can almost see the woman’s who is wearing it foof, a.k.a lady garden, a.k.a vagina. It’s not a good look. For any woman. And whilst I am all for any human being having the right to wear whatever they darn well like, I’d rather they didn’t do it near me. I am

Crafters amongst you will recognise this scenario... ...the messy wool stash, a mix of odds and sods of balls and bits of balls accumulated over many years of knitting malarkey. I learned to knit when I was about nine or ten years old. I have clear memories of taking my knitting to primary school with me and sitting on a playground wall practising my skills, avoiding all other primary school playtime nonsense like playing stupid games or standing around gossiping. The seeds of introversion were sown early for me.  I also grew up with lessons of frugality because we didn’t have a lot of money and certainly materials for crafting, like wool, fabrics, embroidery threads, fancy paper, glitter and the like, were luxuries and so I learnt to squirrel away every scrap that wasn’t used in a sort of ‘Hunger Games For The Creative Mind’ kind of way.  However, now I am a financially solvent, mortgage free adult and arts and crafts are a very important part of my new life now I am no long

The world is full of contradictions and sometimes life is a minefield when it comes to making the best and most informed decisions. For a while now, I have been thinking about buying into an organic  veg box delivery scheme because I’ve read a few books and articles about the parlous state of the soil in and on which we grow our food, and then there is the whole air miles thing, and eating seasonally both for our health and the health of the planet, and also what ingesting pesticides and artificially added hormones can do to a body and oh, so much more it has made me feel quite dizzy and anxious and also write unduly long sentences in my blog posts, so breathe......and breathe.... Well, I signed up to Riverford because I like the cut of their jib. I chose the medium 100% British produce box. Medium, because it said it was suitable for 2-3 people and I eat a LOT of vegetables (being vegetarian) and Andy doesn’t eat a lot of vegetables because he declares himself allergic to most of th

This time last year I was scraping ice from the car before heading off to work. A vague metaphor for how I was feeling about my job then? Maybe. Today I can declare I am no longer a teacher. I no longer teach in any school with children of any kind. I have spent the last two decades of my life in education. I may have made a difference somewhere along the line but it is time to call it a day. I am too weary with it all now - the data crunching, the accountability for situations way beyond my control, the paperwork, the low morale of the profession....I could go on, but I won't because I am done with it and it would be a waste of precious time. And I am certainly way above being assaulted by children who  know no-one is going to stop them or implement any sanctions and that it is okay to use a decent adult human as a verbal and physical punch bag. In case of emergencies it is nice to know I could, if I was having a mad rush of blood to the head, pick up a day here and there of suppl