Oh, My Days!

Question of the Day: What do I have in common with these crazy emancipated ladies and their crazy emancipated attire?  Nope, I don’t smoke a pipe. Heaven forbid. Nope, I don’t have a bulldog type creature who is thinking, ‘Thank goodness I am a dog and can parade around naked in my own well- fitting fur blessed to me by Mother Nature.’ And nope, I don’t have a penchant for a bonnet. However, seeing those bonnets did bring back a memory of when I was about 5 or 6 years old and my primary school had what they called a ‘Summer Pageant’ which involved us fashioning bonnets and aprons from pink and purple crepe paper, and learning a song to perform entitled, ‘Oh, soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me, with your musket, fife and drum?’ And looking back on the song, the soldier turned out to be a bit of a bastard anyway, because, after stringing along the smitten girl through several unproductive verses during which he gained a brand new uniform from her, he revealed he had a wife all alon...

The arrival of some sudden and deeply sad news this week has brought out an existential anxiety in me. It’s an uncomfortable position to find oneself, questioning the why, hows and wherefores of life. You’re born, you die, of that there is certainty, but what of the inbetween? What of that tricky patch of time we call life?   We never know the length of our allocation, of course - perhaps if we did, we might make more of our hours, and not waste them on trivialities like bearing grudges or being angry or annoyed because someone else doesn’t meet our personal expectations. I’ve been as guilty of that in my own time as the next person. But you learn, and you bloody well grow up. At least, that’s probably the Universal Plan. Some people, of course, never do. Or chose not to.  But I’ve been struck hard by confusion in the last three days or so as to what the purpose of life is. Why ARE we here? To survive, and in (hopefully)the best and most comfortable way we can? To make some so...

(Not a poem ode. It’s been a long day. I can’t be doing with poetry faff. But a piece of prose in the spirit of an ode. A sort of ‘prode’, if you will.  Oh yes, it’s all very well keeping your raspberry canes orderly and tied up, both for neatness and convenience. Once those sweet little cushions of sunshine, all velvet and warm, are away and galloping at this time of year, it’s all very convenient to be able to take your bowl and walk up and down the regimented lines, selecting the fruit at their peak of ripeness, and taking them inside for tea, five minutes tops, job done. ‘Some delicious British fresh single cream with your raspberries, Madam?’  ‘Don’t mind if I do, Jeeves.’  But where is the fun in that, eh? Where is the fun in a life of ease and convenience? A sailor doesn’t learn to sail if there are no storms. (This has nothing to do with raspberries. But, like I say, it’s been a long day.) No, what you really need is the joy, nay fun, of raspberries growing in a t...

Despite the insistence of the BBC, I, personally, am not thrilled by the return of football to their menu of televisual delights. ‘Everyone is thrilled that football is back!’ trills Zoe Ball, getting all ‘emotional’ on her breakfast show and continuing to ask five questions where one will do. ‘No, we are NOT!’ says I. I’ve re-tuned the kitchen radio to Radio Shropshire. The woman has been grating on me for a while, and I’m not talking half a pound of an extra mature Cheddar, either. I return my loyalty to Radio 2 once Ken Bruce arrives at 9.30. He plays tunes and chitty-chats in convivial and moderate tones. As a light entertainment radio presenter should. No politics, no religion, no personal opinions and, most importantly, allowing his guests to get a word in edgeways. Sometimes I continue listening onwards at midday to Jeremy Vine. It depends on how much I want to be thrilled by his gob-smacking stupidity. Sometimes, I just can’t be bothered. Sometimes, the effort I have to put int...

This afternoon, the heady sum of 44 pence (of our fine English Pound) landed in our PayPal account courtesy of Lulu. Not Lulu, the wee Scottish redhead singer of ‘SHOUT!’ fame (sssshhhhhh....Mrs Blackbird is still nesting. And Mrs Swallow) but Lulu, the self-publishing company we used several years ago in order to publish this... ...and this... ...and this... We used Lulu because the traditional publishing houses refused to acknowledge either my writing talents or Andy’s illustration talents, so we thought, ‘Sod it - we shall do it ourselves.’ Also, they made for quite cheap Christmas presents. Our family and friends are VERY tolerant of our literary narcissism. Anyway, ‘Nearly King Jimbo’ initially earned £2 something or other, for which we received a cheque which I kept for posterity. And then nothing more forth-came; thus our careers as royalty earning writers came to a juddering halt from the crazy snail-like speed it built up to, and maintained for oh, a month or so? But now we ha...

It started off with sympathy for this little chap... ...a little cactus done up Mexican-style and presented to Andy by one of his work colleagues. Prior to this photo, taken four years ago, the cactus constituted a tall blob flanked by two smaller blobs and, as you can see, adorned with a sombrero, googly eyes and a devilishly handsome moustache. But by the time of this photo, the cactus was growing out of its pot, and its hat and I took pity upon the whole personification of a living entity, removed the entrapments of commerciality (the hat, the ‘tache and the googly eyes) and repotted it, in proper cactus compost and everything.  And now it looks like this... Considerably larger and blobbier and repotted again this year. I don’t know how big it will eventually grow but at least now it has dignity and doesn’t need to parade around in a silly hat.  And then there are these. Please bear in mind at this stage that I do not, and never have, liked cactus.  I rescued these two...

Fully expecting it to tip down with rain yesterday, because all the meteorological websites seemed to concur it would (pah! Wrong!) I found myself in the garden all day because it didn’t. Rain. Never listen to weather forecasters, I reckon. You might just as well rely on fairground fortune tellers.  Of course, it didn’t matter because I got loads done. Dead headed all the roses, did some weeding. Mowed all the grass. Watered, because it seemed the weather wasn’t going to oblige. I also planted up a hanging basket of home grown nasturtiums (never grown them before - so easy!), potted on the cucumbers and peppers, and planted out the runner beans.  The tomatoes are galloping onwards in the greenhouse. Oh, what a difference it has made, this greenhouse! I’ve also sown some seeds - radish, rocket, carrots and beetroot - in some pots as I’ve run out of veg bed space. The next Big Garden Job is constructing the raised beds. I made a mock up of one involving lots of sticks and some h...

It’s the four year anniversary of His Lordship Malarkey and myself moving to Damson Cottage! Four years! Where did that time go, eh? The weather, four years ago, was far more clement than it was today, that’s for sure. I remember driving along various motorways, a huffing and puffing Flora in a cat carrier on the passenger seat, windows wide open to get some breeze into the car, and inadvertently ending up on the M6 Toll road because a lorry blocked my view of the correct exit for bog standard M6. A blessing in disguise, as it turns out, because the traffic was lighter and our journey a half an hour at least shorter.  Today, it has been chilly, a bit breezy, a bit rainy spitty, and Flora has not needed to huff and puff because heat there has been none. You’ll be pleased also to know that the £20 top up I added to my mobile phone for the journey has STILL not run out!  Of course, Damson Cottage has changed beyond recognition from the place we arrived at. It has slowly morphed i...

The fridge was edging towards empty this morning, so I thought I’d give it a good clean before I went shopping and refilled it. As I was performing hand and dishcloth contortions in an attempt to get at the nooks and crannies of the door shelves, you know, where the milk, butter, ketchup, mayonnaise and chilli jam deposit all things gunk and sticky, I thought, ‘This would be sooooo much easier if the door shelves came off and I could dunk them in hot water.’ And then I thought, ‘I wonder if they do?’ So I grasped one by each of its ends and lifted it upwards and, what do you know, the shelf slid off the door very easily! Two and a half years I’ve had that fridge and never once realised the shelves came off the door for easy cleaning. I was thrilled! I was Fridge Enlightened. This, I thought, is what happens when you splash out and buy a posh fridge. You get lift and slide convenience.  Yesterday, one of the swallows brushed my hair as I went into the laundry i.e it dinged me on the...