Once Upon a time….
Once upon a time there existed a heavily pregnant, gloriously bloated, organic carrot cake munching North London women who, not content with just knocking down a load bearing wall ‘just to see if it improved the view’, decided that the family should ‘re-locate’ to the great outdoors. It was a ‘Brady Bunch’ moment when the family consisting of three generations, a manic depressive Spaniel and a very miffed cat bundled themselves into a fleet of semi decaying cars and left London for good.
Little did they realise as they journeyed further and further up the A12 towards the glorious buttock of England that is East Anglia, that the 11.00pm drunken Doner Kebab buying and scoffing session could be so sorely missed.
January 2011
A problem with Pigs
The problem with pigs is that they can escape, I mean like really escape a bit like Houdini. Not content with their general given lot, they disappear through fences and gates like no bodies business reappearing on the other side resembling The Terminator giving passing cyclists and day trippers in their overloaded cars a fright of their lives.
Again with us (or me I expect is the real truth) I didn’t really think things through enough. Ok so I did build a decent size pen and provide a new pig arc. The first conundrum went as follows; my husband chooses not to build the arc in situ (which most logical people would) but on our driveway 100 metres away from the final designated site. It was one of those situations when you really want to say ‘that’s not a good idea, why don’t we put it up where it’s going to live?’ but the consequences of that suggestion was not worth considering so we as family sat and watched the building work continue.
We then sat and watched as husband and father in law (one of the most logical people I know) realise that though the arc will fit out of our driveway gate it was too big to fit in the secondary small holding gate 100 metres down the lane. I am going to end that tale there and let your imagination finish the scenario off.
The next hurdle was how to get the piglets home. The back of my Mothers long suffering Volvo estate was given the job. There has been a few occasions in our lives here that have seen us travelling up or down the A12 with livestock sticking their heads out the back windows. This was the first.
We bought our piglets from a local farmer, without whose patience and knowledge I could not have coped. However I think he was paid off in spades just by the spectacle of husband chase his choice of piglets around the pen, rugby tackling them and carrying them squealing and wriggling for the lives to the boot of the Volvo where I waited.
And so they were bought proudly home. Put into their proudly built (secure) pig arc and pen (even more securely built) complete with state of the art mud bath to wallow in. And so we left them. Then 50 metres up the field, taking obvious happy pride in their abilities they scamper up to the back of our heels….. And so the game continues….
Slipping and a Sliding…
Sunday morning (early), The Great Goddess of Exhausted Mothers had deemed me a tad of a lie in, of which of course, I was to be punished.
I sneak downstairs and out the door before the braying voices of ‘Mummy’, could catch my ears. As I stumbled down to the stables I could almost hear the mockery in the winds voice of ‘ha ha ha…you had a lie in’.
The sheep was in the feed shed, with the goats climbing over her back. I find the Shetlands stable empty with an ominously swaying door. My horse was eying me with a reproachful stare ‘that’s wot happens when you buy small Shetland’ she is saying to me in a heavy German accent.
Elvis is soon located in the outdoor larder. Possibly like his namesake he has been drawn to oodles of white powder. With a sudden guilty start at my approach he dislodges the entire bag of expensive white bread flour all over himself and floor and makes a violent exit knocking over a secret supply of red wine. That’s all I have to say on the matter.
Feb 25 2011
A Sad Moment…
Despite mine and the dogs 24 hour vigil, no eggs have hatched….it’s a very sad moment. Probably not for my mother since the incubator has now been moved out of her living room and into the spare bedroom. So anyone planning on staying with us I suggest you bring ear plugs and an eye mask.
Equine Relations – Part 1
My horse Ella has taught me so many lessons. The point being that I didn’t actually choose or want to know any of these things but between her and life it was clearly deemed necessary that I learned them one way of the other.
Lesson No 1 – pride comes before a fall. Many many falls. It has been getting to the point that a book was being opened with its own syndicate on how long I was going to stay aboard and which part of my anatomy would hit the grass/sand/fence first. This lesson was given to me since I thought, obviously thoroughly mistaken, that if I bought a horse with more experience than me, with a proven track record, that I would be able to ‘hop’ on and go out and win some rosettes. This has not happened as of yet. Well to a point it has but not quite as I envisioned it.
I was awarded the ‘Most Determined’ rider of 2010 by our riding club (since I did keep being hoisted back up in one form or other), and the ‘Most Improved’. Clearly my fall rate had dropped a tad.
Elunique (Ella/Barbie Princess to the kids) has always managed to look a trifle surprised at seeing me at her feet. A ‘what are you doing down there?’ sort of look. Other trains of thought feel she is less that sympathetic and I am misreading her expression to be one more like hysterical equine laughing. Anyway I love her so go figure?
New recruits
I have to admit that driving in the country is much more stressful than in the city. I can quite happily navigate myself round Hyde Park Corner, squeeze into the tiniest parking space by Selfridges and sit swearing at traffic at Finsbury Park but when it comes to whizzing round country lanes I have to say I am not in my comfort zone. And as for following directions from local residents it’s as if though an entire new system of navigation has been invented behind my back. So, for example, Adam and I are setting off to have a look at some ‘black silkie’ hens and here are our directions:
‘Go up (or down) the A143, turn opposite way to the sign that says ‘Earsham’, follow the road until you see a group of trees (not many of those in Suffolk), then take a sharp right until you get to the white geese where you are going to take another sharp right (however if the geese are grey then you are at Mrs. Hammond’s and you have gone wrong somewhere). In the distance you will see a hill (now there really aren’t many of those in Suffolk) and 2 cottages at the crest, make your way up there and we are the third cottage that you won’t be able to see’
Oddly enough we found the place without any wrong turns or random reversing, but I can guarantee you that if I had a nearly empty tank of petrol we would have been hopelessly lost.
It wasn’t quite what I had expected. A perfectly normal pretty little cottage from the front but on the entering the garden you were thrown into a Lilliputian world of mini hen-house’s and humongous cockerels wandering around like prison guards. Although I had initially only come to pick ‘Karen the hen ladies’ brain somehow or other I had also managed to acquire a hen transporting box which had magically found its way into the boot of our car – amazing how those things just fall into place.
Adam insisted that we bought some sample Silkies home so after much arguing from me that we really shouldn’t and really mustn’t I found myself giving in and we smuggled 4 little Silkies into a box and on to Adams lap. I trust my son. So when popping into the supermarket on the way home and leaving him in the car to keep the Silkies company I genuinely believed that when I said ‘just look after the hens, don’t do anything silly and do keep them in the box’, that he would listen to me. I left the explaining to his Father why the car now had trails of chicken poo and fluffy feathers all over to him.
Update
Anne-Marie’s fences 0 Cloven hoofs 1
Animal Relations
Relationship between horses is complex and interesting to observe. Relationships between horses and other animals are even more complex and quite mystifying. Our Shetland pony ‘Elvis’ clearly believes himself to the main man. No one has ever told him that he is a pony and not part of the family (and even if we had tried I find it hard to believe he would listen). Once quite partial to wandering into the house, it was funny for a while until he started bringing the other ponies and animals with him for his visitation. A phone call to me at work once went ‘Anne-Marie, are the horses allowed into the kitchen?’ From that moment on it had to stop. Various gates and fences have been built, giving Elvis plenty of enjoyment barging straight through them. He now ‘runs’ with the 2 goats and the sheep, of course he is the gang leader. Visitors to the house are greeted with a flat out canter interspersed with leaping twisting air contortions from all of them. To us it is just a part of everyday living and I guess we are all the more lucky for it.
March 2011
I guess I have a kind of affinity with our hen Buffy. I managed to hatch her myself (hopefully this is not giving you visions of me squatting over an egg) and though she was originally conceived with the idea of Sunday ‘Roast’ I don’t think any of us would consider this now. So far she has had a Rapunzel like existence being kept apart from the gang of hens and cockerels in her own pretty little hen house surround by a
Berlin Wall of chicken wire.
She just reminds me of myself at school. Clearly outrageously tall and obviously different. Buffy is a ‘Buff Orpington’ which means that she is a giant of a hen with gangly legs and a strawberry blonde mop of feathers. None of the others would understand her. But the time has come for her integration into the rest of the motley crew. I have been letting her have supervised visits with them all. The first resulting in an all-out free for all with Buffy showing surprising ferocity for a hen so young. I quickly spirited her away and left it for a few days for the other hens to forget this indiscretion in their daily lives.
A few weeks later it was time to let her free. Like a Mother sending her last born off to school I hovered in trepidation at the chicken run gate, waiting to run and swoop my beloved into my arms and take her home. Well not much happened to begin with. The others had all pottered off to their ‘place du jour’ which at the moment is on the top of the muck heap. The ducks waddled down to the irrigation ditch which is singing happily due to all the rain we have had recently, setting themselves sailing down through Aileen’s garden next door. It would be nice to think, as a momentary aside, that a daily visit from one of our flock would bring a smile to an elderly ladies face. The unexpected visit from Elvis and a motorbike (plus rider) that was helping round him up last year was probably slightly over the top but a few ducks every now and then must be rather lovely?
Buffy spent the first hour or so on the perimeter of the chicken run (and no I did not spend the entire time watching her), pecking and preening but still looking rather worriedly around. Worried she might get lost I went off to find Gertie who I had noticed had herself been a little worried about Buffy since she came back several times in a day to check up on her and would often settle herself down on the opposite side of the chicken wire just to keep her company.
Gertie had been nesting in the greenhouse which is not my favored place for a hen to be but she had kept herself to herself so I turned a blind eye. But the greenhouse was bare and where I returned Buffy was nowhere in sight.
Attempting not to hyper ventilate and with the mantra ‘it’s only a hen…it’s only a hen..’ (This gets changed on a regular basis, just insert dog/cat/goat/sheep) being muttered under my breath I spend more than a while looking for her. As per usual in these situations the moment I give up and start trying to drum up reluctant recruits from the house she reappeared from under the compost heap looking slightly confused and disheveled. Luring her to me with a pocket of corn I scoop her up and 
March 2011
Gallivanting Goats
Our goats, Willow and Patch were both acquired on one of our whims. It had of course been discussed in the past until someone pointed out that even pygmy goats could jump very high and will also eat anything that is put in their path. This part, I can guarantee as true. So far they have eaten, bristles from a broom, raspberry canes, a glove, various bits of paper (some homework also went amiss but feel that might not be true), animal feed packaging, end of a lead rope and a bit of Ella’s tail. The last meal mentioned was the final straw for my relatively good-natured horse.
Her disgust at such an invasion of privacy this morning saw her turning at speed towards the unsuspecting merry goat nibbling round her back legs and gave it a hearty swipe with her nose which was unexpected for all concerned. I was, of course, collateral damage in this debacle since the fact that my head was in the path of her swinging round was neither here nor there, so I am thus sporting a throbbing cartoon like bruise on the back of my head. The upside is that I don’t think Willow will be nibbling tails for a while. It will be quite interesting to see how long this memory lasts.
Unlike in London, when you turn to your other half and say ‘I fancy doing some goat shopping?’ up here in Suffolk you can actually go and do just that. If it had not been quite as immediate maybe we would not have done so. However they have proved themselves to be worth the hassle, a lot of hassle actually.
Day one – goats nowhere to be seen. I have now learnt not to say to any of my children ‘let’s go down and see the new…’ because when I say that they are not ever where I left them. The kids were taken off to school sobbing while I start printing ‘Lost Goat’ posters, while in the back of my head I can hear my friend Heidi chortling to herself ‘cloven hoof, cloven hoof…don’t say I didn’t warm you!’. Don’t you just hate it when people are right?
I spend the next five hours climbing over logs, wading through streams, getting various cuts on me as I fight with barbed wire fences. I trekked for miles and miles sticking up posters, calling them (goodness knows why) and finally stumbling towards home defeated. As I neared our gates I see a pale blue BMW pulled up by our fence and a very well dressed lady seemingly climbing into Hawthorn. On seeing me she asks ‘do you know whose goats these are?’. So I have to thank that lovely (not so well dressed lady after we both had carried the goats out the ditch) lady from Southgate in North London for helping me save the day. The goats were then transferred into a high security area under constant supervision, police presence, flood lighting etc.
So far they have not gone walkabout again. They just cause merry mavericks of mayhem where they choose. Now teamed up with Lambert the sheep (who has learnt how to undo gate catches with her nose), I expect I will have more to report at a sooner, rather than later date.
Equine Relations Part Two
A’ fall’ from a horse is when you have not had a choice, e.g. the unexpected stop of a horse at a fence means you depart the saddle over the horse’s head taking to the air as a human catapult. A ‘fall’ can also be involved/described when you involuntarily let out a primal scream the length/volume of which is determined by the length of which you are in transit from saddle to ground. The arrival of terra firma results in end of said noise.
‘Bailing out’ can be described as the choice of an optimist. The optimist sees this choice as being an inevitable journey one is partaking on, and ‘bailing out’ at your given choice or time is preferable than gravity and the laws of flight idea of where best you land. Hence today, for example, I choose to ‘bail out’ before I hit the oncoming boundary fence thus saving myself from dislodging the rest of my teeth.
Finally I conclude having someone on site that carries a small arsenal of painkillers is indeed a great bonus…I am now going to commune with the trio of pink fluffy fairies who are beckoning me to come away with them…..bye bye….
The Day the Duck Got Stuck
Whilst musing over todays blog, something happened which I feel sums us all up. It is a lovely spring morning, the sunlight only on a back burner but at the very least you feel it is trying to cheer you up. It is like getting a child out of bed on a school morning, the sun just needs more coaxing and a lot of bribery and then spring will definitely arrive. Now I love my children, however home life sees me as the United Nations, always resolving some dispute, attending war zones (Adams bedroom) and patching up hurt feelings. But when it comes down to it they can jump into action like nobody’s business.
I am thinking about the ducks, well just Dora the Duck really, since she is the one that got stuck (more on that later) and trying to think of words that rhyme with ‘duck’, as I am doing this a good one came to mind (and quite possibly out of my mouth) as I absent-mindedly look out of the window onto the road to see 3 ducks waddling down the centre white line with a lorry thundering past.
So I spring into action, all children are issued with rapid fire instructions. Adam and I run up to the road (again, why oh why am I always in the most bizarre outfit possible when these things happen?), waving wildly at cars to slow down, herding the very offended ducks back onto their correct side of the road and down into Aileen’s garden, they scuttle off in a very cross manner with Adam shooing them professionally back onto the stream. Tabitha having been issued to wake her father up and drag him into childcare mode had fared reasonably ok, he had at least opened one eye. Matilda (for only reasons known to herself) had deconstructed the bird feeder and was shedding seeds and corn onto the hopscotch area. And like some dream like film within moments life had returned to normal. Adam on the computer, Tabby painting her nails, Tilly changing into her 4th outfit of the day so far and Dave asleep.
My original story was about Dora, not a very long story more of a short anecdote. You would not believe that with all the rain we have had that the stream and pond is low in water. I keep trying to top up the pond but it’s really to no avail. I had left a bucket of water outside the back door with the intention of clearing up yet another hopscotch inscribed in multi colored chalk and had gone off to threaten small children with a sudden bath of cold water if they did not stop scribbling over the patio and returned to find Dora in the bucket. Of course this warranted an entire family charging down to see, lots of ‘oohing’ and ‘ahhing’ ensued and we came to a joint decision to leave her there. An hour later she is still there, Duncan and Daphne Duck had come to investigate her whereabouts and had been and gone. Two hours later she is still there.
After 3 hours I am getting concerned ‘is she stuck?’ I ask the family at
large, ‘well you get her out then’ is the response since I am the only one who will pick up ducks (Dave pretends he does but for the record he does not). So how do you get a rather now cross looking duck out of bucket? I try to slide my hands down her side but get a violent stabbing peck towards my face so I retreat. I try to sneak up behind her but she is now on the case and she flaps her (sharp) wing tips towards me so I had only one choice (officer) and tip the bucket over. She spills forth belly flopping onto the paving stones, lying there in a much undignified manner for a spilt second before she waddled off hysterically quacking to find her crew. For the record I don’t feel she will ever do that again.
23 march 2011
Buffy’s Life Lesson
Today has been a milestone. The country driver ‘me’ has finally docked. I now no longer indicate proposed directionality on desolate country lanes where the only other moving thing is a sleepy hedgehog. I no longer ‘park’, just stop in the vague region of a pavement. Instead of swearing at all the incompetent surrounding drivers I now just shout at Kamikaze rabbits. Husband has just had his first hen related injury involving a near miss of an artery and a fountain of blood. Therefore I announce we have arrived.
My hand raised hen ‘Buffy’ is also meandering through the milestones of life. She is now out and about in no uncertain terms. Twice the size of the others she now resembles a partially defrocked Victorian maiden on a run from a moustache twirling villain, her frilly cami knickers billowing in the wind as she scuttles off in search of safety when the dog gives her a mischievous fly past just for his own amusement. I am looking forward to the day she stands her ground.
Today’s life lesson for Buffy was short and simple. Never stand underneath a horse’s tail. However placid the horse might look, its tail gently swirling in the breeze, standing in line with an equine anus in NOT going to end well. The plummeting spring grass injected poo issuing forth from Ella’s backside splattered cheerfully to the ground spraying an unsuspecting Buffy. Our eyes met (mine and the hen), a moment of mutual understanding that there was nothing to be done about the situation and she then scuttled off under the bushes.
I have just been out to check on her and can say Mother Nature is a wonderful thing. Buffy is still under the bush but has clearly been wriggling about using the bush as a form of hen wash and drier. She is virtually herself, a wiser hen possibly but back to her true colours.
Billy Bonds
My dog Billy is my right hand companion, though he doesn’t like
venturing out in the car since, like most dogs, it symbolizes ‘the vet’ however he is my most faithful of animals. But he has a foible that I personally can forgive but the rest of the family get a bit miffed. He eats ‘stuff’, any type of ‘stuff’. Shoes, baby toys, loo rolls (his favorite), Lego, dolls, paper plates, food from your plate if you don’t pay attention. Don’t even dare wave a fork around in an expressive manner. He has no qualms about springing into midair to remove said offered morsel or titbit and swallowing it in a heartbeat.
When he was a puppy I spent a lot of time hiding evidence of what he consumed. However I could not follow him round and pick up all the poo he did, so his indiscretions where often discovered by an irate husband or upset child. His poos however were always a cause of interest for me. Often a startling piece of modern art could be read into them. Brown solid piles of excrement with bright Lego bricks sticking out at oblique angles, a feather finishing off the ensemble. If I was a braver business woman I should have photographed them and sent copies to the Museum of Modern Art or the Guggenheim claiming to be the next Damien Hurst or Tracy Emin. There was even one with a piece of Tabitha’s Christening Prayer book sticking out of it complete with Polly Pocket doll dressed in blue. If I squinted I could almost see an effigy of the Madonna and Child within the offering. I am sure a more clued up person would have frozen this symbol and make a mint out of it, having queues of cars forcing their religious way into sleepy Suffolk, TV cameras hovering overhead in helicopters broadcasting the phenomena.
However the nearest we have come to helicopters is the RAF practicing low flying over our fields, this is always accompanied by me running after them screaming at them to bugger off and stop bothering our horses. It’s not worked yet but I intend to keep at it. I am looking forward to being a mad old lady limping after them with a walking stick wearing nothing but an indignant frown.
Anyway I digress. Billy has grown up a little. His last major naughtiness was eating someone’s flip-flop while they were still wearing it. It doesn’t help, I guess, that I find it all quite funny.
Zen and the Art of Painting Fences
We have lots of fences, and I mean LOTS of fences. This is down to my two new best friends. First was the post hole auger (large corkscrew basically) with which I have dug loads of post holes. The second is a fence post basher in type thing with which I have bashed lots of posts in with.
With my collective hole digging and Billy’s frantic scrabbling down ancient rat holes our home could be mistaken for a rather eccentric golf course. So long gone are the days of wistfully staring at Crème de La Mer products online, now I hanker after big tools…
The most recent fencing has been a silent battle between me and cloven hoof lot. I am quite determined that they will not venture into the Orchard or Mothers ‘Cottage Garden ‘. They do not agree. So gates and fences have been built…and tested…and more fences built…and tested.
At this exact moment in time I am winning but am not under estimating the sheep’s ability to undo gate latches. I spent the first week hollering at the kids for having left gates open as I frantically ushered cloven hooves (and Elvis of course) back into ‘their’ side of the fence. But I saw with my own eyes Lambert opening the latch and of course, being the big person I am, have refused to apologise to the kids on the grounds that there is probably something they got away which I didn’t notice so the Karmic balance had adjusted itself.
Now with these fences comes the painting. We are the Forth Bridge of painting. The trouble is I start and then get bored and then get frustrated that it is only half done and try to walk past the unfinished job with squinty ’I’m not looking” eyes. However since spring has arrived and staying for today I figured I should attempt some painting.
When one is young squatting down is relatively easy (unless you are The Brave Miss Boggis who is young and can’t touch her toes), but as ‘one’ gets older it becomes harder to stay in a squished up fence painting pose for long. As ever I have Billy by my side, who flops down next to me with a heavy sigh and resigned expression on his face. He then adopts the manner of a serene Buddha, raising an eyebrow every now and then to make sure I am still where he left me and as I move along he does too, flopping and sighing and meditating at each section of the fence.
So there are 3 poses I can adopt for short amounts of time. I try to kid myself I am giving my hips a workout but they really do not agree with me. First is the full squat, knees bent at their fullest angle, Achilles tendon stretching like a rubber band. I can hear the old ‘Personal Trainer’ me saying ‘Now this pose is why people in the Third World do not have to have hip replacements’ and laugh at my own naive stupidity.
Next is the girly legs bent sideways as I lean languidly on my left
supporting arm. This lasts about 2 minutes before I lose feeling in my left wrist. Finally it is the good old staple ‘legs crossed’…after 5 minutes of this I feel like a novice yogi and it takes another 5 minutes for me to untangle all joints, ligaments and limbs in order to straighten up.
But it’s sunny outside and a tad warm. I have a washed out and tired Olivia lying on the sofa recovering from an Evil Bug that swept through her tummy during the night. Not being one of my children she is blissfully quiet and entertained purely by the sky remote. So I leave her indoors as I, my paint and Billy, venture forth.
We settle down by the stables and begin a languid job of painting ‘Forest Green’. One is supposed to be able to meditate anywhere, to clear one’s self of bothering thoughts and find a ‘quiet’ mind. There was once a point I shared a house with a Buddhist, and I was enchanted by this process, and began to meditate myself. But that was a long time ago and my mind ultimately does not want to be uncluttered….I think it only functions when I am truly stressed. I am not sure what would happen if I was not stressed, maybe I would cease to be, turn invisible, and become a higher being? You see I am good at going off at tangents but not good at inner calm.
So I resolve to watch the animals, actually more to the point they resolve to watch me. It only takes a moment to have a small interested party gathered around me. Elvis, Willow and Patch the goats, Lambert, Buffy and 3 ducks. And so an hour goes…I paint and move along, followed by Elvis and the goats. The ducks are far more interested in finding where that nice busy road has gone and disappeared off. At this point my stomach calls so I go inside and do what is called a ‘displacement activity’ i.e. spend more time than need be rifling through the fridge so I can put off more painting as long as possible.
When I finally force myself back outside I realise the ‘great rule of cause and effect’ or ‘what you sow is what you reap’ has been called into play. The ‘Forest Green’ paint lies on its side; small cloven foot prints decorated the yard. I now have a partially green Shetland. With a sigh of resignation I go and turn on the hose.
Flashback…
I just had a moment of enchantment as I watched the plum-tree showering blossoms onto Buffy. And then I caught sight of myself in the mirror. What on earth possessed me to put up an outside mirror I will never know. I can normally get passed it with my ‘I am not looking’ squint which I usually save for partially painted fence posts, but not this morning. After a few masochistic moments of examining open pores I move on; however the thought that I was once reasonably presentable came to mind.
I spent a good 10 years in London being a Personal Trainer to the rich and famous. Mainly rich and a few famous in truth but enough to sit on the sidelines and observe the madness and insecurity fame brings. The insecurity was obviously why I got paid so I am not complaining and I have dined out on these tales for a long old while; however the truth is more than clear, it is not a life I would run to return to.
One of my clients was (and is) a well-known comedienne and character actress. Not quite in the same league as Jennifer Saunders but second billing I would say. She was terribly paranoid about being ‘too fat’ (ok so are most people), and had a deep dark pool of hate about her looks. She was on her 2nd marriage to a GP, with her basic borderline madness of a tragic comic leading this poor man to prescribe her the not on the market yet weight loss drug ‘Ali’ to his psycho wife. This is now available over the counter but then it was still undergoing ‘tests’. It turns any fat you eat into excrement, if you can call it that. Think more dribbles of bacon fat slopping uncontrollably from your backside? Yep….totally gross. Our sessions always involved several interruptions as she fled to the loo. In the end it just involved large sanitary pads.
We did most of her workouts in her upstairs bathroom. This was so no one could see her working out and she was also in close proximity to the toilet. I did leave the room by the way…unlike one very famous female personal trainer with even more so famous clients who insisted on washing her clients with a salt scrub on their first sessions….I had some decorum.
In the first few months we did venture outside. However after a very embarrassing photo made it into a magazine of me running after her with a loud haler as she cycled up a South London hill, we both decided indoors was best. Our relationship was doomed from the start; in truth I am not sure she was ever really aware of why she was paying me to make her exercise. My pleas not to eat crap and to gently persuade her that kosher sausages and mini éclairs were best substituted with a nice juicy apple fell on deaf ears.
Our last session was spent with her on and off the phone to her agent. She was highly unimpressed when I insisted that working out on a cross trainer whilst hysterically squealing to her agent to make sure she got an audition spot for the stage version of Mamma Mia was not the way forward. From that point we parted company. In fairness to her she did pass me over to someone with even more wicked gossip and, when I contacted her recently, gave me a glowing reference. However I feel the underlying reasoning is ‘please do not sell the gory story of me and my obsession with my anus to the tabloids’ …now I wouldn’t do that would I?
April 2011
When The Head Goes Thump..
I guess I have been incredibly lucky so far in the sense that I have never had an accident that left me with no alternative but to be whizzed off in an ambulance. My most painful memory of hospital (apart from some evil nurse who dragged me and my C-section out of a hospital bed) was being carried in to the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead over some giants shoulder. It says a lot about London that considering we were both in martial arts gear, sweaty and with bare feet, that no one blinked an eye lid. But it had to end…doesn’t everything?
Last Sunday whilst out riding with Adam my beloved Ella decided to practice ‘cosmic shifting’. This entails her shooting sideways and leaving me in mid-air, minus a horse, resembling a cartoon character. To my credit, according to Adam, I did manage to try to stay afloat by rapid arm movements but to no avail. My head hit the ground first, followed by the rest of me. Fortunately I had drilled into Adam a ‘Emergency Operation’ which to everyone’s surprise not only did he remember it verbatim (it’s amazing what sticking pointy things into kids achieve) but he carried it out like a man. He was the hero of the day.
So after a small crowd of interested passers-by gathered round me (Adam is now very good at flagging down passing traffic), an ambulance took me off to hospital where I spent a rather long time drifting in and out of consciousness. And here I am now, in bed, where I have spent the last 5 days. I am ok as long as I don’t move. It’s just me and the dog. And occasionally Alfie, with the odd visit from Daisy, Dickey and Bobby (ahhhh, that’s where she is!). It’s turning into a bit of ”Rear Window’ for me. Billy refuses to leave my side and I have propped myself up so I can just see out of the window down into Mothers Cottage Garden where the Silkies reside. Apart from Tabitha, who has discovered my secret stash of macaroons, I am left alone. However as you can see, I have snuck downstairs and purloined my laptop.
Husband has taken over all duties, and with the idea in mind that this is the man that hates all animals he is doing a blinding job. I could have sworn this morning he had 2 fags on the go at the same time (unless he was secretly sharing it with Lambert – I must have a conversation with her when I am up and about) the menagerie is being looked after so well I might keep on employing him in this role. On a serious note – he is being my hero of the week and I could not thank him enough and yes I am very grateful.
The Silkies are coming into their own. Having spent the first few weeks moving round in a crowd so they looked like a big fluffy storm cloud they now are wandering about by themselves. They still have not worked out that there is life beyond the little garden and that there is nothing keeping them captive that they couldn’t squeeze through. On the other hand the other group of free range chickens have not discovered them either. I did watch one of the Bumbles come nose to nose with a Silkie yesterday through the fence. They both stood there looking at each other for a long while, did nothing and then wandered off. I hate the thought of putting out into the universe that some hens are stupid….so I will let you make your own mind up on that one.
And so here I lay…just me and the dog…with whom I am having some very intellectual debates with….perhaps it is now about time I had another little snooze. What do you think?
Silence and the Silkies
Having a small mishap a week ago, involving my head hitting solid ground at speed, has left me a mite under the weather. My sleeping, which is not my best attribute, has become a bit ‘off’. Matilda has responded in kind by developing a huge vomiting bug, children just have a great sense of timing. So with the flashbacks of lost memories suddenly reoccurring (now that’s why I entered the hospital in a dodgy old hairnet) listening out for Tilly’s next bout of vomiting, the last thing I needed was another distraction. And so life gives me one. As any parent knows, the sound of your child calling in the deep of night encourages you to jump out of slumber post-haste and charge into their rooms in a panic. And so I did….and did….and did. Every time I did so both girls were fast asleep. Curled up innocently with their respective soft toys and as always wearing a different ensemble of clothes than which they went to bed in (I have given up entirely on that one) they were fast asleep.
Now since I was finally wide awake and had given up on any hope of sleep, I opened the curtains and window to listen to the dawn chorus. And then I knew. With disbelief I stuck my head further out of the window. The answer was is my eye sight. The new black Silkies are just at the point of maturing enough to work out which is male and female. The 2 significant obvious candidates for Cockerel have been named Phantom and Maestro and there they were, cock’a’doodling to their hearts content…however it goes like this ‘mum memum amummy’.
Seriously I am not kidding nor involved in any deceit, the bloody things are shouting for mummy. With muttered curses and the suggestion that they might be meeting their maker sooner than they realised I shut the window and curtains and crawl back into bed stuffing a pillow over my head. But even with the addition of Alfie sitting on said pillow I could still hear those damn cockerels. With the worry that any sudden movement might dislodge a cat not known for his lack of grumpiness and his ability to use any part of ones anatomy to show his displeasure, I stayed where I was until the exhaustion of being both concussed and knackered flopped over me and I fell back into a deep sleep.
I woke as the morning sun managed to finally wheedle its way through a slit in the curtains, Alfie had moved off me at some point and taken to his chair in the bathroom, wrapping himself so tightly into a ball that it was hard to discern which end was which. The most noticeable thing missing was the lack of noise. More to the point, the lack of chicken related noise. How typical is that…no one believes me to this day. The husband thinks its concussion related, the kids find it hilarious. The cockerels have moved on though (to give them some credit) in the early hours of this morning they have managed to get a ‘cock a doodle’ but not to the ‘doo’ bit yet…
The Missing Of Spring
Can someone please explain to me what happened to the spring months? I am normally a very organized person. I write lots of lists and tend to keep to them. If I don’t keep up I re-write them to make myself feel better, but somehow the list for March has gone completely ignored. I wasn’t out for the count that long?
By now I should have started germinating all my cut flower seeds. I did do the Sweet Peas then some hen knocked them all over and ate them….all my veg should have been sowed, the courgettes, cucumbers, leeks and peas in the greenhouse, a couple of bits outside too. Nothing at all, actually I did do the King Edwards (see that bump on my head has affected my memory) and have put some little new potatoes in ‘potato grow bags’ for the first time (I do like a nice product). But it is not enough. I need to do more and I need to do it now.
Matilda does live to help, it’s very haphazard help but it’s well-meant. You will find a broad bean growing in the middle of the field, or a secret stash of carrots hidden behind her playhouse. The potatoes were so confused last year (new and old together) that I had to do those by myself secretly this time.
‘MUMMY! What are you doing?…..I have learnt silence works best here since she is very good at following your voice. ‘MUMMY where ARE you? ‘….quick jog round the back of the greenhouse and appear in her eyesight carrying hastily picked up feed buckets…. ‘Here I am darling…not doing anything….’.
However one of the points of us being in the middle of nowhere was to take the kids out of the big bad city and let them have a childhood of ‘Swallows and Amazons’. So, even me, cannot deny that being 4 years old, that planting seeds (however haphazard), watching them grow, picking your own crop and stuffing it in your mouth before your siblings can see it, just has to be done. So we begin with Peas (Alderman if you are interested) and the rather late Broad Beans (I use these to make homemade baked beans – which are nice, don’t get me wrong, but they are not Heinz and the kids know this so they are only fobbed off every now and then). The whole session involves lots of soil going into pots, being poked down with enthusiastic finger tips and then the seeds buried in the top layer. Then a deluge of water (dribble=deluge) is lovingly poured over them and they are left to rest.
At this point she loses interest in constructive gardening and goes about her own free style version which involves lots of compost and mud combined with water (but of course) and any leftover seeds she can find. Last year she did try to grow a hedgehog. It didn’t work. Her theory was it looks like a pine cone and that grows? I could not argue with that. But this year she seems a little saner with her choices, no dead animals so far then. We finish off with some sunflowers, they are a perineal treat/competition for the kids, and of course this being about whose grows the tallest. I am waiting to see which child works out you can switch labels and pots around in order to make yours look the biggest and best. My money (and guess everyone that knows us) will be on Matilda. I had to replace them last year after I forgot to water them and she gave me a very long thoughtful stare as I explained why hers looked a bit shrunken…’are you saying it was feeling a bit shy Mummy?’….’YES that’s what I was trying to say’ (heaving a sigh of relief as she trundled off).
It’s windy outside now and the sky is a colour of a badly washed school shirt. It is not the most energizing of days. My adored Dahlias (Boy do I love a Dahlia) are also waiting to be planted and pampered. I can hear Dave huffing, puffing and gently cursing outside as he goes about my business mucking out and the general dirty drudge stuff that I love and he hates. My head still feels bunged up and I only want to eat yoghurt and curry. I am not quite myself yet. Better re write my list for today then, the dahlias can wait till tomorrow.
The loss of Harry
A somber moment – there is never any telling why you can love a dog so much, it is not something you can even properly feel when the dog is alive. But when your mind plays tricks on you and it flirts with the pain of losing one, the washing of grief over you is nothing like the real thing.
Harry was our first dog, the liver and white Springer bought from a pet shop in London, he was fluffy, could carry four tennis balls at once, horribly grumpy at night but he was Harry. There are not many people who you ask to accompany you to the emergency vets in the knowledge that the dog will probably not be returning with you – only the Brave Miss Boggis was the right person. I lay on the vet’s floor with Harry, it had gone past the point of tears, as he slowly slipped away a part of me went too. There was a shuddering sadness that just pours over you, a hole made in your life for good. He was buried in the little cottage garden by us all.
My Animals and Other Family (with Apologies (and thanks) To Gerald Durrell)
My husband Dave professes to hate all animals. The long (slow and insipid) process of ’getting my own way’ began early in our relationship. It wasn’t a conscious thought process to begin with, it just ‘happened’. I had received news from our vets that my first ever pet, a cat called Tallulah had died. I managed to keep the wails of grief inside both me and the car as I drove from south London, through rush hour West End Friday night traffic to our home in North London. In walking through the front door it could be contained no longer and a tortured squeal of immense grieving pain manifested itself up through my soul, via my belly out in to real life. A lesser man would have run….and run…..and run. But to give Husband his credit all he did was spend hours digging a grave to bury my beloved cat.
And there it began. In search for a new kitten I ended up bringing home a Springer Spaniel on the pretext of ‘he was the last one left….all alone….looking sad’. At the same time the Cats Protection League had delivered a very scruffy mangy looking black thing with half its fur missing and an evil glare on its face. This cat spent at least 2 weeks under our bed gathering courage, and eventually emerged from his cocoon as ‘Leader of the Supreme World – and don’t you forget it’. The cat was, of course, Alfie. And there the tradition began.
I get away with adding a new member to the family, or more to the point, to the man who doesn’t like animals AT ALL by letting him name them….after West Ham football players. So we began with Alf Ramsey – big fat black boss cat. Harry Rednapp – our recently departed first and always irreplaceable Springer Spaniel. We now have Bobby Moore and Billy Bonds too.
I have another new ploy now which is occasionally put into play. I let the kids name the animals before their Dad does. Being such a doting and soppy Father they tend to get away with such a minor misdemeanor. And if they don’t? Well the animal just goes by 2 different names. Of course Husband still professes to hate all living creatures, which is why the photo of the man feeding Buffy breakfast INSIDE THE HOUSE is clearly a strange and odd occurrence.
Some Grief with a Goat
I have learnt more about goats anatomy than I care to mention (or know) recently. Our first delve into goat knowledge came one Saturday evening. Kirsty (the Brave Miss Boggis) and I had been sitting and watching Willow and Patch play…and so Kirsty mentions, ‘I thought only male goats had those tufty beard things?’ (Still to this moment I cannot remember what they are correctly called)…a couple of glasses of wine later she then says (Kirsty not one of the goats) ‘why does one goat keep mounting the other?’…..to which both questions I could only answer with a negative (rather techy) ‘I don’t know they said they were both girls’….Kirsty now being her pedantic (unfortunately often correct) self reply ‘well how do you KNOW?’
…
Google is your answer. That’s what people like me do on a Saturday night you know…..they Google goat’s sexual organs. Perfectly normal for Suffolk. You Google it…print it and then run down to the stable, corner a goat and compare said diagram with goats backside. Unfortunately the diagrams printed were not very clear but after several attempts, more wine and an increasingly narked off goat I can tell you that yes both are girls and girl goats can have those little beard things too.
For the next few weeks both goats steered well clear of me and I don’t blame them. However Patch was increasingly itching away at herself. There she would be, ducking and diving round Elvis’ back legs quite fully intent on annoying him then mid duck she would suddenly sit down and have a vigorous scratch fest. Elvis at this point would bugger off as fast as he could and go hide behind a tree. Patch would then, of course, go jump up on her sister instead or try to ram a sheep. Both clearly interesting short term distractions until another itch took precedence.
On closer inspection (after 5 minutes of trying to catch her) it was found she was infested with small wriggly things. Having 3 kids I am more than aware of nits….my whole life is one great Nit Festival. Treating them, combing them and squidging them. However Patch was clearly in distress and small sores were beginning to manifest around her backside which is obviously not nice for anyone even a goat.
A short aside – Matilda (4) to Kirsty (20 something or other)…”Kirsty Wursty, I have got nits, would you like some?’ Cue Matilda passionately tying to rub her head up against Kirsty’s.
So in this case, there is only one answer and that is to phone the vets. Books and internet can tell you other minor things but I am a firm believer in getting the professional in when a crisis strikes. Our lovely vet James came (with earnest student vet in tow) and diagnosed mites, giving the peeved Patch an injection. He hoisted Lambert and Willow up into compromising positions too and sent them off with a clean bill of health. Two days later though Patch was no better. James, after lots of looking at small wriggly things under a microscope and doing a bit more research left Dave and myself with a yucky potion and rubber gloves and with an amused glint in his eyes left with the words ‘Make sure you get it ALL over’.
Dave and I have been married nearly 11 years now. Most people gave us about 11 months. However we don’t always work well as a team in goat straddling workouts. Well we would work OK if I shut up and did as I am told. Unfortunately I don’t agree with being told what to do or how to do it. Anyway with no human audience to perform to we forged ahead and had Patch upside down in no time. She was fully lotioned in every orifice, crack, nobbly bit and goat extremity we could find. By the time we had finished she was a different goat. A slippery goat by all means, but a rather chilled goat too. In fact since that day not only has the horrible itchy things gone but she now actually likes a bit of a cuddle and a tickle. Now that wasn’t what it said on the ‘possible side effects’ list but it is a rather nice one
April 2011
Birthdays and Blossom
My birthday is looming, I am not fussed about getting older in the slightest but what I totally expect is lots of indulgence and presents since I am highly materialistic. My mother will buy me a new body protector, I am begging Husband for nice shiny new pair of riding boots and Ella will purchase me a lovely new pair of clean sparkling travel boots for herself. The other wonderful thing about being a late April baby is the blossom which signifies ‘my day’ to me. Our orchard is about to burst into bloom. The cherry trees are covered in shy tiny dots of pink candy floss. The apple trees are hovering with their own sweet-scented offerings, while the plums are far more flamboyant and have already burst into song.
It’s a bitter-sweet year for me though. It has been 3 years since I stopped ‘doing’ all my health and fitness work. The relief was immense both physically and mentally. However ‘needs must’ and ‘for the greater good’ and basically to earn more money means that my next birthday is going to symbolize my return. My only stipulation to myself is going to be that I will teach from home either in my little fitness studio or outside under the blossoming trees.
But sometimes things happen in ways you can’t quite fathom. I used to have a client and friend called Stella. If you think of Bette Midler on some mind-blowing drug-fest attending a party hosted by Hugh Hefner in his heyday then you are on the right path to understanding Stella.
She is one of those people who, when she phones, really does not need to use the phone to communicate; the New York accent hasn’t diminished a bit in all the decades she has lived in the UK. She phoned me this morning. I didn’t take much part in the conversation, you don’t really need to. From having her own large Public Relations firm (one of the reasons I got so many well-known clients) she now just works as an individual. Currently she is representing an iconic kids TV personality who, of course, can’t be named. What I can tell you is that he is renowned for being fit, healthy and organic food gobbling life role model. Would you like to know the truth? Hmmmmmmmmm….well it’s not as it seems. Stella’s main job is bodyguard. As I was listening to our conversation yesterday she was manhandling him out the McDonald’s at the top of Regent Street on the way to the BBC at Portland Place, wrestling a Big Mac, large fries and a Coke out of his hand and into a bin. Readjusting both his and her sunglasses so they wouldn’t be recognised, she did pause for breath as she told me a list of his recent indiscretions. That was basically the entire conversation, oh and to tell me she would be staying with us over the Latitude Festival weekend since she doesn’t ‘do’ tents however VIP they are. And that was it. But for a second I was transported back to the point when I had transformed her (in a sensible fashion) from Size 18 to a ‘Miss Selfridge’ size 10. She had phoned me from the changing rooms weeping with joy. I have never forgotten it and even thinking about it now fills me with goosebumps. Maybe I am more ready to start again than I thought.
May 2011
Duck Tunnel
My favorite reading over the last couple of years has been the ‘Ad Trader’: a bright yellow weekly paper which should spell trouble every time I buy it. Whereas once before it was ‘Elle’ or ‘Marie Claire’ (and occasionally ’Vogue’ if I was feeling flush
Anyway back to the ‘Ad Trader’. It sells everything you didn’t know you wanted. Caravans to garden statues, horses and ponies and my favorite ‘Livestock’. Did you know you can buy Albino Ferrets? Last week there was a blind orphan lamb needing a home OMG!!!! For a moment I had a Laura Ingells Wilder daydream going on in my head as my hand searched for the phone. It involved fields of sunrise hued rape seed gently waltzing in a breeze and me and the girls in long simple linen dresses kneeling in a meadow hand rearing this little trembling creature. And then it turned into a ‘Simpsons’ moment with Bart and Homer doing something indescribably awful to a barbecuing animal with me (as Lisa) looking on…so the phone went untouched. Wise, I feel.
But a year ago there was ‘Ducks for Sale’ and this is how the phone call went;
AM – I just saw your ad.
Strange man – Yes?
AM – Ducks for sale?
SM – Yes
AM – Have you any left?
SM – Yes
AM – How many?
SM – A few
AM – Are they male and female? I don’t know much about ducks (now this was a BAD mistake) and I want to make sure I get at least one female.
SM – yes
AM – So you have a male and a female?
SM – Yes. And so the conversation went on.
I didn’t glean much more from the rest of our chat apart from the address which means nothing in the countryside to any Sat Nav so I figured I better take Kirsty with us for moral support. As with all of these things I need an excuse to get out the house so, since Valentine’s Day had been and passed without any present for husband, I announced to both him and the kids that we were going to buy him his present (which I had ordered ages ago and its finally come in blah blah blah). And so the kids were bundled into the car alongside Kirsty who was happily winding husband up by singing ‘Eeyore Eeyore’ under her breath (more on that another time).
Now as you evolve into grown up territory there are certain things you need to become. Consistently honest? But of course. Show integrity? Hopefully. Set a good example and admit when you are wrong? Certainly. I had taken a small cardboard box for the ducklings which the kids had over enthusiastically stuffed too full of straw (with the idea their new charges had a very comfortable ride home). Surprisingly we actually found the house quite easily (it’s my Zen form of county driving – just drive without thinking of any direction and it gets you there).The house itself appeared only half built with the traditional Steptoe and Son accouchement of an overflowing skip and a sleeping JCB on the supposed lawn.
As a mass we all banged on the door and it was opened (odd since it had no hinges) by what looked like a 16 year old boy. With a grunt we were acknowledged and taken to the ‘duck room’. Now as I was saying…truth, honesty etc. is essential for an adult to acquire. Now I was expecting ducklings, small cute little bundles not the mammoth things with big wings and evil glints that I saw before me.
There was absolutely no way I was going to fit even half of a duck in the box I was carrying. Now a decent human would have admitted their mistake and gone home. I couldn’t do that. There was a long heavy silence from the kids and Kirsty, they had backed off towards the door probably with the subconscious realization that one of these ‘ducklings’ might have to be handled.
So my bullshit began, I was not going to lose face to this ‘youth’. Looking confident I questioned him whether the two I was looking at were male and female…’yes of course’ (a blatant lie) and he also assured me that they were very young (which was true – the trouble is when you look at photos of ducks there is no scale attached, so ‘Khaki Campbell’s’ are bloody huge ducks not little dainty ones like Mallards), and I also did a reasonably good job of telling him we could find straw for the ducks journey but we didn’t have any boxes big enough. He was clearly having enough of this intellectual conversation we were having so within a moment both ducks were unceremoniously shoved into another box and stuck in the car boot. Money was exchanged and we became owners of two rather miffed Khaki Campbell’s.
The journey home was a conglomerate of Kirsty singing ‘Eeyore Eeyore’ to anyone that would listen and the kids arguing about whom was going to tell Daddy what his present was. There was no need to tell him. He was waiting by the gate looking hopeful (possibly expecting a decent present to arrive); as he stuck his head in the car window the loud furious QUACK kind of gave the game away.
The ducks were gently tipped into the chicken pen which had been made into a resplendent duck home complete with sunshine yellow paddling pool, novelty slide and a pink painted duck house. To give Doris and Duncan their dues from that moment on they gave us hours of pleasure as we watched them explore and play. Doris met an unfortunate end (either that or she ran away with one of the Mallards who live on the marshes next door), since within a day of them being allowed out (i.e. not in the hen enclosure) she had disappeared.
Matilda and I went out the same day to buy a friend for Duncan and of course came back with three. So the decision was made that the ducks could live out during the day paddling away in the pond but at night they would have to come in with the hens. That all sounds quite easy doesn’t it? Have you ever herded a duck, let alone 4 ducks? It’s not easy. Not easy at all. After long deliberation I came up with a cunning plan. It involved 4 net cloches made into a tunnel, with a little hole made into the pond fence. This contraption lasted all of 24 hours, delightfully amusing and a tad strange, it course attracted the attention of small children whose bodies, however tightly they curl themselves into a little ball do not fit into net cloches let alone through them. After an hour of untangling Matilde’s hair from the tunnel the ducks had decided that they were perfectly capable of wandering from one place to the other without a small crowd shoo-ing them along…a much more satisfactory outcome for all concerned.
Newsflash
Buffy has just cock’a’doodle dood….she/he has being trying for days and finally managed a fully-fledged call to manhood…..
Flashback
There was always some clients you knew just were not going to last, usually the feeling surfaced in the first few sessions. Just the general ambiance of their home plus their demeanor gave it away. The most obvious one, I guess, was the Persian Princess. She was just never there. As I sit here and rack my brain I must have met her once but I cannot even envisage her face, everything about her home yes, but not her.
She lived in a secluded leafy square round the back of Harrods (her corner shop), in a beautifully subtle six storey townhouse with its own lift (this never fails to impress the shallow me). It was full of staff that either did not speak or were not allowed to speak. They just moved around like dormice tidying an already immaculate home. I would be ushered up to one of the many living rooms and just left there. After about 20 minutes admiring silver photo frames and twiddling my thumbs I would go in search of someone working quietly away and my questioning would be answered by shrugs, their eyes never meeting mine even for a split second. At this point I would leave, taking care not to bang any of my equipment into panic buttons (this at one point became a bit of a unfortunate habit) and go home.
A day or so later a cheque from ‘Coutts’ would come for a large amount and a suggestion of our next session and so it carried on. When it got to the point when I was wondering if the cheques would keep coming even if I didn’t bother turning up I decided enough was enough since I was beginning to mistrust my own integrity.
Others were not so easy; there were at least two who would always be reeking of alcohol if not just plain drunk. The first lady I actually adored. She was a food and wine journalist for a very well-known society magazine who certainly embodied the whole Keith Floyd approach to cookery. ‘One for me and one for the pot’ type school – a women after my own heart therefore I am going to leave her be.
The other women I did not like, doesn’t that sound awful? But for my own credit I did stop after session 6 and paid her the rest of her money back. I couldn’t keep turning up at her house IN THE MORNING and find an excuse why we shouldn’t work out that day because you are DRUNK (well that’s what I wanted to say but obviously good manners do attempt to come into play. I am good at being polite but even I run out of platitudes). The only good thing to come out of this was while I was making her a strong cup of coffee her mouth would be on overdrive.
Her brother was / is a famously rich plastic surgeon in Los Angeles so the gossip was riveting (which well know ex-girl band pop star disappeared to the US and returned claiming to have ‘found’ yoga, having lost 3 dress sizes from it, wrote a book, produced a DVD, did countless interviews when she actually spent the whole time being lipo suctioned every which way you can?). I couldn’t keep it up. As I drove home from the last session the feeling of relief was immense but there was going to be a part of me disappointed….I was going to miss the gossip.
June 2011
Duck Defenders
I am hiding in the greenhouse. School holidays are already driving me to a point of bulk buying bottles of gin so as a brief respite I have taken myself down the path and am squatting on the floor potting my vegetable seeds. I am, of course, late in doing this particular job. However since this seems a yearly occurrence and we always end up with far too much of everything then I am not too flustered or annoyed to enjoy it. I squat or sit as low as possible so I am not found. If anything really awful occurs the blood curdling cry of a hurt or angry child reaches my ears soon enough, by keeping my head down means, at the very least, I get to do some gardening alone.
I am, as always, accompanied by Billy who totally loves the greenhouse more than any other place in his spaniel world. It seems to carry a labyrinth of old rat runs beneath it beds and floor, spiraling in and around its borders. His entire existence gets put on hold as catching a rat becomes his reason for being. His face appears every now and then, covered in dry dirt, waiting for reassurance that he is not digging up my prize dahlias and that he can carry on unabated. It does not ever seem to matter that he doesn’t every catch any.
From my secret hideaway I also get to watch the comings and goings of the other animal’s incognito. What had started as an occasional skirmish with the next door Mallard ducks has turned into offensive warfare as far as our two male ducks are concerned. Dora just sits, watching fondly, filing her nails and preening her ivory feathers as Daphne (yes a male duck called Daphne) and Duncan, the Cluck Cottage Air Bourne Divisions (CCABD) take control of the situation. I believe there was a call to arms to the Cockerel encampment but they were only interested in jumping on which ever hen wanders unfortunately past so the ducks are having to defend their territory alone.
It is very funny to watch and very endearing too. I am bowled over by how determined these creatures are at defending their territory and how marked their boundary lines are. The unfortunate Mallards are just interested in the corn I would have thought, and have been landing near the feed shed at appropriate times. However it went past this point pretty quickly and they have been doing low-level reconnaissance operations over the field and have clearly noticed that there is a lot of yummy food lying about for their taking.
The main game goes like this. The Mallards swoop in over the tree line and land somewhere near the goat enclosure. If the CCABD are on high alert this is quickly spotted and with a frantic waddle, wings outstretched like Concorde, head and beak elongated resembling a Stretch Armstrong toy they screech across the field uttering terrifying obscenities in duck language. This sees the Mallards off who take flight (quite quickly) and soar above the trees and off into the distance.
The new part of the game now is that the Mallards bank left in flight and reappear over the top of the greenhouse behind the smug CCABD who are congratulating themselves by various patting on the back, and Dora undulating over towards them with a rather soppy look on her face. The Mallards will then land by the poultry pen and begin feasting on the chickens left over breakfast. Since Code ‘All Clear’ has been called by the ducks and they begin waddling towards their pond or in search of a running hose, the Mallards get a good few minutes of chomping on high-grade corn until they are spotted again and the whole scenario repeats itself.
Today I watched the whole piece of action (with some varying cast of characters since Buffy did wander through the set at some point) take place about 4 times. Each with vivid clarity and emotion. In the meantime I have potted up my cucumbers, courgettes, tomatoes, chilies and sweet peppers with no distraction from anybody and feel quite rested…as I wander back to the house I see Buffy looking quite cross (as only a chicken can) when he realises his secret stash of white bread has been nicked from under his nose. He goes sashaying off in search of my Mother while the ducks look thoughtfully at his retreating figure…there expressions agree with my own thoughts – Buffy will soon be a sure-fire recruitment opportunity….and a large hellish one at that!
July
It’s Too Damn Hot..
Can’t help but hear Ann Miller singing ‘it’s too damn hot’ over and over in my head today. Even Elvis has given in to the heat of the day and is, with the company of his usual crew, lying flat out under the chestnut tree dead to the world and his wife [me] as I stomp past them towards the haystack. Stress of work has finally hit me like a world class boxer lands a punch and there is nothing I can find to lift the low boiling cloud hanging on my shoulders. From a distance I watch my daughters, not always known for their gracefulness, negotiating stone steps in roller skates. I just muster a scream of disapproval and then sink back to a hidden deck chair and wait for the next thing I am supposed to sort, clean and rectify. It’s not looking hopeful
Swallows and Amazon
Our swallows have returned. Every year they magically reappear along with the pear blossom, swooping reconnaissance moves over the stable block. Darting in and out over the horse’s heads, with twittering cries of alarm as I approach. So I sit and watch. Billy lying at my side, one eye kept partially open just in case I try to make a break for it without him. The goats and Elvis at first milling around but on the realisation that nothing much of any interest was happening involving me and food they meander off to munch at the meagre frazzled grass.
I am not a bird enthusiast. Yes they are perfectly nice thank you very much but that’s about the amount of excitement I can muster. However these little birds capture my imagination and fill me with glee and wonder as I watch them. The horses are not so keen. Ella has acquired a nervous twitch and, combined with her being so in season it is disgusting, she is well on her way to the equine version of The Priory.
However the birds seem more enamored with Amber’s stable. If Swallows had a sense of humour (they might?) then I would say that their aeronautics over Ella’s head as she peered worriedly out of her stable door were designed purely as an avian practical joke. She has developed a twitch in her neck and a particularly high-pitched snort at the sight of any bird. She would have happily galloped out of her stable this morning if my hip had not been in the way of the door.
Amber on the other hand is quite chilled about them, which is a good thing since there seems to be at least two nests on the go up in her rafters. As I muck out the birds dart in and out, sharply retracing their flight pattern when they notice me leaning on the broom. It is then I go and sit, leaning up against the sagging kitchen garden fence where Buffy is wallowing in a newly weeded vegetable bed. My place of bird contemplation is soon discovered as Matilda stomps out to find me (todays outfit – Halloween Witch costume, floppy straw Easter Bonnet and odd sized Tinkerbell shoes…only one pigtail remaining and a face smeared with jam) carrying the post. It is thrust into my lap. The child is far too intelligent beyond her years; she can now recognise an ‘Amazon’ book purchase at a glance. As I help her tear open the packaging I can barely conceal my mirth as the title of her new book reveals itself ‘Follow the Swallow’ and that’s no word of a lie…..!
Dora…
Proof that even a duck of great intelligence does not learn from her mistakes……
August
The Orchestra
The orchestra of summer is in full swing, led by a conductor who has had one too many expressos for breakfast. The wind is serenading us full heartedly with a rumbustious roar of delight making the tips of the tree haphazardly tickle the speedy foam filled clouds. Everything in its path responds with a fanfare of delight. The blossoms from the apple trees flitter off in a flourish, laying down a speckled path as the wind dies down for a moment, only to be caught back up again in a whirlwind of madness.
The horses are shivering with excitement, unable to contain their joy; every handled moment with them requires full attention if you wish to stay earth-bound and injury free. Ella is beside herself with a manic happiness, egged on by Elvis who is furiously throwing himself into such eager contortions that I have the vets on speed dial. The dogs, sensing a form of anarchy are flight testing all the chickens, barging into them unexpectedly and woofing at their sudden ascent into the heavens. Thus with the madness at full flow the children fight and bicker with new-found authority. And people wonder why I drink.
But now the wind has disappeared leaving a lull which nothing can seem to fill. Everyone is wishing for rain as though it’s the cathartic medicine to end all ills. The void leaves another kind of restlessness that cannot be described. My Mother bakes. And bakes again. The kitchen is filled with a marzipan infused aroma as only a Dane can concoct such fragrant cakes. Naughtiness wrapped up in whipped cream topped with a sliver of caramalised Pecans. My children lick, drool and chuckle with greed as the semi scraped cake mixture bowls are placed for their taking. The dogs following in line of seniority begging with all their being to be the first to finish off the lazily discarded spatulas and mixing bowls. Their dreams don’t take long to be fulfilled. Funneled with a new sugar and almond rush the children soon forget their not quite finished treats and the dogs are left with a second heaven to finish off. No one can settle. I look up to the heavens and see a grey cloud, and for a first time in an age, wish whole heartedly for the rain to come and wash us all down.
Anne-Marie’s Dressing Gown
My lack of blog recently is down to a few factors, one of which is lack of sleep, something I have never been able to cope with very well with. My dressing gown pocket can explain the problems I have been facing. It contains; half eaten Polly Pocket doll (new puppy), one glove with fingertips chewed off (new 2-year-old spaniel), various nails and screws (attempt to fudge something that will stop Ella opening her stable door at 4.00am and causing havoc), a few particles of corn (all that was left after Ella, Amber, Elvis, Willow ,Patch and Lambert raided the feed shed at some point between 5.00 and 5.30am) and some throat lozenge wrappers (I have been doing a lot of shouting recently).
Tonight I am trying a rather mean trick, but my battle with Ella has reached a point of no return, and I am blubbering with exhaustion, dropping anything I pick up and tripping over my own feet. It’s going to involve mustard. Not half-hearted ’whole grain’, not continental ‘Dijon’ for that extra ‘o la la’…but good old-fashioned ‘Strong English Mustard. This will be liberally applied over her bolt on her stable door when I put her to bed. I guess if I write a blog in the next 48 hours you will see if I manage to get some extra sleep. Watch this space.
September
Princess Bubbles
My secret masterplan (given the fact none of the family read what I write makes me quite safe confiding in you) is to take over our work life by breeding spaniels. I HATE this fitness lark for a living – don’t get me wrong I have met and work with some fascinating people but there is a part of me now that wants to run away from it (or limp given the amount of torment I have put my poor legs through over the years).
Given the fact our other family business is not doing so well and something has been arranged for us by the East London side of the family to keep us in food supplies (we are taking in stock piles of canned food mysteriously appearing here in Suffolk from the back of an elderly Jaguar driven by a man in camel haired coat) my new money making venture might eventually be accepted by the family as a whole.
Hence I have purchased a small black and white Springer girl who goes by the name of ‘Bubbles’. Right from the moment she arrived home I think we all got the feeling that she has purchased us and not the other way round. On meeting Billy and Bobby (her intended suiters) she flicked her long black curly locks over her shoulder, gave them a death stare and stalked off.
Over the course of the next few weeks I realized my idea was rather lacking since there was no way we would be able to breed from Bubbles until she was quite grown up. This was either a huge blond moment on my behalf or beginning of senior moments to come. How stupid do I feel…
This didn’t matter though. Bubbles made it perfectly clear that she called the shots anyway and I would be doing what she wanted and not the other way round. To give her some dues she is endlessly patient in being dressed up in tiaras and carried round on a pillow and has taken the old fashioned dolls pram as her own personal boudoir. I feel that she is giving me a short sharp lesson in puppy/dog ownership whether I wanted it or not.
Site Title 