Oh, My Days!

  I don’t often have horrible dreams but I did last night. I dreamt I was still a teacher. It was late at night and there was a meeting I was supposed to be at. I could hear voices at the meeting, but I couldn’t find where it was happening. I walked around for a bit, not recognising the school I was working in at all, except bits of it looked like my childhood grammar school, all wood panelling and smelling of polish and formaldehyde.  I asked a janitor chap if he knew where my classroom was. He said, ‘I’ll go and check in the mechanics room,’ (???) and I waited for a while but he never came back. I thought, ‘I can find the mechanics room,’ but I couldn’t. Eventually, I found my classroom, but someone else was in there with a bunch of ankle biter primary children, and when I opened my usually neat and organised filing cabinet, it had been filled it with a load of tat. The interloper teacher carried on teaching (when I say ‘teaching’ it looked more like arsing around with crayons and dr

 According to Vet Andy, Nell now appears to have her full complement of adult teeth. He gave her a check up after I found a baby back tooth she’d be clacking around the floor this morning. I swapped it for a piece of sausage, which I think she thought was a fair exchange. I now have three of her baby teeth which I shall probably keep for a while (in a fit of sentimentality) and then think, ‘Why on EARTH am I keeping these manky things?’ and bin them (because I am not a sentimental person). Yesterday evening, Nell was going absolutely berserk so perhaps a very wobbly tooth might have been the reason. Vet Andy says she now has no excuse for going berserk as her baby teeth have all popped out. And that is the tooth.  Every now and again I buy something exotic from the supermarket. I then put it in the kitchen cupboards, forget about it, find it again when I give the kitchen cupboards a tidy out, and then decide to try it, usually whilst trying to remember what triggered me to buy it in th

I haven’t watched much of the Chelsea Flower Show on TV this year, mostly because the weather has been soooooo lovely this week it would have been a sin to be wasting time indoors. However, I do like to put in my vote for ‘The People’s Garden’ award. I went on to the BBC website in order to do this, and do you know what? I didn’t bother. Quite frankly, I haven’t experienced so much disappointment since, well, since Zoe Ball took over the Radio 2 Breakfast Show and I was forced to defect to Classic FM. What a letdown. The nominated gardens looked, for the majority at least, like the wastelands you find around the back of old railway stations or derelict housing estates. The gardens of Damson Cottage looked in better nick and I have been woefully neglectful of those so far this year. Maybe next year I should exhibit at Chelsea? I could call my garden, ‘Couldn’t Be Arsed At Damson Cottage’ sponsored by Industrial Waste, Claptrap and Rusty Garden Tools.  Inspired by the notion of ‘Could Do

Bear with me on this one. I've been doing a lot of spiritual/ psychic development of late: meditation, channelling, visualisation and the such-like, in order to strengthen my connection with the Universal energies, because, quite frankly, my connections have been a tad loose and wobbly over the last few months, what with one domestic upset after another.  Therefore, now feeling more on an even keel, I have been using my settled time to sort out these connections. Now, when one receives messages from the Universe, one rather likes to have the messages quantified by some sort of earthly signal or sign. A sort of 'big tick, you heard right' just so that you don't think it was all in your imagination and you were having a slightly crackers moment. This can happen because we are human and, consequently, suspicious, stubborn and cynical of nature. I think a big, and tricky part of psychic and spiritual development is trying to not be suspicious, stubborn and cynical, and to b

 Aha! That lightbulb moment when I realised who Nell reminds me of when she is trotting ahead of me on jaunty walks, her hair a-bobbling and a-wafting in the air, and all I can see is the back of her head. Ready? Nell… Rod Stewart..! Nell… Rod Stewart… Okay, not so convincing from the front. Nell is clearly far more attractive than Rod, but from the back? Well, they could be twins! I’ll give Rod credit for his obviously superior conducting skills. Nell would merely eat the baton and ask what’s for pudding.  Nell is having her first professional puppy grooming sessions today which is a relief because it will save me from having to tackle her face with the bull-nosed scissors again so she can see where she is going. The first session is basically a wash, dry, face, feet and bum tidy up, just to get a newbie pup used to the grooming environment and paraphernalia. Nell knows about baths and hairdryers already, but I suspect her groomer will deliver her wash and brush up with far more fines

 It’s one of those days that you want to hold onto forever. One of those days where you think, ‘I could happily live in days like these for the rest of my life.’ The sun is shining, but not too hotly; there is a gentle breeze. I’m sitting outside working on some business plans. Nell is conversing with bumblebees which are attracted by the chive flowers… I’ve had conversations with Nell about conversing with bumblebees but I think it is now best to let her find out for herself. Learnt experiences and all that. I saved her from Injury By Enormous Wasp earlier today. Sometimes, she settles under the table… And sometimes she wanders around, tangling herself up with table and chair legs and flower pots, and then I have to stop what I’m doing and go to the rescue, but that is good because it makes me stand up and stretch. The wisteria is looking fabulous… Behind me, a bed of randomly seeded flowers… And to the left, the new barbecue. We had First Barbecue of the Season yesterday and decided

 Nell is 5 months old now. Personally, I count it as a minor miracle we have both survived thus far. For example, yesterday at some ungodly hour in the morning - 5.45, I think - we were playing a robust game of ‘Tug’ with one of her tuggy toys, when there as an enormous ‘CRACK!’ and I went, ‘Goodness, what was THAT?’ and Nell went, ‘Oooh, my face, my face,’ and went into a bit of a frenzy followed by ‘Mum, hug me’ mode, which she does when she wants reassurance. Later, at a less ungodly hour, Andy checked her mouth and found one of her baby canines hanging by a thread. He pulled it - the thing had broken off at the gum line, but not to worry because the rest of it would be pushed out by her new adult tooth. Currently, Nell has a set of half baby teeth, half adult teeth. She is being very dribbly so I think teething continues apace. I managed to save her broken fang… Other things I’ve noticed her starting to do are: 1) bury food she doesn’t want to eat immediately. Specifically, her den

 Lord Malarkey Himself had a jolly good time at Whooverville over the weekend. He met fellow Doctor Who writers and fans, he signed copies of his novel, he took part in interview panels, and he got a spontaneous round of applause from one audience for saying something very wise and prosaic! Here he is, being all suave and authorial… Loving that cheeky dimple!! I thought he might have worn one of the many Doctor Who t-shirts I’ve bought him over the years but I guess when one is a guest celeb at these things one has to maintain a certain air of sophistication.  Yesterday evening, whilst we were watching the BAFTAs on TV (and being appalled at how few programmes, films and celebrities we actually recognised, which means we are either a) getting old or b) don’t watch as much TV as we thought we did) he said, ‘Perhaps I should take up writing again.’ I said, ‘Yes, you should.’ And left it at that, to see what happens. He’s a very good writer. Different in style to me, which is why our atte

 Today, Himself Lord Malarkey is in Derby. A few months ago, he received an invitation to be a celebrity guest at this… …Whooverville, which is a fan event celebrating the works of Doctor Who novelists. Andy is a Doctor Who novelist. Waaaaaaay back in 1991, just as he was starting University, he entered a competition run by  Virgin Media who were launching the ‘Virgin New Adventures’ series of Doctor Who novels. And his novel - ‘Cat’s Cradle: Witch Mark’- was a winner. It was published in June 1992 and it earned him a bit of money to see him through University. (Ironic that two decades later he ended up marrying a witch, eh?) He was asked if he’d like to write another Doctor Who novel but he declined. He was too busy learning to be a veterinary surgeon. Just think - if he had accepted, I could now be married to a Doctor Who writer rather than a vet. I wonder how different that would have been? For a start, there would be no one handy to squeeze Nell’s anal glands when they backed up. 

 Since the very sad and untimely death of Tootsie Idiot Bantam, the remaining three Idiot Bantams - Mollie, May and Magnus - have wandered around the grounds of Damson Cottage as a happy, carefree poulet á trois. Unfortunately, they have also taken to wandering beyond the cottage grounds and into the acres of surrounding fields.  Now, this wouldn’t normally be a problem because they generally remain within view and they always come back to the treehouse tree to roost at night. They particularly enjoy rootling around Vladimir Poo Tin (can’t think why) and in terms of chicken enrichment, they’ve hit the jackpot. I imagine them perambulating the fields singing, ‘Home, home on the (free) range!!’ Magnus’s crowing has certainly been more distant. Which is nice. This is a view of part of their current playground. You can also see the stump of the recently felled apple tree and the manky fence I am in the process of dismantling. However, there is a problem. A BIG problem. For, despite their a

  Dear Policy ‘Expert’, Thank you for sending the renewal notice for my home and contents insurance on 22nd April. I have since searched for comparable policies on Compare the Meerkat and Go Compère Opera Singer Guy and you will be pleased to know your renewal quote (despite being almost £20 more expensive than last year which, in percentage terms amounts to just over 20% which, quite frankly, is appalling) is still one of the cheapest and I shall be renewing with you for another year. The policy is due for renewal on 23rd May which is still almost two weeks away. Despite the policy renewal date being almost the end of May, you sent an email a week after sending the renewal email, urging me to renew immediately. I binned the email because I am obtuse about these things and you aren’t getting the payment until it is actually due. I’m not swelling your coffers so you can earn interest on my money. Then, a couple of days later, you telephoned at 6.50 IN THE EVENING FFS to discuss renewing

 What, I say, WHAT on EARTH is all this malarkey surrounding the Eurovision Song Contest this year? It’s all over the BBC like an irritating rash. It’s bad enough there are programmes devoted to the run up to Saturday’s main event without every other programme being given a Eurovision slant to it, too. I am convinced that my annoyance at its unnecessarily in-depth coverage is yet another sign I am growing old, along with my increasing inability to understand anyone with a strong regional accent, my growing issues with being able to digest anything vaguely spicy and my total bewilderment as to why anyone would deliberately walk around in public in those jeans with designer holes and slashes in them.  Back to Eurovision. I remember the good ole days when it was a one Saturday evening a year event bringing together around 20 countries who presented songs of varying standard, which were then followed by some very partisan voting (Greece gives Cyprus 12 points, Cyprus returns the favour etc

  I enjoyed the Coronation of King Charles and Queen Camilla very much indeed. Things I especially enjoyed were, in no particular order: 1) the musical interludes from Bryn Terfel and the gospel choir. I thought the one composed by Andrew Lloyd Webber was a bit ‘jazz hands’.  2) Penny Mordaunt carrying out her duty with aplomb, class and wearing a jolly nice outfit. What a star!  3) views of Prince Harry being obscured by the jaunty red feather in Princess Anne’s military hat. I wondered if he’d been deliberately sat behind Princess Anne. I bet she has the hearing of a bat and if he said anything out of line, she’d have whipped around and stunned him into silence with her laser stare 4) the heartfelt interaction between King Charles and Prince William. Very moving.  5) the young chorister welcoming King Charles to the Abbey. If the young chap was at all nervous he didn’t show it.  6) Queen Camilla tucking bits of stray hair up into her crown. And cracking a smile when everyone else was

It was the birthday of Bambino Bobble Wilson yesterday. He was six years old. He said he didn’t want a fuss which is just as well as he didn’t get one. I offered him some salmon for breakfast but he declined. He’s a tuna kinda guy, occasionally sardine but only if it’s in oil. And he’ll have a bit of chip shop cod, but even then he can take it or leave it. If he leaves it, I can usually find it the following day with my bare foot. Eurgh. Yesterday was a tad chaotic. Started with some gardening which involved clipping away the grass that was threatening to overwhelm the hops which are starting to shoot up for their second year, and the fig tree which has grown a leaf. I know it’s ‘No Mow May’ but no one said anything about no clipping with grass shears. Besides, if I left our grass to grow for an entire month I’d be faced with ‘Machete June’ and I am too old for that kind of gardening malarkey. Also, I had some mesh netting to sort out of its tangle. Andy was eyeing it up with a view to

 Or rather, here I go again, specifically regarding the Damson Cottage Garden Estate.  Good grief, one day I’ll get it right. I’m up the garden this morning at 7 a.m, having been up and attacking the day since 6 a.m with a Dog Named Nell who can’t yet tell the time. Annoyingly, the Universe has thrust upon me yet another garden vision and is pushing me to crack on with it before the enthusiasm wanes. Whilst I know the Universe knows what is best for me, I can find its pushiness somewhat irksome. Especially as what I really wanted to do was spend all day reading and eating biscuits.  But no! Ignore the Universe at your peril, that’s the lesson I’ve learned.  The thing is, I’ve had so many visions for the garden in the past and not all of them have worked out, and sometimes it feels like I’m going round in horticultural circles. Yes, the garden looks totally different (and therefore totally better) to when we arrived almost seven years ago but STILL it isn’t quite right. What I need, rea

 Have you read this book? Andy has. I haven’t. Oliver Burkeman, the author, used to write for the Guardian newspaper, a publication that makes me feel nauseous for many, many reasons. Ergo, Burkeman is equally guilty of the sick-making by association. Anyway, he wrote this… It’s all about managing your life time based on the guess that the average person lives around 4000 weeks. When you put it like that, it doesn’t sound very long, does it? That, I am surmising is the idea. Our time on Earth is but fleeting - don’t waste it by doing numpty things. But, as I say, I’ve not read the book. I’m just making wild assumptions as to the purpose of it based on my own anti-Guardian newspaper type prejudices.  I wonder how many weeks I’ve lived so far, thought I. So I checked, out of curiosity. Reader, in two days’ time I shall be 3,000 weeks old exactly!! That, apparently, means I am three quarters of my way through my allotted 4,000 weeks. Crikey blimey oh heck! Actually, I thought this news wo