Bear with me dear reader and all will become clear. The folk next door have the builders in and a beautiful new extension is going up at the back of their house. They are also having all the windows in the rest of the house renewed, as the property was rather dilapidated when they took it over and was more than ripe for updating. No problem there. All went well until last week. The builders removed two old windows from the side of the building that looks on to our front driveway. Unfortunately for us they did not take much care about it. The windows came out easily enough and so did at least six million minute polystyrene balls, which I now understand were in the past used for insulation before insulated sheets came along. It was a windy day and guess what? Yes, indeedy, all the perishing balls blew on to our driveway. Not a problem, I hear you say. Sweep 'em up. Problem solved. I wish. Our drive is covered with pea gravel, that small stuff that gets in between grooves of your trainers or walking boots. Can't sweep that lot up.
Meanwhile, inside Chez Comb, spouse is telephoning the lady from the Community Transport Scheme, for whom he is a volunteer driver. Elderly, infirm or disabled folk can book transport for shopping, doctors, hospital appointments or the doctor's surgery and have door to door service for a small fee. Whilst I am outside surveying our polystyrene snowstorm, spouse has contacted the lady via the ringback service. She must have picked up the phone, thought there was no one there and put it to one side. But they were still connected as spouse could hear her moving about the office. Poor spouse, he wasn't having much luck. He was calling into the phone, 'hello Christine, pick up your phone Christine, hello Christine.' and didn't bargain on being interrupted by a very cross wife stomping into his study, shrieking like a demented banshee and vowing vengeance on the entire building fraternity.
Being the patient man that he is, he put the phone to one side and listened to my diatribe on the careless builders and the problem of the polystyrene balls. My rant over and thinking there was nothing to be done about them and that we would have to learn to love them, I pushed off to my kitchen and my domestic goddess duties. Sometime later I had occasion to pass through the hallway to find spouse on his hands and knees, threading wire through the letterbox. I paused, mouth open and hesitated. Then, 'no, don't ask,' I told myself. Might be better if I don't know. On my return trip spouse was off his knees, upright and fixing up the hoover. 'Having a domestic moment, are we?' I asked. 'Mm, not quite domestic,' says spouse. 'I'm going out to hoover the gravel.'
Well I know we like to be reasonably clean at Chez Comb, but isn't hoovering the gravel taking things a tad too far? But if that's what spouse wanted to to who was I to object. I returned to my domestic duties and left him to it. In the kitchen I found the phone off its cradle and picked it up. Don't ask me why I did it, dear reader, but I shouted 'hello, hello. Eh, what's up doc?' into the handset in my best Bugs Bunny voice and hell's bells, I nearly dropped the wretched thing when Christine from Community Transport answered me. 'Is that you, Patricia? Your phone's off the hook. By the heck, it's an interesting life in your house isn't it? What was he doing down at the letterbox and why's he gone out to hoover the gravel? Does he often do that? Sounds a bit daft to me, but I suppose it takes all sorts....' Spouse will have some explaining to do next time he speaks to the good lady and I only hope she doesn't mention Bugs Bunny to him.
Yes, I thought hoovering the gravel was a bit off the wall too, but I have to tell you my dear reader, that spouse is not as green as he is cabbage looking. He fed the extension lead through the letterbox so the door could stay shut and took the hoover outside and connected it up. He put the hoover on its lowest setting and held it well above the gravel and hey presto - all those little polystyrene balls went home to daddy, all safely tucked up into the hoover bag. How amazing is that?
Our driveway is now squeaky clean and my admiration for spouse is unbounded. For thinking outside the letter box, I think I married a genius. Look out builders, we're ready to take on the world.
I'm veering off the scientific trail this week. Actually thinking about it I'm not, because I'm in zoological mode, with a small measure of synchronicity thrown in to the mix.
A couple of days ago I was walking along the promenade overlooking the sea. The sea on my left and the ornamental public gardens on my right. Glancing into the gardens I noticed a seagull looking down at the grass and trampling very hard and fast with his orange webbed feet. I dug spouse in the ribs and pointed to this scene. 'What's all that about?' I wondered. 'Worms,' said spouse. 'Worms?' says I. 'Yes, Worms. He's drumming up his dinner.' I looked at spouse and wondered if he'd had too much seaside winter sun. 'Oh, like the worm pops his head out when the seagull comes knocking at his door. As if ...' Really, did I look as if I was that gullible? Well my dear reader, it turns out that I am just a seagull ignoramus. 'All that stamping makes the worm think it's raining and that's when they come up to the surface and hey presto, seagull dinner is served!' says spouse. Pull my other leg it's got bells on thinks I, but when I returned home and put the question to the RSPB via my computer I found spouse was right.
And here's where the zoological synchronicity comes in. Gosh, I never thought to type those two words together! But here goes ... a trip around unusual bird behaviour. I was listening to the BBC Radio 4's programme, The Infinite Monkey Cage, the day after the seagull incident and they were discussing present and historical methods of research into animal and bird behaviour. Professor Rory Wilson explained the unusual fishing method adopted by the Wandering Albatross. When they are feeding their young, one of their fishing methods is to fly off for six days to stock up on squid to bring home to the chicks. Now squid are not just floating about on the surface waiting for some old albatross to come and get them, they are swimming away underneath the ocean. So clever old albatross starts a spinning routine that creates a large circle of light, (the light given off by some of the florescent fish already in the water and he just spreads it about a lot more). And then, the squid are drawn up to the light and our albatross does a somersault and gobbles them up. As a post script to this I have just looked up information about the Wandering Albatross and apparently if they follow a ship in the hope of feeding of its rubbish, they can eat so much they can't fly and just have to float there for a while! Yes dear reader, ponder that image.
Staying with the zoological theme, Lucy Cook, a guest on The Infinite Monkey Cage programme also related the historical research into the mystery of fertilisation to create a new adult of a species. This is just the best one ever. Through dissection it was known that there were eggs and there were sperm, but it was not known how the new adult came about. A chap called Lazno Spanzali spent a lot of time observing frog behaviour. He saw the male frog clinging on to the female's back but didn't know what happened next. So he made a pair of underpants from waxed taffeta and fitted them on to the frog!!!! Yes, I love it too. The trouble was the frog could jump out of them, leaving Spanzali non the wiser. So, he fitted braces on to the underpants - how good is that? Problem solved and the mystery of what went on between Mr and Mrs Frog could be investigated further.
Well, there we are. I can say no more. Enjoy your Sunday my dear reader and may the image of frogs in their tighty-whities and braces bring a little smile to your day. It certainly has to mine.
Welcome, dear reader, to another sunny Sunday in North Yorkshire at Chez Comb. Having just put the title of this blog up I realise it is a tad misleading. My dear spouse is not missing his shed as in being minus a shed - it has not been stolen or demolished and thus he is not suffering from the absence of his shed. No, he is suffering from a lack of visiting his shed.
How can this be? You might well ask and no maybe you are, right now. You didn't even know spouse had a shed down the bottom of the garden that he might visit. Well why would you? It's not a subject I would be banging on about in the normal course of events, but events have not been normal lately. Well, when are they, let's face that one head on?
Better begin at the beginning as all the best stories do. When we moved to this house last year there were a couple of small sheds down the garden, one of them was in good condition and one was rather dilapidated. So the good shed was used for storing our garden tools and machinery, but where was spouse to put all his boys toys? Chain saws, big electric saws and the good Lord knows what ever else and I really don't know. We are old-fashioned in our division of labour - he keeps out of my kitchen and I keep out of his workshop. But the trouble was, he now didn't have a workshop. He had a garage and so filled it up with all his paraphernalia. Ah but, now he couldn't get his precious car in the garage. I know dear reader, don't tell me, I know. No-one uses their garage for the car these days. Oh yes they do, spouse does. So what to do now? Build a mega-shed of course.
My dearest reader, if you could have seen the look of the purest of pure delight on spouse's face as the idea dawned on him, you too would have taken a step back. Really, heaven has no more to offer a man than a large garden with space to put the shed of his dreams on. And at that point, dear reader, I became a shed widow.
Unfortunately for me, the plot of ground he chose had gnarled old trees on it, interspersed with ragged and overgrown shrubs. Why unfortunately for me? After all, I had no wish to be the proud possessor of a mega-shed. But, no man is an island and mine certainly is not. I was enrolled as honorary shed side-kick and put to work assisting in the digging out of shrubs and removal of tree branches, prior to spouse wading in with chain saw and axe.
All well and good. But a meg-shed requires a mega-base to stand on and at that point in the proceedings, spouse's proposed site required digging over and trees roots removing. Thus it was that for some months before and after Christmas, I became a shed widow. I had been hoping that when we came indoors from our summer labours in the garden that spouse would multi-task in the house and put some pictures up, all that kind of stuff that makes a house a home. But no, how could trivia like that compete with the foundations for a shed? Obviously it didn't, as the sightings of spouse grew fewer and fewer as his enthusiasm for his new shed grew. He appeared for meals, well he would, wouldn't he? Food and wielding axes being his great loves in life.
Being a Yorkshireman and not wanting to part with a brass farthing if he could possibly help it, he constructed the base out of flagstones taken up from the garden. I have to admit this was a good idea, (it kills me to say so, but it was). We will be re-modelling the garden this year and the flagged paths are not in our new design. So dozens of flags were manhandled on to the site and carefully placed, the spirit level employed at every turn to ensure a firm and level base. Nearing the end of this operation the new shed was ordered from a local company.
Their representative came out to view spouse's endeavours and the base was pronounced excellent. Spouse's cup runneth over, almost. The very next weekend the shed was erected and THEN spouse was ecstatic. Thinking about it, I'm surprised we haven't had an official opening of the shed with a bottle of champagne being smashed against it. Personally, I'll settle for drinking it inside the shed sometime.
Fondly I thought, 'well that's that then', my life-partner will re-enter my life again. Oh so wrong was I, dear reader. A mega-shed needed the gold star treatment. Not content with having the shed in place, spouse then set about insulating it, boarding it out and painting the boarding in a delicate shade of cream to make it light and bright. And so it is. It is a beautiful space and he has kitted it out with work benches and his tools and is generally delighted with it all.
All was going well until the end of last week my dear reader. Every day, spouse was transferring more of his gear down to the shed, happy as a little sand boy can be and then, disaster struck, or more pertinently, Montezuma's revenge and spouse has been confined to barracks ever since. Looking disconsolately down the garden yesterday he mournfully came out with the immortal line, 'I miss my shed',
Now if he'd have said, 'I miss being out in the sunshine and fresh air,' as he is wont to spend his time outside, I could have understood and empathised with this notion. But missing a shed? I'm sorry, dear reader, for once I am at a loss. The almost umbilical link between men and their sheds is beyond me and I am happy for it to remain so. I look forward to spouse's recovery, not just for his restoration to good health, but because I really can't stand much more of the shed-longing glimpsed deep in his lovely blue eyes.
I hope you all have a wonderful Sunday and a good week to come.
No, I am not going all scientific again and I'm definitely steering clear of the spiritual and mathematical meanings attached to synchronicity, or we could be here all day. I am confining myself purely to the idea of similar events happening by chance at the same time which appear to be related to one another. As you will have guessed, dear reader, this subject leads on from last week's thoughts on random distribution. I mentioned dreaming about strangling a cat. Sharp intake of breath all round. I love cats and dogs, all animals come to that, so why my sub-conscious should want to strangle one I do not know. I hope it is not a metaphor for my spouse, as he has been particularly good lately - 'good' as in 'normal' and not getting into any scrapes whereby I would wish to kill him.
So, I arise from my bed somewhat disturbed by the cat strangling dream, (it was a white one by the way, a bit along the lines of a small fluffy Persian), and begin my day. As I check my Facebook page there is a notification from my friend Rachelle regarding our lunch together the previous day. One of her friends had made a humorous comment and I clicked on to this lady's page. And the last post she had put up was the report of the Croydon Cat Strangler. Eek! I immediately clicked off this page. I was born in Croydon and had I not just strangled a cat and was it just in my dreams? Synchronicity and I do not wish to delve any further into that one.
On a happier note, I telephoned my editor last evening to discuss an idea for a new book. She was really spooked. No, dear reader, I do not generally have this effect upon people and not upon my lovely editor. She was spooked because she had just been thinking about me and was about to pick up the phone. Synchronicity?? I like to think so.
Now I really start to think about this notion of synchronicity, I can recall two further instances of its occurrence in my life, although from some time ago. I was once hiking along a coastal path in Dorset, minding my own business and had settled into that semi-trance like state that you sometimes do when the walking is going well, when a voice penetrated my half-conscious state, calling out my name. Looking up from the path and focussing on the world once more, there was a work colleague from 10 years ago dancing about on the path in front of me. Of all the places in the world ... and of all the people in all the world, as in her previous life she had been Miss Glamourpuss Supreme and wouldn't have been seen dead anywhere on the planet in hiking boots and woolly bobble hat. But there she was. We had both decided to walk that stretch of coastline on the same day. My, my, there was a bit of catching up to do on that occasion.
I promise I won't rabbit on much longer on this subject, dear reader, but really, once you start on it, it's amazing what comes to mind - have a go yourself, you won't be disappointed. I was once connected to a totally different number from the one I thought I had dialled, no doubt I should have put my glasses on to see the buttons clearly. But what a bonus for me, as in the course of finding out that it was the wrong number, I recognised the voice at the other end. It was an old school friend and her voice had not changed at all, despite the passage of more years than I care to mention. What are the odds on that one? Not only that, but what made it synchronicity was that she had been trying to find me with a view to setting up a whole reunion affair and had had no luck. Ha, 'there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' The old Bard knew a thing or two I reckon.
No more dreams for me this week, I hope and no philosophising. And definitely no cat strangling, real or imagined. My derriere needs to be attached to my chair and a fair bit of work put into the latest fiction project, or the wrath of Editor Genghis and Spouse may be coming my way - and it won't need synchronicity for that to happen ..... See you next week, dear reader, have a great Sunday.
i know, dear reader, still on the scientific trail - what on earth is the matter with me? Last week, gravitational waves and now this. Well it's not my fault, it's my friend, Rachelle Antoinette. She is an abstract artist, (check out her website www.rachelleantoinette/abstract-art-gallery) and artists, like writers, mull things over. So, there we were, the two of us, sitting by a roaring fire, enjoying late celebrations for my birthday - not at a late hour you understand, but a week after the event and as the contents of the wine bottle decreased, the musings about life increased proportionately. So after discussions on the mysterious appearance of red pepper seeds and rice grains, etc. in my kitchen, we moved on to the seeming randomness of events in life.
Rachelle is an intelligent, thoughtful lady, given like myself, to chewing the fat about life. Her musings feed into her art, but I'm not too sure how her thoughts on random distribution are going to translate into paint. Here's a f'r'instance. When her Dad cooks with cardamom pods and simply dishes up the dinner, Rachelle says the lions share of the pods always land up on her plate. Over the years, she has watched, eagle-eyed and can testify to the fairness with which her dear papa doles out the din-dins and yet, she could still bet her last copper-bottomed pound sterling, that more pods will land on her plate than his. There are various definitions of the laws of random or probability distribution, but having looked at a few my eyes are still rolling back in my head and I am no wiser. You try looking it up too, dear reader and then perhaps you can explain it all to me.
It's exactly the same with prawns, if we're still following 'Rachelle's law'. Her dear papa can produce the most exquisite fish pie on the planet, (no idle boast, believe me), containing prawns and she will always end up with the lion's share of the prawns contained therein. Yes, I know, lions probably don't eat prawns. But, there again, has anyone ever offered them some? I could be on to something there - a whole new world of research awaits. Anyway, coming back to prawns, how is it that the distribution is of such an unequal proportion between them? Her papa enjoys a prawn as much as the next man, so he's not going to shovel them all her way is he?
I too have been musing on this phenomena and have come up with muesli and sweets, possibly lollipops at pantomimes and there again, there are documents and lentils. Hang in there and I promise I will take you with me. Now, my dear reader - muesli. In my domestic goddess moments, I make up my own mix, (brownie points for me I think). In go the raisins, the almonds and the various other dried fruits and all are mixed together with flakes and oats, etc. Take note of that - well mixed together. I don't know why I add the almonds to the mix as I do not care for them, but spouse does. What I should do is put a small dish of them next to his breakfast plate so that he can help himself, but my morning self is never going to be so organised and I would forget, and so, if it is never going to happen, they might as well get bunged in the mix and guess what? Yes - correct, I always get the almonds and then have to transfer them to his dish before we even start. Random distribution? No, 'like flies to wanton boys the gods do play us.'
And what about lollipops at pantomimes or sweets chucked out to the audience, or teachers hurling sweets out to the class at the end of term. Random distribution it should be and yet and yet - there will always be some children who never in their entire lives field a sweet or a pantomime lollipop successfully. Not because they are smaller or less bold than their contemporaries - it is just the way it is.
Moving back to the adult world - have you attended one of those training days where the lecturer would stop at the end of each row of seats, count the number of bodies and dish out the corresponding number of papers? Or alternatively, he/she appoints a couple of 'class prefects' to dish the dibs out? So, in theory, all of the above should work out and everyone ends up the proud possessor of a factsheet. But my dear reader, this never happens and there are always people bobbing anxiously up and down looking for their copy and if the lecture has already started and references are being made to the sheet, those of us without look on blankly and you can bet your life that the geek sitting next to you studiously turns his/her back and avoids all eye contact so as to avoid sharing his/her sheet with you. Now you know for sure that I was always one of those who never had a sheet - I repeat - it's just the way it is and so I would creep quietly to the back of the room and collect a bunch of sheets. And this is the most annoying part of all - there are always, always, piles of pristine sheets sitting on the table at the back. Let's not go into the realms of didn't the lecturer count the number of people registered and the number of copies made beforehand? ... At this point I was always tempted to stand in the middle of the room and hurl the whole lot up in the air and let everyone fight for their copy, (there's random distribution for you), but I fought this urge and quietly handed out copies to the other poor students that were without.
Having got that one off my chest I'll just briefly mention lentils and the result of this random distribution is not entirely my fault. For once in my life I did what it said on the packet. My instinct said 'cut the top off the pack and gently pour contents into storage jar.' The suppliers said 'tear here'. So I did and with predictable results. Lentils shot up in the air and showered down everywhere. They are now randomly distributed over every work surface and floor tile in my kitchen. That will teach me to be a conformist. Let loose the rebel, that's what I say
So, after I've cleaned up the kitchen I'm off to cook up a storm for Sunday supper and who knows what I may randomly distribute into my pans as I cogitate upon this subject. Now, if I take out the first five items I come across in the refrigerator .....
Hello dear reader and may I wish you a belated very happy new year. Please accept my apologies for my non-appearance last week. I think British Telecom got its wires crossed at the local Exchange and left me off its internet supply. I have now had notification from my provider that my supply will have to be 'interleaved' to improve my broadband connection. I have no idea what this means but I hope it works and that I stay connected.
Which brings me on to the subject of astro physics. Ha, I bet you never thought to hear those words drip from my keyboard, did you? Well, I have been listening to a science programme on BBC Radio 4 about gravitational waves. Apparently they waft through us and bend and stretch us all the time. Well, fancy that! Yet another phenomenon I am going to have to chew the fat over and try to understand. Mastering the internet and my IPhone stretched the old brain cells enough and now I find gravitational waves are doing it as well.
You will by now my dear reader, have appreciated that I am no scientist, but I do share some common traits with the astro physicists mentioned above in that I observe all sorts of phenomena that occur in my daily life and for which I can provide no reasonable or logical explanation. These phenomena puzzle and exasperate my by turn. For example where do all the bell pepper seeds come from?
Yes, I know where they come from - they come from a bell pepper obviously, but why do they make their appearance with monotonous regularity on my kitchen floor? We eat a lot of peppers at Chez Comb. I throw them into everything in the course of my domestic goddess culinary duties, along with a variety of other vegetables. I am a tidy cook and am careful to capture and dispose of the seeds from the peppers in the course of my clearings up. When all is done for the night and I look around my clean and tidy kitchen there is not a pepper seed in sight - not on the worktops or the floor. So how is it and here I would be most grateful dear reader, if you could enlighten me, that every day and I do mean every day, I will find a little white errant pepper seed lodged in the dark grouting of a kitchen floor tile - showing up as plain as day? Where has it come from? If it wasn't there yesterday and no peppers have shown their faces in my kitchen in the interim, how did they get there? I would have seen them, as I am now so attuned to these events, saddo that I am, that I walk into the kitchen and 'sweep the floor with my eyes'. Ouch.
Particles of cooked rice are the same. I cook it, drain it, serve it, clean up and don't have rice again for some days to come. And yet and yet - as sure God made little apples, grains of rice will magically appear in the kitchen when my back is turned. Grains that were not there before. Again, scattered about the worktops and lodged in the floor tiles. Maybe there are night-time house elves at work - I would welcome them if they did something useful rather than leaving the detritus of their supper behind.
And don't get me started on lemon pips. Well, I have started and this is just another phenomenon amongst the many in our universe, never mind gravitational waves, that I don't understand. Just how many pips can one lemon have? I have a kitchen gadget that squeezes the juice from the lemon for me. Which is wonderful and I love it to bits. But no matter how carefully I de-seed my lemons before slapping them on to the squeezer, that contraption will seek out the most deeply buried pips and out they fly in all directions, slapping me in the eye, crunching under my feet and leaving a sticky trail all over the floor for me to slip and slide over.
Never mind gravitational waves stretching and squeezing me, I can't feel them but I would like this evil kitchen genii or unseen house elf identified by the scientific community and dealt with. I bet if Einstein had done the cooking this problem would have been solved long ago. He shouldn't have spent so much time on E=mc2. A spell slaving away in the kitchen would have been a lot more helpful to me right now.
Happy days dear reader. I hope you enjoy your Sunday. I am off back to the kitchen to prepare Sunday supper and not a bell pepper in sight today - I don't think my sanity could stand it....
I'm so sorry dear reader, but there is no blog from me this week as the gremlins have been at my computer and system. I have only just back on-line - and somewhat unreliably at that. I am waiting for my friend and computer whizz to call and see if he can work a miracle or two.
With luck and a following wind I hope to be here next week. I hope everyone has a good week and a very happy Epiphany to all.
Dear Brand New 2018 Diary,
The year is turning and I am in reflective mood. This is the time everyone makes new year's resolutions and believe me dear reader, there are enough of them in this morning's paper. So, do I need to join the party - to make some changes and improvements in my life and work? Well, at least to resolutely resolve to think about things - life, art and the universe, etc, and even make some notes about resolving to resolve. I am thinking about it and so, dear diary, this is where you come in. If I write large and long in your squeaky clean, spanking crisp new pages, then the resolves are there and I could look back at them from time to time to see if I am keeping on track.
Ah ha, I hear you cry, my dear reader. And what if you're not? Yes, dear reader, as the great man said, 'there's the rub.' What if I'm not on track at all, haven't even got saddled up, never mind got to the starting gates? How will I feel then? Failure already, that's what. Do I need to heap metaphorical coals of fire upon my head? No, I most emphatically do not.
So, dear diary, were I thinking about committing some resolutions to your pristine pages, they might look something along the lines of :
1. Be a better wife - loving, caring and giving. No, be reasonable, that is so never going to happen, especially when spouse is nagging about the writing schedule. In fact, I sometimes think he wished Christmas didn't happen at all in our house and then I could just keep going. Once Boxing Day arrived, so did the question - when are you going to start writing again? So, no, I don't think I'm going for plaster-sainthood in 2018 and the good wife bit is out the window already.
2. Alrightey - so what about a better writing schedule then? Better, as in more organised, regular and committed to it? Mmm, now that would be a good resolution, but I think I would have to live on Planet Zog to keep to it. LIFE keeps getting in the way and de-railing me and in any case I hate schedules and being organised. I can find writerly displacement activities in the unlikeliest places and anyway, it's much more fun to take myself by surprise each day and yup, the writing does get done, dear reader, I'm never too sure how but it does but there it is, so we'll dump that one too.
3. O.K., so the biggee - less alcohol, a better balanced diet and lots of fresh air and exercise. I think I need to lie down already just contemplating that lot and it's not even 2018 yet. Yes, dear diary, I am striving, really I'm striving and I can put on my virtuous face and say number three is regularly achieved as I stride out like a fiend with my pants on fire, eager to cover the miles and shed the pounds. I might think about the 'moderation in all things' bit in 2018, but I'm not ready to commit to black and white in your pages yet. Ask me again halfway through the year. With a bit of luck everyone's resolutions will be dead and buried by then and I for one will work very hard and forgetting all of mine, even if they are non-resolutions.
So, dear 2018 Diary, your pages look destined to remain very blank. I can't bear the sight of your unfilled pages staring reproachfully back at me over the next twelve months, so it might be a kindness, (to you and to me), to give you away to a more deserving cause. Now I think about it, spouse has been banging on about new year resolutions all week and I notice they are all for my self-improvement. I think I'll give him this little black book and ask him what his own intentions are for 2018. Nobly, I will refrain from filling it up for him and I can't wait to see what he comes up with.
In the meantime, Happy New Year my dear reader and I hope and pray that 2018 will be kind to us all. I will see you next week, unreconstructed and unresolved as ever and looking forward to muddling through the days and weeks with you. I have a new romantic comedy to begin and if that doesn't have possibilities for muddle, tangle and all things confusing, I don't know what does. And that's before I've started. Hey ho, bring on 2018, unresolved I think.
The sacred celebration of Christ's birth is almost upon us and at Chez Comb it is indeed a time of great rejoicing and celebration. Spouse has forgiven me for the Christmas debacle and I am out of the doghouse. He is in festive mood, so much so that the Mickey Mouse ears have come out of their summer storage and he has started calling me Rudolph. You will understand, dear reader, that I do not appreciate being known by this moniker.
Over the span of our married life - more years than I wish to recall - I have been known by many names, none of them my baptismal name. An odd phenomenon when you consider it. There is nothing outlandish or outrageous in my name - Patricia seems to be a perfectly ordinary name to me and I am pleased to have a share in Saint Patrick, as my lovely Mother was from southern Ireland and as you can tell, a great deal of the blarney runs in my veins. Were I burdened with a 'Misty Mountain' or 'Summer Rain' or even an 'Everton' or 'Cloud' I could perhaps understand a certain reluctance on spouse's part to call out my name across a crowded room. But I am not. Nevertheless, at various times and to my intense embarrassment, I have been summoned by spouse's loud voice calling for me. 'Pushkin', 'Short-Round' (and I am most emphatically NOT), 'Shortie', 'Radar' and now I am Rudolph. The only occasions when spouse uses my baptismal name is when he is cross and he strides about the house calling for me and sounding uncannily like my late father and he was bad enough and spent a lot of time being cross with his errant daughter. Am I now an errant wife? No, just an errant reindeer by the sound of it.
I don't think I resemble a reindeer. I have not noticed a red nose, hairy coat or antlers about my person lately, so why - on awakening - and gazing semi-lovingly down at me through the December morning glow - did he see Rudolph? Personally I think he should take more water with it and whatever he is on I want none of it. But, on considering the lilies of the field a little further, does that make him a reindeer too? It takes one to know one after all. Am I living with Dasher, Dancer or Prancer? Mmmm, that would be fun wouldn't it, calling out 'Oh, Prancer...' across a crowded Christmas shop?
Pondering spouse's current predilection for reindeer nomenclature I am beginning to wonder if I am living with Prancer or Dancer. Now that I think about it he has taken to calling me Elf and I have caught him in unguarded moments checking out the rooftops in the village. And he has put up a huge new shed at the bottom of the garden. I am not allowed in but have been sneakily peeking in at the windows when his back is turned. There appears to be a large sled in there and a whole heap of prettily wrapped parcels. Now I've got it - I'm living with Santa! So, bring on Dasher, Vixen, Dancer Prancer Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph and Olive, We shall be making a few journeys tonight Do I hear their sleighbells already?
Goodnight, dear reader - it looks like I am in for a busy time. I wish you all a very happy, peaceful and prayerful Christmas and we will meet again on the cusp of the new year.
The season of Advent is in full swing, a time for prayer and preparation for the birth of Christ and a time to celebrate this event. Alongside my spiritual preparation I have begun my temporal - decking the halls with Christmas holly and all that jazz. As this is the first Christmas in our new home I laid my plans - fairy lights along the decorative plate in the sitting room and a handsome tree complete with our Star of Bethlehem on top to lighten our winter darkness.
I communicated my plans to spouse and he was quite taken with my ideas and went on a foray to the loft to retrieve the tree, lights and box of decorations. I am pleased to report, dear reader, that no mishaps occurred this time as he shimmied up and down the loft ladder. I don't know how the Christmas traditions work in your home, dear reader, but decorating the tree is mostly left to my artistic ministrations. But first spouse has to put the tree in a suitable pot. When he returned from this little task I pointed out the place in the sitting room where I wanted it to go and tripped off up the village whilst he wrestled with swathing the tree in fairy lights.
So far so very good, my dear reader. However, on my return, where was my tree? Not in its chosen spot at all. Spouse had obviously not listened to a word I'd said, (nothing new there then) and had placed the tree in a very awkward place where we would knock into it coming in and out of the room and if we have Raffles our guest-dog visiting - once swish of his tail and that will be it. You can imagine the conversation can't you, dear reader? Along the lines of 'It's lovely, but it's in the wrong place.' 'What do you mean it's in the wrong place? How can there be a "wrong" place?' 'I said over there,' quoth I, pointing to the opposite side of the room. 'What's wrong with here?' 'Everything. Put it over there and we won't be barging into it every time we come in.' 'We can walk round it,' splutters he in exasperation.
I hope your imagination can stretch to the pitying looks expended on spouse at this point. Let's just say with much huffing and puffing the tree was moved and I set to work, hanging its boughs with the baubles and decorations we have collected over many years. I was standing back admiring my handiwork, when spouse materialised beside me, ready to put the star on top of the tree and add his own personal tweaks.
At this juncture in my tale I should say in my defence that I had been blithely tripping up and down the stepladders all afternoon in pursuit of my decorative arts. Thus it was that I never gave a nanomoments thought to spouse ascending them. And that, dear reader, is why I am now firmly and completely in the doghouse with no release date as yet in sight. My care of the floorboards in our new home has been my downfall. Well actually, not mine, but spouse's - literally. The ground floor of our new abode has wooden floors and in an effort not to scratch them with my stepladders, (which are ancient and long ago lost their rubber feet), I taped them up with gaffa tape. Brilliant, I thought and so it was. Not a floorboard was scratched in the decorating of the tree. What I did not bargain for was the element of slideability I had introduced into the operation.
As I have said I shimmied up and down the ladders all afternoon with nary a slide or a slip to be had. Yes, I am small and not a heavyweight, so maybe that's why I put no stresses on said steps. However and how can I put this delicately without putting myself further in the doghouse? Let me just say that spouse is a tall man, a broad man and not a skinny man. I'm not too sure what happened, but once up the ladders and leaning in to affix the star to the top of the tree, the ladders slid away from him.
In the excitement of the moment one hand clutched on to the tree and the other to the plate shelf. I think you know the rest - six foot of burly male is a most unfair match for a very light Christmas tree and a plate shelf. 'Down will come baby cradle and all' wasn't in it. The ladders slid one way and spouse the other, ending in a tangled heap of smashed lights, broken tree and squashed decorations, not to mention the whack on the head as the plate rack bounced off him.
I will draw a veil over the next half hour or so. It is rather painful - physically for spouse who is now nursing bruised limbs and a fat head and emotionally painful for yours truly as my common sense and sanity have been bought into question, as in 'What idiot would ever think of putting gaffa tape round the stepladders, you've totally lost the plot this time' and much more besides.
So, my dear reader, spare a kind word for me in my doghouse if you pass by. Chez Comb is a very quiet place as I swipe disconsolately with my brush at the wreckage in the sitting room. And please, should your path cross with spouse's, please don't offer him the compliments of the season. It might not only be 'Christmas, bah!' I think he might spontaneously combust.
I don't know about you dear reader, but I like to ease gently into the day. Not for me the bouncing out of bed, full of enthusiasm to tackle the day ahead routine, the minute one eye is open. I appreciate you may view the start of your day differently and I am very happy for you (and not a little envious) if you do. To be fair to myself I am usually very enthusiastic and full of plans and ideas for the day - but only after a gentle easing into the day propped up in bed, sipping a cup of tea bought to me by my dear spouse. We have covered have we not, spouse's journey through the morning tea-making routine? So I won't even go there on that one. Recently the journey for the coffee making has been outlined to me - picking the beans, transporting, grinding them - you get the picture no doubt. I am not giving him any air time over that one as yet.
Where was I? Oh yes, a gently awakening into the morning. I remember those halcyon days well. Remember, I hear you say? Indeed, dear reader and a very pleasant and distant memory it is too. For my morning routine has been scattered to the four winds. We are dog-sitting again. I love Raffles dearly - a 'lassie' dog, or rough-haired collie for those in the doggie-know. Although why they are called 'rough-haired' I do not know, as our Raffles has lovely soft hair, (is that because he is newly come from the dog groomers?) Anyway, as I said, I love Raffles dearly, but I do not love his idea of a morning routine.
He likes to be up nice and early - never mind that it is still winter-dark outside and I am still enjoying my slumbers. No, he is ready for the day and summons us to attend to his needs. Eagerly he steps outside to sniff the morning sniffs all around the garden and generally re-acquaint himself with Mother Nature in a leisurely fashion. I, meanwhile, stand watchfully and shivering at the garden door, waiting for the hound to make his way back up the garden. No amount of hissed commands, (it is the crack of dawn and I don't want to upset the neighbours by yelling like a banshee). So I hiss through gritted teeth - 'RAFFLES, COME IN.' Selective deafness always sets in the minute he is let loose and no way is he going to take the slightest notice of me, a mere human.
By now I am nearly an iceberg watching the wretched dog slowly make his way back up the garden. Reluctantly he deigns to re-enter the premises, staring up at me, slightly bemused, as I mutter various imprecations to him under my breath. Now I am ready to sit down and defrost over a hot cup of tea by. But no such luck for me, dear reader as Raffles has other ideas. He has two teddies, a big one and a small one with a squeak in it. Why, oh why did I ever buy him that? He absolutely adores it and never more so than at the crack of dawn. Refreshed from his zonked-out night's sleep and a gentle garden stroll, he returns to Chez Comb full of energy and ready to kill squeaky Ted again and again and again .....
Only he won't kill him on his own. We have to be involved too. Just as I am about to imbibe the amazing brew that spouse has lovingly prepared, a wet, slobbery teddy is thrust into my face by a growling waggy-tailed dog, a present he is sure I am delighted to have. 'Come on, play the game,' he is saying and growls and prances before me. This is a dog that wouldn't say 'boo' to a goose when really challenged, but give him squeaky Ted and he becomes a lion-dog.
And so we play the game, growling along with Raffles and squeaking with Ted. No, please, do not try to imagine this scene, it's all too embarrassing. But at heart we are big softies and love our guest-dog and know how much he enjoys his morning play. And to end on a positive note, I can look forward to the day when I am standing on the doorstep watching the car tail-lights disappearing down the road, bearing Raffles back to his own domain and ponder lovingly the thought of waking up the next morning to Radio 4 and the dulcet Welsh tones of John Humphrys, ushering me into a new day and no killing Ted in sight.
I am very sorry dear reader but there will not be blog this week due to family illness - not spouse - but other members of our family are not so grand just now. I hope to be with you again next week. In the meantime I hope you all have a very good week. Best wishes, Patricia
I am beginning to think my little grey cells must have attuned themselves to the change in season. In the heat of the summer they were all fired up; decisions just made themselves and ideas dripped from every pore in my body. And now, with the waning of the year my ability to make a decision about anything, like poor old Icarus, has come crashing to the ground. Sad to say dear reader, with the drop in temperature my brain cells have slowed to almost freezing point and - unable to make decisions, I have become a ditherer
This state of affairs does not sit easily with me, as I am so used to keeping all the balls in the air and making a swift decision about the first one that comes down. Now when the balls coming rolling down at me, I stare at them, glazed-eyed and am paralyzed with indecision.
This is how it is at Chez Comb at present. We have been in our new home for seven months now and are finally getting around to organising some fitted wardrobes. (That particular ball was way up in the air all summer). We have been making do with clothes rails as other more pressing matters than storing our clothes took up our attention. However, we were both getting tired of trying to extract assorted pieces of clothing from over-packed rails. (And just don't get me started on the wretched subject of clothes rails in the first place. That is a whole other country). So, proper wardrobes are needed and after consultation with friends for their recommendations, a local carpenter visited with his brochures.
Let me say here and now that I am not casting any aspersions on our lovely carpenter. He is a man of great skill and integrity and so wants to do the job justice and fit us out with beautiful wardrobes. Me? I just want a cupboard to hang my clothes in. That is not unreasonable. So why can't it be that simple? My dear reader, if you have ever sailed in this same boat you will know exactly what I mean. It isn't that simple. You have to choose the style of doors you would like. And then there is the colour and the grain of the wood. Must I? Yes, it seems I must. Skilled carpenter cannot make the choice for me. Then the style of handles to go on the doors! 'I just want a handle to open the ***** thing with.' I growl to spouse. There are pages and pages of doors, drawers, cupboards and handles. I have no clue, have almost gone off the whole idea by now and hence am now in a complete state of dither.
My other state of dither is entirely my own fault. In those far off halcyon days of summer when all was right with the world and my brain cells functioned, we passed our summer evenings sitting out on the small terrace at the back of the house that overlooks the garden. Fizz, fizz went my synapses and up came the bright idea of a loggia or covered verandah. Spouse wholeheartedly agreed and since I had come up with that particular ball, he suggested I run with it. Well, dear reader, I have. the builder has visited and he too agrees a verandah is a great idea. Win win, two people convinced already. Ah, but here we go again. My back of an envelope drawing will not suffice. My builder friend needs to know where I want supporting posts, style of railings and roofing, do I want solid side panels and what style of flooring to it - is it flagging or wood? If it's flags - what colour? Do I want to design something? if it's a wood floor, again what colour had I in mind???? Had I in mind? I haven't got a mind any more.
At the moment I have no ideas on any of these fronts. I think my brain cells have gone into hibernation for the winter and I am dithering and dithering and ....... Sometime soon I will have to come up with some answers to all the questions recently asked of me. In the meantime dear reader, I think I will curl up in a tight ball and pull the covers up over my head. Then maybe, just maybe, my brain cells will defrost and I will once again become the juggler extraordinaire I used to be and voila, the decisions will make themselves. I live in hope - and in the meantime - happy dithering.
From little acorns ... You may recall dear reader, or quite probably you won't, but some time ago, my friend Pat and I decided to sort out the garden at our local library. Due to the financial crisis and subsequent cuts in government funding, our local council could no longer afford to maintain the library gardens and thus they were beginning to look a a rather sorry state. Pat and I, both library volunteers, decided we could not let things slide into decline and set about the borders with enthusiasm, weeding and pruning them to within an inch of their little plant lives. The library Manager put a photograph of us industriously working away up on the the library website and thus news of our activities spread.
Enter stage left another library volunteer, Larraine, who loves anyone who takes an interest in our little seaside town. Our little acorn began to take root and grow. Larraine is a wonderful woman and when she sets her shoulder to the wheel, my word does it spin. She was out and about around the town fundraising for plants and good soil for the garden, cajoling shopkeepers to give us rainbutts and tools and even found a lady who donated her own gardener's time to do some really heavy work for us, digging out unwanted shrubs that had taken over in places. Meanwhile Pat and I stuck to our weeding and pruning, quietly delighted at the turn events had taken.
In time the word went out to all volunteers that their services would be much appreciated on Tuesday, when the big final weed and plant up was to take place. As you know dear reader, I have had a distcinctly dodgy back for the last couple of weeks, but I was not going to miss this event. I and my tools and kneeling mat turned up on Tuesday morning and I assigned myself a large empty bed to weed ready for planting. Buddleas and other bee and butterfly-friendly plants are to be planted in it. So, for quite a few hours, with a few breaks for stretching the old limbs now and then, I was on all fours seeing off the weeds. You will note dear reader, that there is no mention of spouse joining in with this activity. He was out and about on his own affairs. However, he arrived early on the scene to gather me up and I was still on all fours and amazingly at that point he made no comment on my stance. We departed the garden leaving the merry team beavering away like ... well, beavers.
But you can't keep a good man down can you? No, I don't really mean a good man at all. I happened to mention the next morning that my back felt a little easier, maybe as a result of spending the day on all fours. 'Well, what are you waiting for,' quoth he. 'You need to go around like a dog and then you can woof woof all day. I could take you out for a walk'. There you are dear reader, the only animal missing from the zoo last week.
But, didn't I say my time would come? And so it has. Ha ha, spouse's bad karma from last week has come back to bite him. The English term for it is, 'he's got his come uppance' - what goes around comes around! He hatched a heavy cold after that last remark about going around woof woofing and has felt very sorry for himself these last few days. His eyes have been streaming and if ever there was a Rudolph conk it is his, as his nose has never stopped running.
Best of all, his sense of smell and taste have vanished and he says he could be eating cardboard - not I trust, his opinion of my cuisine. I am almost ... almost, tempted to serve up a box on a dinnerplate if that is the case. I mean, why slave away over a hot stove if the old taste buds have taken their bats home? Watch this space dear reader, the walls of Chez Comb may resound with anguished wails tonight if I find a suitable box. Cardboard a la Mme Patrice may find its way on to the Sunday menu.
On Tuesday I am off to the physiotherapist who I hope will dance up and down on my vertabra and I will come out dancing like a spring lamb. So look out spouse, I will soon be a force to be reckoned with once more.
About ten days ago I injured my back. I had been to a music practice at my local church and when we finished spouse very kindly carried my guitar in its hard case out to the car and lodged it behind the front seats. Now, dear reader, even at the time this left me scratching my head a little, as we have an estate car and as there was not much else in the car at the time, except for the jack and a few empty carrier bags, it did cross my mind that maybe he could have put the darned thing on the back seat or in the boot. However, I kept a still tongue in my head and we made our way to the supermarket to re-stock our cupboards. All fine and dandy- until we got home. Hefting a bag of shopping in one hand I reached into the car went to lift the guitar out. Only it was stuck, wedged behind the seat and firmly stuck in the back seat footwell. So there you have it - that's how you rick your back.
As the afternoon wore on, the damage to my back made itself felt and by bedtime I was in agony and breaking out the painkillers. (I hope there's a lot of sympathy going on for me out there, especially from those of you who have done similar things!) I crawled on hands and knees to bed and spent a sleepless night trying to find somewhere that was comfortable. I didn't, but at least I had the BBC World Service to take my mind off things. It's amazing what you can learn in the middle of the night.
Come the morning I could barely walk and whilst I could dress the top half of me, reaching down to toe level was a non-starter. I sat on the edge of the bed contemplating the idea of spouse wrestling me into a pair of tights. It would be like two ferrets fighting inside a bag and possibly a lot of pain involved. That was a real non-starter. It would have to be socks. Spouse was called on for assistance. Now whilst he is kindness itself and only too willing to assist, he does not make a gal feel better in herself when she is likened to a horse. Dragging socks over my feet he commented, 'Ooh, it's like shoeing a horse,' says he. (How would he know?) And then to add insult to the injury he looked up at me, grinning a wolfish grin, (well we are in animal mode) and said, 'They shoot horses don't they?' Mmm, not what I wanted to hear.
Over the course of this last week, I have been likened to Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer, as I had a cold and shuffled about the house, 'a bit like a reindeer', - no, I fail to get that one either. Then I was a monkey and a crab, depending on which method I employed to get up and down the stairs, I believe a donkey was mentioned at one stage, although that could have been the painkillers playing tricks and last but not least, the Cowardly Lion from 'Wizard of Oz', not because I'm cowardly, but even I must admit my hair was standing on end in the mornings after a night of shuffling about in bed trying to find a comfortable spot.
Thank you for your kind concern, dear reader, yes, I am on the road to recovery and I look forward to running around like a two year old any time soon. But just wait until spouse is under the weather or slinks into the house with yet another wound for the steri-strips and bandages - every dog has his day, (about the only name he hasn't called me yet), and I could have a field day with him. Nurse Comb might not be just as gentle as usual. There will be no soft stroking of the guaze over the open wound. Tougher love might be the order of the day. Take note spouse, you have been warned......
Spouse and I have lived on smallholdings in the Durham Dales in the north-east of England and in the Charente Maritime in south-west France. Of all the animals and birds we kept, our feathered friends were the most entertaining and at times exasperating.
Up in the Durham Dales we decided to keep some ducks and our neighbours had a glut of young ducklings at that time and were keen to offload some on to us. Spouse built them a duckhouse to keep them safe from the foxes at night and then we looked about for a suitable receptacle to use as a pond. We didn't have anything big enough. So, we took ourselves off to the nearby town and found the very thing - a chld's heavy duty paddling pool in bright blue plastic. It was too large to tote down the street to where our car was parked, so spouse wore it on his head. Needless to say, I was ten paces in front and walking fast to make it twenty.
After that excitement, we got our new pool home and filled it up. Now we were set for our new arrivals. Six ducks and one drake came to live in the field next to our house. They were very entertaining and best of all, loved their pond. Our dogs were quite keen for a duck supper at first, but were soon made to know their place when they were on the receiving end of a few nasty nips from Henry, our drake.
Henry was an enterprising duck. At the time of his arrival on our farm, I always fed our dogs outside, as the retriever was a particularly messy eater. It didn't take Henry long to suss out when it was dinner time and he would come waddling up to the back door, elbow the dogs out of the way and finish off their food for them. And the dogs were so intimidated by him, they stood back and watched! So I brought their food indoors, but Henry was not deterred by this. He boldly marched into the back kitchen and carried on scoffing. In the end the door had to be locked against him.
in his favour though, was the fact that he was an unusually good parent. Unfortunately, our new mums never seemed to be too concerned about their offspring and would wander off in search of food, never caring whether their babes were keeping up or not. But Henry cared deeply and was very gentle, conscientious and caring about all his children, watching them as they took their first dip, making sure they didn't stray too far away from him and generally being a good dad. So I suppose a little doggie dinner here and there didn't go amiss.
His successor, Sam, however, was a very different kettle of drake. I described him the other day to a friend, as being like Hitler on speed and really, when I think of it, this is quite an accurate description. Henry had been a very handsome drake, plump and well proportioned, whereas Sam was long and stringy and obviously didn't care for the water too much, as he always looked dirty, his feathers hanging stringily about him. Worzel Gummidge comes to mind.
I could have forgiven him this, but he was a bully. He didn't treat the women well and they were afraid of him, always trying to escape his rough and demanding attentions. One day matters came to a head when my poor girls all squeezed under the field gate and into our garden to escape Sam. He, left on the other side of the gate, patrolled up and down, a mad Basil Fawlty gleam in his eye and squawking the odds at us to let him in and let him at 'em.
I had had enough. No male of any species was going to behave like that on my farm. I found spouse and asked him to go and shoot Sam. He was one drake we could do without. Spouse obliged and put the corpse in the clean dustbin we used to keep feed in, to await my attentions. It so happened, Sam had to wait until the next afternoon to be dealt with. I had planned a shopping trip to the nearby town the next morning and I think we were lucky to get out of there without major incident. As we were passing the hardware section in the supermarket, spouse remarked, 'Oh by the way after I shot Sam yesterday, I put him in the clean feedbin as he was bleeding a bit. It will need washing out.' As we passed we noticed a young assistant up a ladder. She had been in the process of dusting the shelves. The hand holding the duster was frozen in mid-air. She was white faced and looked shocked. We made a swift exit from the supermarket glad not to be met with an armed response unit outside.
A few years later we were keeping ducks and hens again. Our favourites were Sylvia the worlds most inquisitive hen and Pa Larkin, the cockerel and head of the tribe. We called him after Pa Larkin in 'The Darling Buds Of May' as he really looked after his family well, making sure they got the pick of the best food and protecting them from all comers.
Until the day of the rounding up. We were coming over to England for a month on a house hunting trip and our neighbours across the fields were going to have our livestock over at their place to look after. So, we had to round up the hens and ducks and transport them over the way. As they were all pretty tame, it didn't prove to be a problem, except for Pa Larkin, who suddenly found his wings and took to the air for the first time in his life and flew over the high wall of the enclosure, legging it at speed down the road and into the nearby wood.
Our hearts sank. However would we catch a cockerel stuck up a tree in a wood? There was not much likelihood of that. However, we were not ones to throw in the towel after the first round, so we got on our bikes and pedalled furiously after him. On entering the wood we got quite a surprise. There was Pa Larkin crouched on the ground with his eyes tight shut. If he couldn't see us, we sure as heck wouldn't see him! I suppose that is how cockerel theory goes. Spouse ditched the bike and gathered up the bird. I have to say he was none too pleased to be so easily discovered and spouse suffered some nasty nips from Pa's sharp beak, but at least he could be restored to his lady friends.
That was his only bid for freedom and he lived to a ripe old age, happily watching over his girls by night and day. Just nobody mention the woods again.
I know this is an odd title for a blog, but believe me, dear reader, my dear spouse had our lovely doctor in Scotland alternately reaching for the tranquilisers or the whisky bottle after a visit from him, at least I always imagined once the door had closed behind spouse and he was safely on his way home, that was what she would be doing. The last image of her before her surgery door closed was of a woman on the edge, holding her head in her hands. Next stop, the psychiatric ward.
I know, I can almost hear you thinking - what? That lovely, looney man upsetting a fine, upstanding member of the medical profession. Surely not. But, oh yes he did, on a regular basis. Our lovely doctor was a very kind and patient lady and very conscientious in the execution of her Hippocratic oath. Every three months spouse was summoned into her presence for his blood pressure, weight and blood cholesterol levels to be checked. Every three months? - That's a bit O.T.T. I hear you say. Ah, but. Doctor D as I will call her, had come to know spouse very well and knew that if a check was not kept on his weight and waistline, things could very easily gallop out of control. So stiffening up her sinews and summoning up the blood, she called for spouse to attend the surgery.
Cat and mouse was not in it, dear reader. Doctor D would be ready to pounce if the scales showed the poundage moving in a upward direction and spouse would always have a very convincing reason why it had - her scales were inaccurate, he had NOT put that much weight on, she needed to get them properly checked before she wasted her time checking on him. And his cholesterol levels could not possibly be that high - his wife had made him live on lettuce and lime juice for the last month. He always came away with his ears ringing from her lecture on the evils of FAT. But sadly for her, the next time he visited her den, a large poster was proudly displayed on her door listing the benefits of all the food groups. And what was the last one on the list - yes, you've guessed correctly. It was fat. Spouse joyfully pointed this one out to her. 'You see, Fat IS good for you, it says so there. Can't get away from that doc.' That was one of the head in her hands days when he left the surgery, triumphantly trumpeting the good news to all he met.
Spouse was prescribed Aspirin tablets for a while in line with contemporary medical thinking at the time. Some time after this he underwent a minor operation and was despatched from the hospital duly bandaged up with instructions to remove the dressings twenty fours later. Once home, spouse took to his bed with full-blown flu. I knew it was proper flu, as he refused all offers of food and I had to check and see if the sky had not fallen.
Twenty fours later and with his temperature still high, I set about removing the bandages from spouse's leg. My, my, not a pretty sight. It was obvious to me, a serious infection had set in. I will spare you the gory details. However, I did say to spouse that we had better set off for the doctors, tout suite if we wanted to keep his leg. Spouse's response was, 'No, it will be fine.' Knowing differently, I hauled him protestingly off to the surgery, where he was dealt with, with various potions and antibiotics and a District Nurse called daily for the next three weeks to dress his leg. So things were fairly serious.
I give you this background, as when spouse was better and went to see our lovely Doctor D, he moaned a bucketful about feeling the cold and blamed the Aspirin, she made him take. I can see her now, lovely Doctor D, looking incredulously at spouse. 'You have had influenza, surgery, a very serious blood infection and it IS winter time. Don't you think that might have something to do with why you are feeling the cold?' Spouse remained unimpressed and still blamed the Aspirin. Doctor D was last seen holding her head in her hands - again.
As you know, dear reader, we moved to this house six months ago and have registered at a new medical practice. Clean sheet, I thought, no more nonsense from him. Wrong. A blood test revealed spouse was a bit low in the potassium department and had instructions from the nurse to eat a banana a day for a fortnight and go back for another test. (You can imagine the comments in our house can't you? He is now known as 'monkey man'). But that's by the by. After a week of bananas he went to the chemist to collect a prescription and lo and behold, a bottle of potassium tablets awaited him there. A week's supply. Puzzled by this, spouse took himself off to the surgery and enquired from the Receptionists about the continued eating of the bananas, in the light of these tablets. Should he still carry on eating the bananas? God bless their hearts, they tried so hard to keep their faces straight in answer to his anxious question. If he wanted to eat bananas - if that made him happy - go on eating bananas.
I'm sure I don't need to tell you the nomenclature by which he now goes at the surgery. Correct - banana man. Everyone knows him. I only hope next time he attends the surgery they don't announce 'Banana Man for Doctor B' over the tannoy system. It could be another 'he's not with me' moment for me. Oh and by the way, dear reader, next time you visit your physician, be nice and don't try their patience to the limit - you don't want to make them ill.
It all started with a very small hole in our lawn. 'That's a mouse hole,' says spouse. 'Well, they've got to live somewhere,' says I. 'Not in my lawn, they haven't. It's too near the house. Winter's not far off and the next thing you know, he'll have his suitcase packed and be moving indoors.'
Never a man to let the grass grow, spouse took action and poured a bucket of the water down the hole. Out ran the mouse squeaking in protest, but run out he did. Satisfied, spouse returned to the bottom of the garden where he is preparing a base for his new mega-shed. (No, I'm not going into the ins and outs of men and their sheds, lets not get started on that one). Earlier in the season I had done my bit and gradually dismembered the old trees that were plonked right in the middle of his site and now spouse has to dig out the stumps and level the ground.
No, dear reader, I am not going off-piste again. Old tree stumps and roots are very pertinent to the subject of mice, well they are in our house anyway. Somewhere in our universe there must be a scientific law all about the ratio of efforts put into mouse catching relative to enraged digging to work off the angst of failure at all these fruitless efforts. Failed mouse catching equals frenetic site digging squared. Einstein eat your heart out There's a theory for you.
To return to the mouse. Our canny friend was not put off by his early bath. He soon took up residence again and put a mouse two fingers up at spouse by making the entrance to his home in our lawn even larger. Needless to say, spouse was not pleased on seeing this disfigurement to his swathe of green. More buckets of water were poured down, forcing poor mouse to make another quick exit. Spouse stomped off back to his tree roots and wielded his pick-axe vigorously. No mouse was going to get the better of him that day.
But mouse did. The next morning, a bigger and better hole near to the first one had appeared. Mouse had been busy creating a new and comfy residence whilst we slumbered. 'I'm not having this,' said spouse. 'I am NOT having this.' He gestured to the fields rolling away all around us. 'He's got all that lot to go at and yet he fetches up on my lawn. I think he needs to get the message he is not welcome here.' Please don't wince here, dear reader - you have been warned ... he put a whole bunch of holly leaves down the hole. Yes, I know. It's a real sharp intake of breath moment.
Once more, spouse stomped off to his mega-shed site and his tree stumps and roots. Out came the very, very large axe and the first tree stump was attacked with gusto. It was not long before the whole stump and roots were out of the ground, lying in shreds on the surface. No one messes with spouse and his lawn, certainly not a small brown mouse and gets away with it.
The next day the holly leaves were still in place, the mouse homestead had not increased in size and no new holes had appeared in the lawn. Spouse was wreathed in smiles. Mouse had obviously got the message and pushed off elsewhere. Ah, and there's the rub, dear reader, so he had. He'd taken the initiative and a bit of mouse revenge. Having been booted out of his own home, he took up residence in ours. And who can blame him?
He's up in our loft - snoozing all day and scurrying all night. Spouse is beside himself. He has put down so many mousetraps, humane and otherwise, filled with the most tempting of goodies, even I could go to the banquet up there, but our mouse-friend is having none of it. He is way to clever to fall for any of those blandishments. The more he eludes us, the more enraged spouse becomes and takes it out on his mega-shed base. The pick-axe and mega-axe have never seen so much action. The bottom of our garden now resembles a battlefield with tree stumps and roots lying everywhere.
I don't know who will give in first. Perhaps it will be me. I think it's time I paid a visit to the loft and asked mouse nicely to find other quarters for the winter. If he doesn't, I may have no garden left come springtime..........
When we moved into our home a few months ago, spouse put quite a lot of boxes up in the loft, pro tem, with a view to unpacking them after I had finished writing the book I was working on. That time has arrived and so spouse was despatched to shimmy up and down the loft ladders to retrieve the boxes.
So, what goes up safely should come down safely and without any fuss, you would think. That's a reasonable supposition is it not, dear reader? Ah, but this is my dearest spouse we are talking about and where does reason come into that equation? Absolutely nowhere, that's where. And before you brim over with righteous indignation on his behalf, yes, I did offer to be at his side to help with the operation, but was airily waved away with 'I can manage perfectly well, thank you, I don't need your assistance.' So I trotted off about my own business. As my book was finished a little R and R was on the horizon for me - lunch at a very nice restaurant with a friend.
With hindsight, maybe there was the occasional squeak from the direction of the loft, but everything sounds different when you're under the shower. I put it down to the plumbing. Getting dried and dressed in the bedroom, I heard a few 'oomphs' and 'ouches' and shockingly dear reader, a few more colourful words which I will not sully your ears with here. Perhaps things weren't quite going as swimmingly as anticipated. However, as my offer of help had been declined I continued preparing for my outing.
Emerging from our boudoir, prinked, powered, pressed and dressed in my best, I sashayed along the corridor only to come upon a misshapen loft ladder with spouse marooned above it, apparently nursing an injured foot. 'It all went well then,' I remarked. 'No, it did not, as you can well see,' he replied through tightly gritted teeth. 'I had to alter the angle of the ladder in order to get my head into the hatch space and get the boxes out, so when I came to climb back down, the first ladder collapsed on to the second ladder and unfortunately, my foot was in between them.' He moaned gently as he gingerly tried to wiggle his toes. 'I think I might have broken my toes. I think you'll have to strap them up.' Dear reader, I did have sympathy for him but I don't think I helped matters when I said, 'No, they'll get better on their own in time. Toes don't get strapped these days.' Gritted teeth turned into the gnashing of teeth.
I sidled past the ladders and tripped lightly down the stairs. 'I have to go. I'm running a bit late as it is, Freya will be waiting for me. Have a rest and I'll see you later.' I called out. 'But what about getting me down from here?' 'Try the ladders,' I called back, 'that's what they're for. One step at a time, you can do it. You did say you didn't need my assistance.'
Was that a roar of an enraged man I heard as I headed off to the car? Or just a man with a sore set of toes? ... I'm not sure, but I'll tell you one thing dear reader, I had a wonderful lunch with my friend. You should have been there - the cheese souffle was amazing and the chocolate pudding, along with a lovely chilled white - all just divine. But I didn't tell spouse about it when I got home, don't think he was quite in the mood for that. His ham salad in ciabatta might have seemed a tad mundane.
His foot is getting better - just don't mention a visit to the loft any time soon ....
As you know dear reader, I have recently ended my summer work in the garden and am trying to settle down to some autumn writing activities indoors and in particular, the planning of a new romantic comedy book. I have yet to meet a writer who does not indulge in as many displacement activities as possible in order to avoid facing the blank screen and if such a writer exists - well, I would like to meet him/her.
Taking a break from the creative process is all very well and good, but oh, getting back into the swing of things is very difficult. All the good habits have been broken as I have enjoyed the long dog-days of summer, spending most of my time outside trying to bring order into the chaos that Mother Nature had wrought in our neglected patch of England.
I remember from days of yore being at my desk at an early hour, beavering away like a good little beaver, whilst the day was young and I was fresh - so fresh, sometimes I never got beyond the PJ's until the flrst flush of writerly enthusiasm had waned. Trouble is, that's all a bit of a distant memory. I am all enthusiasm for my new book and once I get going on the planning I am fine - it is the getting going that is the problem.
I know this is not a problem confined to writers. An artist friend of mine compared notes with me the other day and we commiserated with each other on this phenomenon. We love our work, truly we do, so why do we employ such avoidance tactics? I do not know the answer to this one, but like opposing forces, spouse and I are playing cat and mouse at the moment in an effort to keep my seat attached to my chair in the hope that I will make some progress with the new book.
Spouse is of course the cat and a very wily, cunning old cat he is too. Who would have thought it? My gentle, funny spouse out-thinking my low-down cunning escape ideas and heading me off every time. He has kept my nose so firmly to the grindstone this week, that I am ready to scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush rather than face the screen again. I need to change my tactics and be a bit more subversive, to keep my head below his extremely acute radar.
A few good walks in the autumn sunshine with our guest-dog, Raffles are needed to refresh the little grey cells. No more public announcements of this activity for me - I'll tiptoe out of the back door, dog lead in hand and close it softly behind me. And then, returning refreshed, I will find my headphones and listen to my favourite music tracks. As long as I'm sitting in front of the screen he'll think I'm multi-tasking! Best of all is the 'I'm thinking about a new scene whilst preparing dinner' ruse. That one often works as food is a topic very dear to spouse's heart. I can't see him classing that one as a displacement activity - at least I hope not.
Harry Houdini was the greatest ever escape artist. I think a little study of his methods might be in order - but there again - I have a book to plan - but on the other hand, the sun is shining and the autumn colours are very beautiful just now and the dog needs a walk ... Out of the corner of my eye I can see spouse hovering in the doorway, checking that my derriere is still attached to the chair. Oh my, dear reader, it's not Harry Houdini I need, I think it's Scottie - beam me up out of here and oh, whilst you're at it, don't forget the dog ...
'I think my love affair with the supermarkets is finally over. Like most people who lead busy lives these days the supermarket was the place to go for 'an everything under one roof' brisk trot round, the goods purchased at a sensible price and home again before you could say - well - what ever you like to say, in my case probably 'Jack Robinson, although who ever he was I couldn't tell you. No doubt someone will soon though.
A visit to the supermarket is a very mixed blessing these days. There are a huge variety of goods stocked to bedazzle and bemuse me as I drift up and down the aisles trying to decipher my shopping list. What do 'two bats and 'one nun' mean? I have no idea and plough on, at least butter and milk are easy items. It is only later and exasperated spouse interprets for me and wants to know why I have not come home with the required 'batteries' and bottle of 'Blue Nun'. Sorry dear reader, I am digressing again. The point is, that part of the shopping is fairly O.K., but then, as a metaphor for life - there is a reckoning to be made - the dreaded check-out experience.
Sex is no guarantee of a good check-out experience. Be it a male or female lurking behind the check-out conveyor belt, they are equally ruthless in running your purchases past their scanner and hurling it down the runway to the collecting area, a sadistic gleam lurking at the back of their eye as the dispassionately watch you frantically trying to keep up and get the goods into your bags. The problem arises because it only takes a nanosecond for the check-out staff to scan your goods, but it's a nanosecond times ten to retrieve them and get them into a bag. The starting conversation went 'would you like some help with your packing?' 'No thank you,' I reply, 'providing you don't go too fast.' I think they like a challenge like that and the operation becomes more manic than usual. I leave the supermarket hot, flustered and angry, vowing never to return.
However, a week or two passes and my cupboards are bare. What to do? I devise a plan. I will do my usual shop and at the check-out when the ask, 'would you like some help with your packing?' I will say 'yes please' and stand back and let them get on with it. So, I whizz lightheartedly up and down the aisles, filling my trolley with the the usual goods and a few treats as my buoyant mood rockets. Finally, at the check-out - this time a bearded late-middle aged man asks me the question, 'would I like help with my packing?' I smile radiantly and say, 'yes please'. I hand him my assortment of carrier bags and stand back. My bags will be nicely packed and I will leave the supermarket unfrazzled. Well, my dear reader, of course you know that is not the case at all. My check-out man was rather surprised to find he was left to get on with it and maybe not too overjoyed at the prospect of all that packing. So instead of running my purchases through the magic eye and hurling them down the runway at me, he hurled them willy-nilly into my bags instead. Once again I leave the supermarket vowing never to return.
Time passes and we eat the cupboards bare again. It is time to shop. I have been musing on the situation and have decided to cirumnavigate the check-out problem by using the self check-outs. Genius. Why didn't I think of it before? I can pack at my own pace and everything will be placed to my liking. Once more I trip around the emporium, shopping with gay abandon. Spouse will eat like a king this week. At the self check-out terminal I offload my goods on to the belt and begin to pass them over the scanner and carefully place them in my opened shopping bags in the trolley. It's a slow process as I am not used to it, but at least I am not getting hot, frazzled and flustered by check-out staff. That is until a Supervisor comes along to 'assist' me. It appears I'm not going fast enough and she needs to get me though more quickly!!!!!!! The 'beeps' get faster and the shopping bags are rapidly filled - in no particular order as you can imagine.
So, Plan B failed. I leave the supermarket in my usual state of rage, shaking my fist and shouting 'they should all get their money back.' Where from? Charm School. Grrrrr.....
Welcome back dear reader to the 2017/18 blog season.
Well, we have had an interesting time here at Chez Comb. We moved into our new house in the springtime and have a large garden to go with it and have spent the summer making inroads on re-modelling it. This has involved the use of many power tools by my dear spouse, along with a pick axe, a murderous looking executioner's sized axe and many a lethally sharp spade and fork. Plenty of scope there you would have thought, (if you know anything about spouse by now), for medical intervention at the local surgery or A&E Department. Let me surprise you my dear reader, only one trip to the surgery was required. A rusty nail went through his leg and a tetanus booster was required. I know, looking back on our summer activities, I too am amazed.
So how it comes about that by simply answering the telephone this week, he got into more bother than he has all summer, is a mystery to me. It's not that difficult an exercise is it? The telephone rings, you pick up the handset, have a conversation and at its termination, replace the handset back into its re-charging unit. Easy. I can do and no doubt you, my dear reader, can do it without causing harm to yourself or any other living creature.
Picture the scene - I am downstairs in the kitchen preparing lunch when spouse stumbles in holding a bloodied hand over his eyes and sinks, moaning softly, into the rocking chair at my side. 'What on earth has happened?' I ask in alarm. 'Phil telephoned,' he answered still moaning. I am mystified but my curiosity will have to wait to be satisfied, as I have spied a deep cut on the top of his head, the source of the red stuff flowing freely over his hands and down on to a good shirt, his trousers and the chair cushion. 'Have you bled all down the stairs?' I ask. No, dear reader I am not totally heartless and heedless of his plight, but I can see the gash is not life threatening - after all, he has at least another seven and a half pints to go, but a trail of blood down our new stair carpet could just take priority right now. Spouse answered in the negative. 'I was very careful,' he moaned, hands still over his eyes.
Well that was a positive at least. After many, many years of marriage I have the first aid kit to hand and quickly unpacked swabs and steri-strips ready to go to work on him. 'Take your hands away, so that I can see the damage.' I requested. Spouse slowly lowered his hands from his eyes to reveal the beginnings of the best shiner of a black eye I have seen in a long time.
I sighed resignedly and asked in my most patient voice ever, 'and how did you come by that? I thought you were on the telephone and even you can't get a black eye from doing that.' Well, my dear reader, it appears that spouse could do that very thing. I know, I know, you couldn't write the script, could you? Only he just has.
Apparently, when the telephone rang, he was upstairs in our bedroom getting changed and picked up the handset at the side of the bed. So far so good. On discovering it was an extremely garrulous friend called Phil, spouse knew he would be in for the long haul and sat down on the bed to listen to the latest story. Only the story started going on and realising he was in for a right old shaggy dog of a tale, spouse pinned back his ears and lay back on the bed , stretching his free arm out and knocking the re-charging unit off the bedside cabinet, not only off, but down the back of it.
No worries - he would retrieve it when the call was ended. Half a lifetime later when Phil had finally come to the end of his saga, spouse sat up and looked about him for the re-charging unit. He spied it underneath the cabinet and set about rescuing it. Now this cabinet is a wooden affair on long legs with two deep drawers - heavy and solid (and no, I am not making any comparisons here.)
The re-charging unit had gone down the back of the cabinet so first of all spouse tried to haul it up by the wire running from the unit to the mains plug. So far, so very good only it got stuck just as it reached the top of the cabinet. Spouse gave it a sharp tug to encourage it right out and that's when he got the black eye as the unit, suddenly freed, sailed up and out and socked him in the eye. Spouse swiftly let it go, whereupon it dropped back from whence it came, whilst he staggered about cussing and nursing his eye.
But spouse is not one to leave a job undone. The phone needed its re-charging unit and have it it would, no matter what. Another method of retrieval must be tried. He crawled on hands and knees underneath the cabinet in an effort to reach the unit, but in effect, he was too tall for the cabinet and he all succeeded in doing was lifting it up on his back so that all the things on the top of the cabinet slid off - the lamp, books phone, water glass, spectacles, etc.
Another round of cussing and spouse rolled over on to his back and shimmied back under the cabinet. This time success and he managed to retrieve the re-charging unit, but unfortunately, on the outbound shimmy, he banged his head hard on the underside of the cabinet and managed to gash it on a rough piece of wood that was sticking out.
So there we are my friends, how not to answer the phone. Spouse is skulking at home now, sporting a fat head and a corker of a blue-black shiner. If he goes out everyone is going to ask 'what does the other chap look like?' And how would he tell them the phone did it to him? Now there's a funny thing - I seem to answering the phone a lot these days .....
Welcome back dear reader to the 2017/18 blog season.
Well, we have had an interesting time here at Chez Comb. We moved into our new home in the springtime and have a large garden to go with it and have spent the summer making inroads on re-modelling it. This has involved the use of many power tools by my dear spouse, along with a pick axe, a murderous executioner's sized axe and many a lethally sharp spade and fork. Plenty of scope there you would have thought, (if you know anything about spouse by now), for medical interventions at the local surgery or A&E Department. Let me surprise you, my dear reader, only one trip to the surgery was required. A rusty nail went through his leg and a tetanus booster was required. I know, looking back on our summer's activities I too am amazed.
To be continued tomorrow .......
Who would have thought volunteering at your local library could be so fraught with danger and sometimes downright embarrassment? So it has turned out to be for me at the library in our nearby seaside town on the North Yorkshire coast.
Since the financial crisis of 2008, local government has received ever-decreasing funding from central government with the result that savings have had to be made by cutting local services. In our particular case, gardening services provided by the Council have been withdrawn from the library - except for cutting the lawned area that separates the library from the adjacent supermarket car park. So, all the flower borders around the library were going to rack and ruin and as a keen gardener I could not bear to let this situation continue and nor could my friend, Pat. We decided to tackle the gardens ourselves before they became any more of an eyesore.
All well and good, except we had not reckoned with the great British public's ability (a) somehow to overlook you when parking their cars and and nudging you into the flower-beds, (b) the wit and wisdom of passers-by and (c) the total inability of elderly library users - of both sexes - to negotiate their way out of the narrow car park without running us down and (d) my being taken for someone on a day out from the local asylum.
In the words of the letters pages of the Daily Telegraph 'I could go on' but I won't, I think I have have enough material here to explain my indignation at the antics of the library and supermarket users.
I'll expand a little on all of the above and I think you could well come round to my point of view that the great British public are an odd bunch. Take Point (a) - I know I'm a bit on the small side, but at 5' 2" still very visible I would have thought and yet when working on the flower bed that runs alongside the supermarket car park, there have been many times when four-by-fours have swept into the parking spaces and applied the brakes at the last moment, by which time I have already dived into the border to escape being flattened. By the time I have recovered myself the driver, blissfully unaware of the gibbering wreck he/she has left behind, has swung gaily off into the supermarket.
Point (b) - Yorkshire folk are renowned for many things, but I have to admit their wit is not the first quality that springs to mind. I wish I had a pound sterling for every man and woman that announces as they pass Pat and I by, 'you can come and do my garden when you've finished' and they chortle on their merry way. Original or what? I would be a millionaire by now. What I really want to do is silently hand them a garden fork and tell them to get stuck in. But I just glower after them. And here's the best one - obviously we spend a lot of time bending down as we haul out the weeds 'Eee, lass,' come the remarks, 'tha must have the best known backside in Yorkshire. I wouldn't recognise your face, but I'd know that backside.' Convulsed with their own wit, they stagger away into the supermarket.
Point (c) - It is a mystery to me that only the very elderly, frail, obviously poor-sighted - they have to be from the way they drive - and half-witted library users avail themselves of the library car park. The young, fit and able bounce into the supermarket car park, dump their cars and walk round to the library. Sadly for me, the library car park is not very big and therefore requires quite a lot of manoeuvreing in order to get the car out of the car park space and turned around to face the driveway out. I repeat - it is always elderly and possibly poor-sighted ladies and gentlemen undertaking this exercise. On four occasions, at least, drivers have reversed out of their space, swung the wheel around and continued reversing - right at me! Sometimes I am absorbed by the task in hand and not watching what is going on behind me, (how can I?) and then I suddenly become aware of the heady smell of exhaust fumes far too close for comfort and a revving engine. (Why do they do that when they're reversing?) Twice now I have retreated into the border and still the car keeps coming at me. I jump up and down, waving my arms about and shrieking like a banshee but soon I will have no place left to go, except be squashed against the wall. I think someone has put a contract out on me and they are trying to kill me. No-one will convince me otherwise. After all, who would believe a sweet little old lady or gent would deliberately squash someone in a library car park?
Point (d) - And the most embarrassing of all. My friend, Pat, is smaller than me. We were minding our own business, pruning some very tall grasses that had got way out of hand. Pat was well inside the border and I now realise, dwarfed by the grasses and hidden from view. I was on the edge of the border, (yes, in view of the above, I must have a death-wish), hacking away at the grasses whilst talking to Pat, gesticulating with my secateurs to re-inforce the point I was banging on about - planting blackcurrant bushes, I think. Anyway, this lady approached me - carefully, it has to be said - in readiness to lead me quietly away to a place of safety until the social services could be summoned for me. Only as she took my arm and I turned in surprise, did she spot Pat lurking in the back of the border and then realised her mistake. She thought I was standing there talking away to myself and throwing my arms about at nothing - thought I might need taking back to which ever hospital I was out on licence from! I know I had an odd lookig sun hat on at the time, but really...
So if I'm not run over, flattened or squashed by the elderly patrons of the library or carted off to the hospital by a well-meaning member of the public, I hope to see you here in a few weeks time. I'm taking a summer break and will be back in late September. I hope you are all having a good summer and we will meet again, refreshed and renewed for the autumn. My good wishes to everyone, happy holidays.
So, as I mentioned in my last blog, in a very weak moment I agreed to go with spouse to a food festival which was being held at a nearby castle. We went to church on the Sunday morning, had a quick coffee and a biscuit (biscuits plural for spouse - he has to keep his strength up) and then we set off for our castle event.
A we neared our destination, I could feel the excitement emanating from spouse. His face was wreathed in smiles as he imagined all the culinary delights to come. I was imagining too - only my thoughts ran on very different lines from his. This became obvious when he smiled seraphically at me and said 'I wonder if they'll have fried bread there?' He smacked his lips in anticipation, almost, but not quite drooling at the thought. Fried bread! We were attending a festival showcasing the finest cuisine the U.K. could offer and spouse is hoping for fried bread. I give up. Pearls before swine
Food festivals are wonderful events. You get to try so many delicious and varied foods, your taste buds have to work overtime. Needless to say, spouse dived in with enthusiasm. Breads dipped in flavoured oils and vinegars went down the hatch and met with his approval, jams and chutneys were sampled and purchases made, beer, wine and best of all his beloved Yorkshire pork pie. SMALL samples of foods are put out for prospective customers to try - only when the stallholder was looking the other way, spouse helped himself to several samples, blissfully munching away - at some distance from the stall by the time the owner looked his way again - surveying his empty sample plates with dismay.
Spouse has no frontiers where food is concerned. Spanish chorizo sausage was followed by Indian, Vietnamese and Italian food. Everything met with the same sincere appreciation. Amazing cheeses, wines, cordials, teas and cakes received equal attention. I should say that by now we were on our second trawl around the festival and I was about ready to drop. If I didn't see another cheese, dessert, savoury or sweet tart it possibly would not be too soon.
Spouse showed no sign of tiring but I was hopeful that we would soon retire to the castle tearooms and thence wend our way homewards. Which we did, only I wasn't spared any embarrassment as I had hoped to be. We came across an irresistible collection of chutneys. You were supposed to just sample from a wooden spatula. Spouse does not like them. He had his own way of tasting - take a chunk of cheese and dunk it in the chutney and haul it all out with the spatula. Result! Spouse got a good helping and loved it, but the stallholder was hopping mad and promptly sent him away, (that's putting it politely) - and all before we could make a purchase.
By that time I had had enough and walked a good ten paces ahead of him - disassocation I think it is called - and left spouse to carry the many and varied food bags we had accumulated along the way. Next time he mentions visiting a food event in whatever guise it comes in, I hope I will be sane enough to decline the offer. Or if we were foolish enough to go to another, tape his mouth up on arrival. Now, what an interesting day that would be ...