Oh, My Days!

 I thought Alan Pheasant was looking a bit spruce and sexy when he visited the other day - turns out, though, that it wasn’t Alan at all, but a fresh young pheasant whippersnapper. I know this because I saw the pair of them perambulating the middle garden on Saturday, Alan leading the way and clearly showing the new kid the way things are done in his garden. Of course, the new chap needs a name. I have called him Beau, after Brummell, the gadabout, madabout cock about town. He is a very handsome chap indeed. Here he is, in a dodgy iPad photo. If you look carefully to the left of the photo you’ll see a woodpecker on a bird feeder, too. Mrs Rusty Duck will be pleased to know that, following her information, I have identified it as a lady woodpecker, and the other one who visits is a juvenile as yet undecided.  The laundry roof is completed! We are very pleased with the job; it has somehow made the whole building feel stronger and more secure, not to mention smartened up the view from the

  The laundry is finally getting a new roof! It was the only thing mentioned on the surveyor’s report when we bought Damson Cottage, something along the lines of ‘Flat roofs are prone to deterioration and current issues would benefit from addressing.’ Well, it lasted another five years, just about, but the woodshed was becoming a mini-Amazon swamp and the laundry section was starting to make ominous dripping noises, too, so in January I secured the services of Roofer Extraordinaire Ant (that’s his name - he isn’t an actual ant) and he arrived on Wednesday to work his magic.  He’s a genuine sort, originating from Canvey Island in Essex, which is the neighbour to my birth county of Kent. It’s nice to have a chat with someone else from ‘dahn sarf’ without the usual comment of ‘You’re not from round these parts, are you?’ He calls me “darlin” a lot, and says things like, ‘This’ll be a mint job” and he is true to his word, because it looks amazing - solid, neat and worth the expense. He fin

 Comedy parsnip, anyone? I dug these up this morning, the last of our parsnip crop from 2021. The large one is a good, big and chunky handful, the smallest enough for a modest Sunday lunch portion. Most of the parsnip crop has been stereotypical parsnip shape i.e triangular of the isosceles variety, but a small handful have been quirkily artistic in their growing method. Of course, they wouldn’t get past supermarket standards but my goodness they taste amazing, and all in all I have been very happy with the crop. I’m always secretly thrilled with any parsnips I grow because they can be notoriously difficult to germinate. The first of the crop were lifted at the beginning of December so we’ve had almost three months’ worth. Still harvesting chard, and some purple sprouting broccoli is imminent proving the pigeons don’t get it first. I’m really looking forward to this year’s growing season. My only mild irritation is that not all the raised beds are full of ready-to-go compost. Our compo

 “Let’s move to the countryside,” she said. “It’ll be fun!” she said. “All that fresh air and back to Nature stuff. Better than being in the middle of a town with all the smog, noise and modern conveniences like mains drainage,” she said.  ‘The Cottage is not connected to mains sewers. It is served by a septic tank and soakaway,’ said the estate agent’s particulars.  “It’ll be fine,” she said. “We can call it Vladimir, because it’s a poo tin…hahahahahahaha!” she said.  And so, with Storm Eunice brewing in the distance and the local bird population treating the rising winds like an avian version of Thorpe Park or Alton Towers, the Damson Cottage toilet, upon flushing, decided to do this… Actually, it DIDN’T spill over completely, thank goodness, but it was pretty darned close. I felt that heart-in-mouth moment when the level rose and rose and…stopped just short of the level of the toilet rim. The bath made a peculiar gurgling noise. I rolled my eyes. I knew what this meant - there was a

So, you know the two Gü chocolate puddings that I purchased as a token gesture towards a Valentine’s Day dinner, given Andy was on a late finish at work, and a full on gourmet feast was never going to happen because I don’t like going to bed feeling like I’ve eaten a boulder? These were they… With Andy tucking into his curry dinner, I scoured the pudding packet for cooking instructions. They said: ‘Microwave for 1 minute. Do NOT put in oven.’ Oh bum. This was NOT what I signed up for when buying into my spontaneous romantic gesture. Now what do I do? Andy could take them to work with him to heat up in the microwave there, I supposed, but that would mean he would have TWO puddings and I would have NONE which seemed grossly unfair AND defeating of the Valentine Day gesture. Could they be eaten cold, I wondered?  Houston - we had a chocolate pudding problem. Firstly, I don’t own a microwave. I’ve always been suspicious of them. ‘T’ain’t natural, cooking food that fast. All that pinging an

 Every time I stepped out of the house today, I got rained on, so after a quick scoot around town to run necessary errands, I gave up and spent the afternoon reading ‘n’ writing ‘n’ contemplating my navel. I had planned to make a lovely Valentine’s dinner for His Lordship Malarkey and myself, but he is on a late finish today and therefore won’t be home until 8 p.m, and eating a full meal that late in the evening does my digestion and sleep no favours whatsoever. Usually, he is on a 4.30 p.m finish on a Monday which would have been ideal for posh dinner times by candlelight but not THIS Monday for some odd reason. Ah well, I shall make him a curry (because he likes curry and I don’t, but I shall already have eaten by then, probably eggs and mushrooms on toast) and then we can share the Gü Chocolate Fudge Puddings I picked up whilst out and that will have to suffice, Valentine celebration-wise.  We exchanged cards, of course. A gorgeous homemade one from Andy to me… …and he presented me

 Apologies, dear Reader. Had I known I’d be away from here for a month I’d have likely said so before I vanished. Something like, ‘Blogging Holiday - Back in February!’ But I didn’t know so there we go. What can I do, eh?  The problem, I think, has been the feeling of being swamped by an overwhelming and inexplicable sadness. I’m going to blame the dark days of January even though we’ve been blessed with some blue sky sunny days and mild temperatures. I’m also going to blame the last dregs of hormones seeping from my post-menopausal bod AND the continuing shizzle surrounding Covid, because why not?  I’ve never been a great fan of Winter - the lead up to Christmas is okay because of all the twinkly lights and bonhomie, but January? Bleurgh. I’ve done my best to mitigate the misery by reading lots of novels, making ambitious plans for the garden, sewing, watching comedy TV, avoiding news reports and squeezing the cat until he says, ‘Bloody get off me, will you?’ Enough stuff, then, to co