Oh, My Days!

Here’s to striding forward and having the courage to leave dead wood behind. Here’s to being captain of your own ship, and travelling where you want and when you want. With the very best and worthy of companions. Or alone, if that is your wish. Here’s to bucking the trend, defying expectations. To going rogue. To adventure, no matter the scale, for walking through a rain shower is adventure to an ant. Here’s to refusing to conform, to placate, to being manipulated, to being used. Enough of that already. Here’s to discovery, to learning, to stepping off that treadmill that has done nothing but take you round, circle following circle. Walk the wrong way on an escalator. Go against the prescriptive flow. Here’s to having the confidence of never having to explain yourself to anyone ever again. Here’s to good health. Quiet times. Productive hours. Peace. Here’s to ‘Do no harm.’ To ‘Speak no evil.’ To ‘Think no ill.’ Here’s to you, you amazing creature. Here’s to me. To us

How are we all? It's a sunny and pleasantly warm day here on the Three Counties Border, so I've been out in the garden absorbing me some sun-ray vitamin D. I've washed my poor grubby little blue car so it actually looks blue again. I've done a bit of gardening in the form of raking up more leaves; the oak tree was a bit late shedding this year and I am suspicious it did it on purpose. Still, all good exercise. And I've cleaned out Nancy's house. She has laid another egg. I don't think I've ever had a hen lay such handsome-looking eggs approaching her fourth year. And now I have come inside because the urge to write is upon me and I've a tidy hour to fill before I crack on making Sunday dinner. I was tempted to stay outside and do some weeding and pruning but the ground is so claggy with all the rain we've had I decided against it. I need some new wellies and my gardening clogs won't cut tramping through muddy borders, not without me getting

Well phew! I made it through Christmas and out the other side! This year was my first Christmas spent without either of my children (aged 33 and 31...yes, I know....) and my head went through a bit of a turmoil getting itself around the thought. But actually, it was okay. Dinner was cooked without the usual feeling of panic of having to get everything 'perfect', you know, like we are constantly told it has to be by the media. Andy and I spent the day pleasing only ourselves and it was a quiet and relaxed affair. I made a jigsaw puzzle, Andy got his new drone stuck up a tree. We had a game of Scrabble where at one point my letter selection consisted of six 'i's and a 'u'. The evening TV was okay, too, although my favourite Christmas special was aired the previous day - Gareth Malone's concert organised at Watford General Hospital, starring the redoubtable, full-of-life and thoroughly delightful Betsie. She is little girl, just turned 6, who, despite ha

Home. What does it mean to you? Is it the physical place where you live, where you can shut the door against the world and be surrounded by your favourite things like bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens? Or is it the place you grew up, maybe where your parents still live? Perhaps ‘home’ is people? Family and friends who care for you, make you laugh, look out for you, defend you, listen to you, share themselves, become part of who you are? Or is home more of a spiritual thing? Like when you are wholly absorbed in a favourite past-time, for example gardening, or sewing, or writing, and just taking part in that activity makes you ‘feel at home.’ Perhaps you have visited a different part of the world and immediately felt like you have ‘come home.’ Perhaps the concept of home is more a feeling of calm and comfort than a physical building? Perhaps you are really lucky and home, for you, is a marrying together of all these things.   Jane Austen, the author and clever observe

Golden Cap on head, Gloria Glinda makes her first wish. ‘I wish for Ptolemy Ptinman to be returned to Winkie Land so he make take up his new post as their kind, wise and brave Pking,’ she says. The flying monkeys form themselves into their usual sledge shape and Bob Frapples opens the door for Ptolemy Ptinman to step inside. Before he does, our tin hero, who very much has a heart, hugs Dorothy Miggins, Toto and Bambino Bobblion, wishes them well, then is whisked away in a puff of smoke. ‘He’ll be a good Pking,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Just needs to find himself a lovely lady pheasant to make his Pqueen and they can have lots of lovely little pbabies.’ After a quick cup of tea and leftover panettone, Gloria Glinda makes her second Golden Cap wish. The monkey sledge returns. ‘Yes?’ says Bob Frapples, who hasn’t worked with this speed since he drove a van for DPD, the parcel delivery service. ‘Please take Bambino Bobblion back to Quadling Woods,’ says Gloria Glinda

It is the morning after the night before. The castle of Gloria Glinda, the Good Pumphrey of the North is quiet except for occasional mutterings and moaning about headaches, gippy tummies and where’s the Alka Seltzer? The tee-total staff are wandering around with enormous bin bags, clearing up the mess and wondering why it’s always them who have to do the housework after a party instead of the drunken ne’er-do-wells who make the mess in the first place. And Dorothy Miggins is still fuming from the revelation that she could have gone home over two weeks ago if Gloria Glinda had thought to mention the magic power of the ruby slippers instead of sending them all off on a wild Oz chase. ‘Try and see the funny side,’ says Ptolemy Ptinman. ‘I would if there was one,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘We got to spend lots of fun time together,’ says Toto. ‘Think of it as a holiday.’ ‘Fun?’   says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Holiday? I don’t think so. I think ‘interesting’ is as far as I can stre

Continuing onwards, then, the friends make their way through the woodlands and towards the castle, which sparkles, glitters and glows ever pinker. As they approach, they can hear the sound of music and laughter wafting its way across the air. ‘Sounds like a party,’ says Toto, whose toes immediately start tapping to the music. Dorothy Miggins knocks at the castle gates.   No reply. She knocks again, louder and with more force. Still no reply. For such are the jollities within that no-one can hear the arrival of the weary travellers. ‘Right,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Needs must.’ And she takes the Golden Cap from her gingham apron pocket and prepares to use her final wish. Bob Frapples appears, quick as his usual flash. ‘Last wish time, eh?’ he says. ‘If you don’t mind,’ says Dorothy Miggins, who is still harbouring a bit of a grudge at the whole ‘monkeys can’t travel over a desert’ thing. ‘Take us over the castle walls and into the castle, please.’ Bob Frapples

‘Come on, then,’ says Dorothy Miggins, stuffing the Golden Cap back into her apron pocket. ‘Let’s get going. A lovely walk through the woods to stretch the legs, eh?’ ‘Not MORE walking,’ says Toto. ‘Seriously, my spine is on the verge of crumbling all its discs into dust.’ This is the back end of Toto, the Hugh Gnu wing, if you like. ‘Oh hush,’ says Toto, the vertical front end a.k.a Mrs Slocombe. ‘If you’d kept up those Pilates exercises like I showed you, your back would be sufficiently strong to cope with walking at a right angle to the rest of you for three weeks and a bit more.’ ‘And what’s with all this ‘wuffing’ business?’ says Hugh Gnu. ‘I’m a classically trained actor, you know. I’ve worked with the best – Olivier, Hepburn, Lansbury, Day-Lewis. I’d have been the voice of Mufasa if James Earl Jones hadn’t got there first. Ahem… ‘Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom. A king’s time as ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day, Simba, the sun

‘The Golden Cap!’ says Tancrow Pete, taking charge of the situation in his capacity of the new Wizard of Oz, or King of the City of Rusty Duck, or whatever. ‘Do you still have the Golden Cap?’ A look of hope and joy spreads across the face of Dorothy Miggins. ‘Of course!’ she says. ‘It’s here, in my pocket.’ And she pulls the Golden Cap, looking a bit crumpled, from the pocket of her gingham pinafore. ‘Put it on,’ says Tancrow Pete. ‘Make a wish! The flying monkeys will take you all home.’ ‘What about you?’ says Dorothy Miggins, looking at Mrs Slocombe who is still panting a bit with the whole hot-air balloon malarkey. ‘We’re going to be travelling by monkey sledge again. Any more panic attacks imminent or are we going to have to tank you up with Pernod?’ ‘I’ll be fine with the sledge,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘And a dash of Pernod,’ she adds hurriedly, not wanting to pass up the offer of some Christmas cheer. ‘It’s just balloons. I think I must have been frightened by

The Duckkins gather en masse to wave off the Phantomime and their guests in the hot air balloon. To be honest, they are quite glad to see the back of the Phantomime. He hasn’t been a huge problem as their leader, but he hasn’t been that helpful either. There are a few mutterings of ‘Who’s in charge now?’ because we all like to know where the buck of blame stops, don’t we, and the Duckkins are no exception. The Phantomime stands on the platform next to his tethered dirigible, the sound of which, for some bizarre reason, makes the author snigger. Dramatically, he raises his hands to silence the crowd of Duckkins and when that doesn’t work, he shouts. ‘Oi! Look at ME everyone! I’m the star!’ Slowly, the quackering of the Duckkins quietens to a dull roar and then someone points out the quicker they are silent, the quicker the Phantomime et al will leave and everyone can all get on with preparing lunch. Silence ensues with speed. The Duckkins are very keen on their food.

Dorothy Miggins is keen to see the Awful Mighty Power, or whatever, that is the Wizard of Oz as soon as possible, so they head for his Gothic mansion and are admitted immediately. They march confidently up the beacon-lit corridor to the great hall at the end and find themselves once more in the presence of the Wizard himself. Or herself. They haven’t actually seen him or her yet. ‘So,’ says the voice of the Wizard of Oz, ‘you have returned triumphant! You have melted the Wicked Poo of the West and brought her broomstick to me.’ ‘We have,’ says Dorothy Miggins. ‘Although the bristles are a bit sticky. I didn’t have time to clean it before we left and there might be some egg and marmalade still attached as a result of my very conscientious cleaning of her kitchen floor. Honestly, you wouldn’t believe it…’ ‘SILENCE!’ roars the Mighty Wizard of Oz. ‘I do not have time to listen to your silly stories. I am a VERY important person. I have MANY important things to attend to. A

Following the hullaballoo of melting witches and random monarch selections, Dorothy Miggins is keen to get back to the City of Rusty Duck, present the broomstick to the Wizard of Oz and be on her way home, in whatever form that might take. ‘I’m not sure I can face the walk, though,’ she says. ‘Is there a horse and carriage we can borrow, maybe, or a couple of bicycles?’ She is talking to Tinkie Winkie who has turned his coat again and is busy smarming up to the king-in-waiting, Ptolemy Ptinman. Tinkie Winkie laughs. ‘You can use the Golden Cap,’ he says. ‘Since the Wicked Poo of the West is no more, its ownership passes to you. You get three wishes! If I was you, I’d use one to get me back to the City of Rusty Duck.’ ‘Or,’ says Dorothy Miggins, ‘I could use one to wish myself home, to the Three Counties Border and Much Malarkey Manor, which is very likely falling into chaos in my absence.’ Tinkie Winkie scratches his chin. ‘You could,’ he says, ever the sycophant.