Oh, My Days!

  It is Saturday morning, the day of the Easter Parade. (Oh, all right – I know in real time that it’s Sunday – Happy Easter to you all! - but the Lady Author was struck by inspiration yesterday and got carried away with her word count. And whilst she would publish two episodes on the same day, she knows you are probably holibobs busy and can only absorb a limited amount of waffle in one day.) Outside Much Malarkey Manor, the hens are hitching their carnival float to a tractor. They stand back to admire their efforts. ‘It’s pretty magnifique,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Very colourful,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Very flamboyant!’ says Kenneth, approvingly. The hens have created an enormous handbag, thinking it will be an ideal container for all the rescued ducklings. But it’s not any old handbag. Oh no, it’s a handbag modelled on the new season Chanel Mini Flap Bag - a snip in Selfridges for just £2,800. Who spends THAT on a tiny handbag, eh? Honestly…utter madness… The handbag, caref

  Well! It’s like One Hundred and One Dalmations all over again only with ducklings and the villainous Fridinator rather than puppies and Cruella De Ville. Kenneth the Phantomime, in full investigative mode, takes it upon himself to go to the village and check out the new fried food shop. He returns within the hour. ‘Just as I thought,’ he says, slapping his investigative notebook on the table. ‘There’s a notice in the window offering a specialty delicacy to celebrate tomorrow’s opening of the shop.’ Whilst he has been gone, the hens and Mrs Hare have been girding their loins, gathering their arms and battening their hatches. They have gone from a state of despair and upset to being bloody well angry. And Hell hath no fury like an angry hen. It’s the dinosaur genetics, you see. Mrs Poo is already dressing in her ex-army combat outfit. ‘What exactly IS a duckling canard?’ she says, as she tightens the notch of her belt on her commando trousers to ‘Extreme.’ ‘Well,’ says Mrs Sloc

  The doorbell is ringing out the tune of ‘Love Shack’ by the B52s. Inside the Manor, a different sort of chaos from yesterday has taken over following the discovery that all of the ducklings have gone missing. Mrs Poo rushes to open the front door. ‘Good Morning! Happy Easter holibobs!’ says the visitor on the doorstop, for yea verily ‘tis none other than Kenneth the Phantomime himself! ‘Come in, come in,’ says Mrs Poo. ‘I don’t have time for niceties. We have a crisis on our hands,’ and she turns from the door and races back up the hallway, leaving the Phantomime to see himself in. ‘And season’s greetings to you, too,’ says Kenneth, but he follows Mrs Poo up the hallway anyway, because there is nothing a drama queen likes better than a bit of drama. Also, the urge to see if he can make it all about him is too strong to ignore. In the Orangery, the hens and Mrs Hare are gazing at the open door and the trail of ducky footprints in the wet grass. ‘Who left the door unlocked, t

  Chaos has descended on Much Malarkey Manor, so nothing new there, then. The duckling numbers continue to grow exponentially, according to Mrs Poo and her scientific calculator. Mrs Hare is now comfortably installed in the Lady Rosemary guest suite and is steadily popping out more eggs, a picture of peace, calm and serenity, with the blessings of the Goddess Ostara in abundance. Mrs Miggins, however, is moving ever closer to the end of her tether and thinks it’s going to need more than the protection of a pagan deity to see her through this particular set of circumstances. To distract herself, she’s been pondering her Gladiator name. She thinks she would probably choose ‘Livid’. Or maybe ‘Explosion’. ‘I still don’t know what we are going to do with all these ducklings,’ she says. ‘And whilst I’d like for them all to stay here forever and ever amen, I can’t help but feel it will be wholly impractical. And what if it all happens again this time next year?’ She is in the kitchen with

  ‘From a scientific point of view,’ says Mrs Poo the following morning, ‘it’s fascinating that the eggs are maturing and hatching so rapidly and without any form of incubation. It’s a miracle of nature, isn’t it?’ ‘Fascinating indeed,’ sighs a weary Mrs Miggins. Everyone is gathered in the Orangery, mostly because it has an easy-to-clean floor, and there are ducklings here, there and everywhere, making a high and mighty racket and pooping for England. ‘How many are there now?’ says Mrs Pumphrey, who is cuddling a clutch of half-a-dozen to her voluminous bosom. ‘Forty-one,’ says Mrs Poo, who has been keeping a tally on her clipboard. ‘Forty-two,’ says Mrs Hare, holding out another egg in her paws, still warm from her, well, you-know-what-doo-da. The egg is already beginning to hatch. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance you could stop doing that?’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘I don’t think so,’ says Mrs Hare. ‘This will go on until the morning of Easter Sunday. It’s tradition.’ ‘But

  By tea time, the resourceful hens have constructed a list of ideas about what to do with all the eggs laid by Mrs Hare, and Mrs Hare has produced another five eggs to add to the not inconsiderable collection that is now stored in a large apple crate in the kitchen larder. Mrs Miggins taps on the kitchen table to gain everyone's attention. ‘I shall read the list of collective ideas,’ she says, ‘and we shall discuss the merits and downsides of each in turn. By a process of elimination, we shall reach a triumphant conclusion and all will be well.’  ‘Oooh,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘Laetitia's gone into proper meeting mode. Go, Laetitia!’ ‘I’m just being organised,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘If anyone else would like to take on the role of chair-hen, I am more than happy to step back and let them.’ And she glares around the table over the top of her spectacles in her best teacher-in-charge mode, daring anyone to challenge her. ‘Good!’ she says, as the other hens remain silent and Mrs

  Mrs Slocombe places her egg collecting basket under the tree and gently approaches the hare, who is, once again, gazing into middle distance.  ‘Ahem,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Hare but…’ The hare leaps several feet into the air in what can only be described as an act of overly energetic startlement. When she lands, all bug-eyed and panting, she turns on Mrs Slocombe, her clear hazel eyes glinting in panic. ‘Good heavens above!’ she says. ‘Do you make a habit of creeping up on folk and scaring them witless? Look at my paws - chock full of nerves, they are. It’s a good job I’ve finished knitting that tank top for my nephew’s birthday because I won’t be able to wrangle knitting needles for at least a week now…’ She holds out her paws which are, indeed, quivering.  ‘I’m so sorry,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘The last thing I wanted was to scare you.’ ‘Yes, well,’ says Mrs Hare, and she gives herself a shake and settles down. ‘Hang on, will you? There’s another on the way. Must have bee

‘Where’s Mrs Slocombe?’ shrieks Mrs Pumphrey, hurtling with as much speed as her voluminous pantaloons will allow into the salon de commedia dell’arte.  (The salon de commedia dell’arte is a new addition to Much Malarkey Manor, commissioned by the hens during the rebuild after the devastating fire. They felt it was important for them to have a dedicated space to go when they were in need of cheering up, which is quite often these days, what with the state of humanity and all that shizzle. The salon is decorated after the Italianate style, as one would expect.) Mrs Poo glances up from the enormous squishy sofa where she is watching a boxed set of Keeping Up Appearances with a bag of cheese and onion crisps. ‘She’s in the kitchen, crocheting some potatoes,’ she says, frowning. ‘Or is it croqueting some potatoes?’ ‘I think,’ says Mrs Miggins, looking up from her jigsaw puzzle which pictured numerous unicorns performing yoga moves, ‘you mean croquette potatoes.’ Mrs Poo sighs. ‘I’ve never

 I enjoyed a pleasant hour or two mooching around a Makers’ Market yesterday. The one I went to is pretty good as far as this type of artisan malarkey goes although probably half the stalls are foodie ones - bread, pies, pastries, cakes etc - and I don’t buy from them because a) I bake and cook these things perfectly well myself and b) I bake and cook them for probably less than half the price. I watched someone pay £20 for a bog standard sponge-type cake yesterday and thought, ‘Sheesh - £20? Really??’ Ah well - takes all sorts, as the saying goes. Fools and their money etc etc. I did make one foodie purchase though and that was because the stall holder was putting all his energies into a marvellous sale pitch and I thought it needed rewarding with a sale. The product was a ‘soft granola’ - the only one available in the WHOLE country, apparently. The chap was holding out little sample test pots and shouting, ‘It’s no good just looking at it! You’ve got to try it to taste how good it is

  Such a beautiful morning here! Although barely above freezing at 6.30 a.m, less than two hours later the garden thermometer is nudging 10 degrees C and the Sun is a gem of warmth in a clear blue sky. I reckon Spring is here. It’s the Spring Equinox next Thursday - I shall be celebrating in my own witchy way - and there are plenty of buds appearing on the trees and shrubs around the garden. The rosemary, in particular, is looking a very fine and handsome lady indeed: Here is the view from the top of our garden, across the field at the back: I take Nell for walks around here sometimes, but not of late because although it looks very smooth and dry, it is, in fact, boggy and lumpy. Like rice pudding. 🤢 Give it a few dry weeks, though, and it’ll be good walking ground again. Nell continues to show excellent recall when off-lead away from home. We’ve been going for walks along the canals that are situated just beyond the back fields. A two minute drive to park in our village hall car park

Chatting to Heather yesterday, she mentioned that she had taken to work one of the crystals that I gave her. She said it had helped enormously during the day on account of her having to teach sixth form college students who are learning to be bricklayers, plumbers and mechanics and are under the false assumption that they ‘don’t need no English qualifications ‘cos I can already speak English, innit?’ and ergo, they can present a teaching challenge by being utter arses. Not all of them are arses, but in any class you’ll find one or two arses who generally spoil it for the non-arses. It’s just the way it is.  Anyway, Heather said the crystal -green aventurine - had called to her that morning, so she’d popped it in her pocket and felt it had been a calming influence for moments of frazzlement during the day.  I usually have a crystal about my person during the day, too. This week, I’ve been carrying lepidolite for numbing the pain of sciatica (it’s cleared up now, thank goodness and Pilat

 All this hoo-ha about the photograph released by the Princess of Wales as a celebration for Mothers’ Day yesterday - have you see it? Seriously, I cannot believe that the BBC has made such a song and dance about something so trivial - shame on them. As a broadcasting and so-called news corporation, they grow more ridiculous with each passing month. Their reporting that social media has gone frantic with speculation (speculation about what?? I’m not on social media, so am unaware of the feeding frenzy) merely highlights that some people are becoming ever more nasty and petty. I despair ever more of the human race. I am researching how to build an underground hobbit house so I can hide away from it all. I shall NOT be requiring a TV licence. But in a show of solidarity with our Princess, whom I happen to think is a pretty amazing woman, here is a photo I took this morning of Bambino hiding out in his cat tower like some sort of evil Bond villain plotting a take-over of global tuna produ

 Where does the time go? It’s not like I’ve been able to lose hours in the garden, although the weather has been better of late i.e it’s NOT been raining, and the ground is less saturated. But oh, the bitter winds! (Meteorological, not anatomical - hush with the giggling at the back, please.) The garden is waking up but it’s going to be another week or so until The Great Garden Wrangle 2024 is able to begin in earnest.  I’ve been in reflective mode the last ten days or so - thinking about past happenings, impacts and outcomes, and how I’ve been affected for better, for worse, for goodness’ sake. This is all very boring for you, dear Reader(s), which is why I’ve not blogged for a few days. You’d all be muttering, ‘Go and see a counsellor, for chuff’s sake.’ And quite right, too! But at an average of £55 an hour (I’ve checked) I would rather sort myself out and spend the money on something nice, like a new throw for the sofa or an attractive pendant of a cat from Etsy, which is arriving