Oh, My Days!

 Sunday morning. Mrs Miggins is collapsed on the chaise longue in the Stella Gibbons Library in the East Wing of the Manor, wrapped in a snuggly blanket, toeses encompassed in her favourite cat fur bed socks, and a large mug of hot chocolate within wing span. She is grateful for the extra hour in bed following the putting back of clocks. She has had, what in common parlance might be called, ‘one dung heap of a week.’ The other hens have been up since the crack of dawn because they ALWAYS forget about the clock changes, which renders them either very early or very late twice in a year.  ‘Are you all right?’ demands Mrs Poo, bursting into the library. She is in search of inspiration for her Next Grand Adventure following the success of her End Of The Rainbow Expedition. She is thinking something along the lines of digging for an extinct or hereto unknown species in a very deep cave or casting herself adrift in a dirigible fashioned in the style of steampunk.  ‘I’m fine, tha...

 Mrs Slocombe is in da house today. The blog is thusly in her capable wings… ‘Good morning, lovely people who, like me, are partial to a bit of cake! Cake is a VERY important factor in ensuring good gravity by helping to create the essential ‘base triangle ratio’ which, in chicken world, is taught in all the best chicken education facilities and should, in my opinion, be taught to all living things. The ancient Egyptians knew all about the importance of bottoms being wider than tops in order to stay properly grounded on the Earth, which is why you’ll NEVER see pyramids floating around in space. Fact.  Anyway, since we’ve been called back from holiday to take over the emergency running of this blog, I’ve been rootling through the various scraps of paper upon which Lady Malarkey has scribbled down random recipes that have taken her fancy over the past few months but which have yet to be tested. And this easy-peasy cake recipe is the perfect addition to your Base Triangle Ratio R...

  Variations on the theme of rain and sun and rain and sun means this week there has been a goodly smattering of rainbow action. A rainbow greets the hens this morning and makes for a lovely backdrop as they enjoy breakfast of buckwheat pancakes and jam.  ‘I do like a rainbow,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, deciding to go rogue and try a pancake spread with Marmite, a decision she soon realises comes laced with regret.  ‘Me, too,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘They’re just so…rainbowy, aren’t they?’ Mrs Poo gulps down the last of her eight pancake, releases a fairly substantial yet also ladylike burp, and dashes from the table like a hen on a mission. ‘Buckwheat does that to her sometimes,’ says Mrs Miggins.  ‘Does what?’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Induces a sense of urgency, if you know what I mean,’ says Miggins. Mrs Slocombe doesn’t, but as she also doesn’t  want to get into any conversations of an unsavoury nature, she nods sagely and takes it upon herself to top up everyone’s tea mugs...

  Mrs Miggins has been shopping because she’s had a look through the kitchen cupboards at the supplies left by the previous incumbent a.k.a Lady Malarkey and has decided there is no way she is going to survive on a mix of lentils, buckwheat, hummous and falafel. As for the glut of chickpeas, well, if you were a hen, would YOU eat something that involved the words ‘chick’ and ‘pea’? No, what she needs is a nice bit of badger mince and a few Eccles cakes, and it is these she drags through the door along with a rather lovely bunch of pink chrysanthemums.  ‘Chrysanthemums!’ says Mrs Slocombe, who has been detailed to make cheesy baked potatoes for dinner along with an obscenely large trifle.  ‘In celebration of the Hunter’s Moon,’ says Mrs Miggins, pointing to the large orange full moon that is hanging low in the dusky sky.  ‘Hunter’s Moon?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is sitting by the Aga sewing sequins onto a pair of dungarees, because if ever there was an item of clothing...

  ‘Is it Christmas?’ says Mrs Slocombe, immediately heading for the cupboard wherein hangs her baking apron. ‘Because if it is, I am way behind on my savoury goods and pudding production…’ ‘Panic ye not,’ says Mrs Miggins, peeling off her jumpsuit and flinging it into the corner of the kitchen. ‘It is NOT Christmas. No need for any baking pinny action just yet. You can pop the kettle on though.’ ‘What’s that photo for then?’ says Mrs Slocombe, pointing at the top of the blog. ‘It’s to signal an impeding catastrophe, that’s what,’ says Mrs Poo. She, too, removes her jumpsuit and chucks it across the room where it lands neatly on top of Mrs Miggins’ already discarded outfit. ‘It means we have been recalled early to Much Malarkey Manor because SOMEONE is having an existential crisis and has taken herself off on a retreat to sort herself out, leaving US to do all the hard work as usual.’ Mrs Pumphrey lets out a sigh of relief. Firstly, because if it WAS Christmas then she certainly had...

 Oh well, I feel that I’ve been a bit boring of late, what with all this healing-spirituality-living-at-one-with-the-cosmos malarkey, and whilst it’s an important journey for me, nay a VERY important journey for me, I sense that maybe for you, dearest of dear reader, it’s been a bit like being made to go to church every Sunday because it is GOOD FOR YOU, and having to sit through very long sermons delivered by a member of the clergy who should have retired from public speaking at least 120 years ago.  I’ve been pondering on this conundrum today. It would be sad, I decided, to close down this blog because of the direction it appears now to be taking, a direction which is becoming about as polar opposite to its original purpose than when I started blogging well over 13 years ago. (When I say ‘polar opposite’ I’m not implying that once there was a large fuzzy bear on the scene and now there isn’t. There were never any bears, polar or otherwise. Just thought I’d clear up that conf...

 On Wednesday, a flyer arrived through our letterbox printed with the details of a dog who’d gone missing the previous Saturday. Her name was Betsy and she was a cockerpoo. She’d run off from near her home which was about 2.5 miles away from Damson Cottage and the owner asked that if anyone saw her, please to not approach her as she was a nervous dog, just call the number on the flyer.  This isn’t Betsy, but it looks very like her.  Well, my instinct was to connect with the Universe and see if I could pick up on her whereabouts. I made a mug of tea and wandered up the garden with it, in the drizzly rain, where I stood for a while at each corner of our garden, looking out across the fields that surround us, grounding myself and stilling my thoughts. I called out a few times - ‘Betsy! Betsy!’ - asking where she was and to let her know that if she was nearby she would be safe if she came into our garden because the road that runs between her home and ours is horrid - twisty ...

 No obvious signs of Autumn. The countryside around us looks as green as ever, and the bonus days of late sun and warmth continue yet… Not that it matters. Nature will do her thing in her own time and I shall go along with her for the ride. She doesn’t have a calendar on her wall. Her days will not be governed by human time. Sensible lady.  Anyway, today has been a day of waftful purpose. (I made up the word ‘waftful.’ Spellcheck doesn’t like it one iota, but then I don’t like spellcheck, so the feeling is mutual. Waftful = full of waft, if you hadn’t already worked it out, which you would have, of course, because you, dear reader, are of superior intelligence. Why else would you be reading this blog, eh? I rest my case…)  Back to waftful purpose. I made bread. Did a load of washing in order to make use of the sunny drying-on-the-line day that was on offer. And then I made some carrot and orange soup, mostly because when Andy went shopping he bought a massive bag of carro...

 A warm burst of sunshine this afternoon reminded me that it’s not quite time to relent and turn on the heating just yet, although my two feet long flamingo patterned hot water bottle has been enlisted into bed-warming action these last four nights or so. Mother Nature seems to be considering when to properly turn on the chilly times, giving us a few days of dampness and drafts tempered with magical sunny hot shots, just to get us used to the idea that Summer has past and hibernation days are knocking on our doors. I don’t mind. Autumn is my favourite season. Leaves turning trees from myriad greens to yellows, bronze and orange, softly atmospheric energies brushing the skies of a low slung sun, the promise of evenings by the fire, candle glow, fairy lights returned to dark corners, soups and stews, puddings and pies… The hooligan charm of goldfinches descend, en masse and twice a day, to feast at the bird feeding station. Fifteen I counted this morning. Or was it thirteen? Did I co...