Oh, My Days!

Mrs Miggins and I are sitting in front of the fire. She is smoking her pipe and I am smoking some chickpeas because I have heard tell they make a lovely crunchy snack. It’s the first fire this Winter and it’s bloomin’ lovely, lounging here roasting our toeses in the fire’s warmth on what has been a very minus 5 degrees kind of cold and icy day.  ‘I can’t believe it’s the first of December tomorrow,’ says Miggins. ‘It seems like only yesterday we were getting ready to premier the Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story 2022.’ ‘It’s scary,’ I say. ‘But then they say the older you grow the faster the years pass you by.’ ‘Who’s ‘they’, then?’ says Mrs Miggins. I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Them. Those who know everything.’ ‘Politicians?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I find that highly unlikely.’ ‘Well quite,’ I say. ‘But let’s not think about politicians. Are we prepared for the launch of the Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story 2023?’ ‘I believe so,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘The Performing Contracts have been signe

 I had the most peculiar dream last night. Firstly, it had famous people in it, which rarely happens to me. Lord Malarkey encounters famous people in his dreams all the time, which suggests to me a suppressed wish for celebrity. But my dreams are usually of the mundane type, of sorting out problems or enacting wish fulfilments. Last night, though, was something else. It started off with me and the British National Treasure, Dame Maggie Smith, dressed as nuns. This is her, in role as the Dowager Countess of Grantham from ‘Downton Abbey.’ She also played the Mother Superior in the Sister Act films and a witch in the Harry Potter series. And the Lady in the Van. And Miss Jean Brodie. Amongst many other roles. Dame Maggie kept referring to herself as the Chief Queen Nun and she was training me to be her successor, as sort of Chief Queen Nun in Waiting, as it were. I remember thinking, ‘This nun outfit is very oppressive, and that hairy archbishop is standing waaaaay too close,’ and therefo

  One of my favourite things about Christmas is the Christmas Tree. I love the pine smell, the decorations, the lights and the whole romantic starry glow of the things. For years and years, a real tree was the only option. We’d make an afternoon of going to choose our tree, a sort of Christmas tradition. But three years ago, we ended up buying a very realistic artificial one because, I seem to remember, the whole clearing up of fallen pine needles was becoming a bit of an irritating faff.  Also, when one has pets, an artificial tree is a safer option. Real pine needles getting stuck in kitty paws and throats is something to be avoided. Kittens love Christmas trees, and over the years my experience of cats + trees = they’ll climb them and play with the baubles but soon get bored and eventually grow out of showing too much interest. We’ve never had a Christmas tree totally decimated by cats. I seem to remember one year Tybalt bringing one crashing to floor but it was only once. Bambino s

 Goodness me, but it’s all happening today! Firstly, ‘Happy 57th Birthday’ to my little brother who is now only a year younger than me. For three weeks of the year he maintains he is two years younger than me, but in reality it is exactly one year and three weeks and no manner of dodgy accounting on his part will change that.  Secondly, ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ to my blog chums in the USA! How you can suffer eating turkey twice in  barely a month amazes me (the vegetarian) BUT kudos to you and I hope you have a jolly good time with your loved ones. Happy holiday vibes across the ocean from me to you.  Thirdly, and probably most importantly chez Damson Cottage, today is Doctor Who’s birthday. Not only that, it is his 60th birthday!  In honour of this fictional character, I was up and making a birthday cake early this morning. I know, I need my tiny fried brain testing, but Doctor Who is a BIG thing for Lord Malarkey. It brings him much joy and distraction from the real world, and today it h

 The bread went a bit wild this morning. I was going to confine each loaf to its own tin but decided to let them go free- range, as it were, and this was the result. Bloomin’ gorgeous, though!  Nell continues to recover well and her illness remains a mystery. She wants to do full-on playing and galloping around the garden but is under the instructions of her private physician, Dr Hunt, to be on light duties for the next few days. Therefore, it falls to me as Supervising Officer to implement the instructions and, consequently, I have confiscated her favourite balls, her frisbee and her squeaky frog. We are spending a lot of time on the sofa watching rubbish television because Nell is rather enjoying scooching up next to me and sleeping, which is a good and restful thing for her to do at the moment. I don’t enjoy sitting for long periods of time but shall tolerate it for the sake of Nell’s recovery. For light exercise, we go into the garden a couple of times a day to do some leaf clearin

 …is how quickly a dog’s health can deteriorate.  On Friday morning, Nell was bright, perky and her usual bouncy ‘I love life!’ self. She accompanied Lord Malarkey and myself on a trip to the enormous Marks and Spencer’s which is just outside Stoke, but because M&S isn’t dog-friendly (can’t think why - what self-respecting shop wouldn’t want muddy footprints on their floors and their lower display goods rearranged by a helpful puppy dog??) she went for a walk with Andy whilst I dashed in and made my purchases.  When I emerged from the sequin-fest that is currently M&S Christmas, I found Andy and Nell perched on a bench. Andy reported that Nell had slipped whilst climbing onto the bench, on account of its curved front, but otherwise all was well. We went home. By evening, Nell was holding her front right paw up, and squealed when Andy examined it. Maybe she had sprained it whilst climbing and slipping off the bench? And then she started vomiting and belching. Proper non-stop bel

 ‘Get a dog!’ said many people of my acquaintance. ‘Go on, get a dog. It’ll be fun,’ they said, these people.  And my advice to people if they ask me should they get a dog, too? I would say, yes - as long as you don’t care about your soft furnishings, the doubling up of your weekly laundry quota, your peace and quiet, your ear drums when your dog is small enough to sit on the back of the sofa behind your head and quite enjoys barking at sudden and random moments, the daily mud/dirt/dust battle especially if you live in England with its variable climate, the murderous tendencies towards your garden wildlife, the massive divots excavated in your lawn and borders, the fact you will NEVER get to eat a whole biscuit ever again, the snotty smudgy nose smears on the insides of your windows, picking up poos (especially when they are a bit on the gooey side), the unsolicited advice you will get from other dog owners because they wouldn’t do THAT, they would do THIS instead…oh, I could go on but

 I should have written this yesterday but yesterday turned out to be a bit pants and I ended up watching the third in the series of Bridget Jones films instead. But a bit of retrospect never hurts so here I am ready with some Martinmas drivel, albeit a day late. Yesterday, 11th November, was Martinmas. And, according to the following rhymes, one can predict what the weather will be at Christmas based on what the ducks do (be-do-be-do) on Martinmas. Given the parlous state of official weather forecasting in this country, I view this poetic method just as valuable and probably as accurate as the whole ‘scientific’ attempts by the Meteorological Office and, even worse, the BBC who clearly base their forecasts on the state of a piece of seaweed and a pine cone.  Here we go, then. A Christmas weather forecast according to St Martin, patron saint of beggars, drunkards and the poor: “If ducks do slide at Martinmas At Christmas they will swim                                                    

  I had an appointment for a dental check-up today, at 9 a.m which is in exactly 26 minutes from now. Why are you sitting writing a blog post, I hear you say. Shouldn’t you be heading off into town, to park up and walk to the surgery because they have no parking at their practice and therefore you have to factor in parking and walking time? Well, firstly this is not a blog post - it is a rant. And secondly, I shall now tell you… My check up appointment was made at the end of January following the check up I had then. My dental surgery is  keen for its patients to visit every six months but I think a nine month gap between check ups is quite adequate, thank you, especially as my surgery has a habit of cancelling appointments at the last minute and the rebook they offer is usually a couple of months further down the line anyway. They initially offered me an appointment on 2nd November, which is my birthday. I said that a visit to the dentist wasn’t high on my list of fun birthday activit

  Here is Nell, sitting in front of her stately pile. And that is NOT a euphemism for a dollop of doo-do, either, for those of you sniggering at the back. No, she was out and about on her daily walk and ‘twas a photo opportunity too good to miss. Don’t ask me where it was - can’t remember and it really doesn’t matter. She looks a fine specimen of a pooch, that’s all.  Today, Nell took her walk at the Trentham Estate. I went with her because she can’t be trusted around squirrels, ducks, pigeons and crows, and Trentham is full of these creatures. In my capacity, then, as chief-scooper-of-the-poo and holder-of-the-harness, off we went and enjoyed a brisk sojourn around the woods ‘n’ lake. She was very well-behaved, well, compared with other dogs that we met who weren’t so well-behaved anyway. It’s always good to see that your own dog isn’t the one who is being tutted at for barking/ snapping/biting/ flinging itself around on the end of its lead in a rabid frenzy. While still exuding a you

  This is Monkey. Today, Monkey is 58 years old, which, coincidentally, is the same age as me! Monkey was a gift from my aunts Pollie and Necé to me, given on the day I was born. I didn’t know this until a few years ago when my Mum surrendered Monkey into my possession. Until that point, I just thought it was a weird little soft toy that lived on her dressing table. But turns out it was mine all along! The Monkey, not the dressing table.  My brother WhatsApped me this morning to remind me I was 58 years old. He said, ‘That’s two years away from 60.’ It was on the tip of my tongue to say, yes, I did get my O level maths, you know, but I didn’t because sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, so instead I said, ‘What, like you’ll be 60 in three years and three weeks’ time?’ because he is exactly a year and three weeks younger than me. I comfort myself that I look younger than him because I have been moisturising since I was 14 and I am pretty certain he hasn’t.  Monkey and I received some love

 Did you know that Shirley Ballas, she of the Strictly Come Dancing judging panel, has just had a novel published? Honestly, it’s the sort of thing that makes me want to spit. If only I were rich, famous and Queen of the Rumba, then I, too, could employ a ghost writer and be a properly published novelist. Did she employ a ghost writer? Yes, she did, because Andy researched it in order to bring me down from rant mode. Am I sounding bitter? Too bloody right I am.  Never mind, though! Onwards and upwards. I have some serious manifestation plans afoot re: getting a novel published. It’s all in hand. Me and the Universe have got this covered and not a ghost writer in sight because I have natural writing talent, thank you very much. Shirley B. might be able to cock her leg over her shoulder and look great in sequins, but I can write my own novels without help. Today is National Author’s Day. It’s a day when people are encouraged to celebrate their favourite authors, talk about them and read