Hello my dear reader and welcome. I hope I find you well and in good fettle, as they say in Yorkshire. I am in reasonable fettle, which is more than can be said for my spouse. In fact, it could be said that he is very hot and very cross and as usual, I am the unwitting cause of his woes. And all because we have been to a car boot sale!

   Spouse being a true Yorkshireman, is a keen saver and has a money box in the shape of a house, wherein he saves all his twenty pence pieces. It so happened that yesterday morning when I checked my purse to see if I had some spending money for the car boot sale, I found I had seven twenty pences - the grand sum of one pound forty. I produced the coins, fondly imagining spouse would give me a pound coin and a fifty pence piece in exchange, (thus I'd be ten pence up on the deal). I should have known better, the coins were swiped out of my sticky little mitts and that was that. He  said he would divvy up the dosh at the car boot - should I see anything I wished to purchase.  'Only one pound fifty, mind', he warned. 'Not a penny more. In fact, the parking costs a pound, so you'd best look for your fifty pence worth.' Fagin eat your heart out. It's a good job Oliver never came across spouse, he'd have been in a very bad way.

   It was a beautiful day and we set out in good heart, our first visit to the car boot this season. Near to where we live, a giant car boot sale is held every Sunday on a local farmer's land. One field is used for parking and the adjacent two fields are taken up with all the stalls. All life is there and as the saying goes - one man's rubbish is another man's treasure. We spent a very happy morning wandering the stalls and I confess dear reader, that, extravagant creature that I am, I spent two pounds on two cast iron trivets for my kitchen. But my reckless expenditure was matched by spouse when he also spent two pounds on a new cold chisel. How exciting is that!

   Ah but, the harmony of the morning did not last, sad to say. Somehow and I know not how, in and amongst all the stalls spouse mislaid me.  Yes he did, he mislaid me as in lost sight of me and lost me to the crowds. I did not realise I had been mislaid and slowly drifted along, taking in the sights and sounds of all the stalls and generally having a whale of a time and I have to say it had not dawned on me that spouse had lost sight of me.

   Spouse meanwhile was very alive to this situation and was already wondering whether I had fallen prey to brigands and had been spirited away with a view to a ransom note being delivered to Chez Comb later in the day. (No doubt it would have been for more than one pound fifty and in which case one must ask oneself would he have paid it, or haggled?) However I digress - back at the car boot sale field, spouse began searching for me, but to no avail. I was not to be found and he began to really worry.  Ah, I hear you say. See how he cares about you and worries about you. I bet he was more worried about his wallet. I had put it in my bag and now we had both gone missing!

   It was a long time before it dawned upon me that I had been mislaid. I was so entranced by the variety of goods on offer that I drifted along in a happy bubble. But believe me dear reader, when I finally became aware that I was where I was and spouse was not, a smidgen of apprehension entered my heart. For I had been mislaid once before on a visit to the Cumbrian town of Penrith and had been lost  to spouse for a good half an hour or more. An enraged bull could not have had more steam coming out of his ears than spouse on that occasion. I think my ears are still ringing from the dressing down I received - as if it was all my fault!

   Meanwhile back at the car boot sale - what does one do in these situations? Should I stay where I was and hope to be discovered, or retrace my steps and hope to bump into him? I decided to retrace my steps and wended my way back and forth along the stalls. But there was no sign of spouse. I assumed he would be looking for me as I was looking for him and I was looking for him, honestly I was, but wouldn't you know it - for a few nanoseconds my attention was diverted to a stall selling kitchenware and I must tell you dear reader, it is one of my weaknesses, I love a bit of kitchenalia and this stall had period stuff that was fabulous and I couldn't resist taking a quick peek and right at that moment didn't spouse find me - pounced upon me really, like a cat honing in on its prey.

   I never did get a proper look at that stall. As I said at the beginning, a very hot and very cross spouse dragged me away from it and I have to say dear reader, that it's a jolly good job  we were in public or his language might have extended to the more fruity variety as he was so cross. It was bad enough as it was and quite a few folk stared as I was frog-marched back to the car.

   He says he was very worried about me and knew I wouldn't find my way back to the car in the field, as I had taken no notice of all at where we had parked it and in any case, as is well known, I have no sense of direction anyway and I'd never find it in a million years. Well I would have dear reader. I assume he would have waited for me and then everyone would have departed and his would have been the only car left, so of course I would have found it! Spouse was not at all impressed with this reasoning and he drove home grim-faced.

   I am hoping his crossness won't last too long as (a) there won't be any ransom note coming his way and (b) the lost sheep is found. I hope to build on these positives as I would love to revisit that kitchen stall next weekend. If he doesn't mislay me again this week, I might be in with a chance. Enjoy your week dear reader and long may this lovely summer sun shine on us all.

   

   

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Hello dear reader and welcome to another Sunday at Chez Comb. In fact we are only half way through the day and I want to go and lie down in a darkened room already, or possibly leave home, as once again I am in the doghouse with spouse and a release date does not loom on the horizon any time soon. At the time of writing, the Sabbath day peace and tranquility does not reign in the house. Spouse is more than a tad put out.

   At the start of the morning spouse was just being spouse. 'Nothing wrong with that', I hear you say and in some respects this is true. We had attended an early church service with a view to spending the day in our garden, continuing with our wrecking spree. Once again this week, the weather has been beautiful, but spouse has been away on his Good Samaritan work, transporting folk to hospital appointments and thus has not been able to get out and about in his pastures.

   Thus it was that come Sunday morning he was ready and raring to go. Out came the chainsaw. I know, I can feel you wincing even as I type the word. When I see that beast come out of the shed, (the chainsaw not spouse), I take myself off. I realise my thinking is a little illogical,  but if he is going to saw his leg off I don't want to be there to see it, on the other hand maybe I need to be nearby with a tourniquet to hand - just in case. 

   Anyway, out came the chainsaw and spouse set about finishing off old tree stumps. I retired to a safe distance away, flattening  the areas either side of our new steps up to the summer sitting room, so that I can park some of my pots there. I know, trivia, trivia. Never mind all that, who wants to know about a woman and a spade. What is happening with spouse let loose with a chainsaw? Well not a lot as it turned out. He didn't get very far with it, as he realised the chain was a bit loose and he and saw returned to the meg-shed for a little  first aid on the chain.

   As told to me, he got the tool out to tighten the chain and then saw that there was quite a lot of dirt attached to the inside of the chain. Wanting to keep his saw in tip-top condition, he set about teasing out the muck. All went well. One side was duly cleaned and so he turned the saw over to clean the other. Ah, but - here the thrifty Yorkshireman came unstuck.  The chainsaw was missing the cap that fitted over the little oil tank. Spouse had made a temporary stopper for it, but when he turned the saw over the stopper fell out, got squashed underneath the saw and out came all the oil. It being Sunday, the DIY store in town was closed, so that put an end to his chainsaw activities for the day.

   However, spouse was in tree stump removal mode and was not easily deterred. Out came the executioner-sized axe and he set about the stumps once again. All my domestic goddess activities in the culinary department definitely paid off as spouse gave the stumps very short shrift and he was soon standing triumphantly in the middle of the garden, waving a tree stump in each hand. With his bare torso blackened with oil and muck and waving what looked very like a couple of shrunken human heads about,  I hurried to his side to take them off him. Really, he only needed a few fancy stripes painting on his cheeks and chest and he could be anywhere but England.

   Satisfied with his handiwork, spouse turned his attention to our old and now defunct pond. Full of boulders and dead and tangled reeds it is an unlovely sight. We are going to fill it in and build a new pond elsewhere. I had begun the task of digging out some of the old reeds earlier in the week. Not a pleasant task as the water is black, rank and extremely malodorous, but I made a good effort and spouse was ready to continue the work.

   He donned his wellington boots and made his way into the pond, spade in hand. I admit he made a fair job of it and a lot of the reeds were despatched around the edges of the pond during the rest of the morning. But a woman, bless her little heart, likes a tidy job and when she came to inspect some long time later, pointed out to spouse that he had missed quite a few bunches here and there.

   Spouse rolled his eyes and said they were a bit difficult to reach and I robustly rejoined, 'nonsense, you've got a long reach. Put you're back into it and finish the job.'  And that's why I'm now in the doghouse and poor spouse is in the shower. If he was a bit mucky before he went into the pond, he was a darned sight blacker when he came out - after losing his footing and falling right in, in pursuit of those last elusive reeds I mentioned. Oh my, he went down with quite a splash and came out speechless with rage and pondweed. I think the gist of his words were 'why couldn't you leave well alone', (to me) but he put matters a great deal more forcefully than that.

   I know from my own experience of cleaning myself off after wading in my wellies in the pond, just how much oily muck adheres to skin and bone. Poor spouse, he could well still be black and blue when he comes out of the shower, but hopefully, will smell a little sweeter than when he went in.

   Meanwhile my dear reader, I will lurk in my doghouse this afternoon and hope I will be forgiven before sundown. A glass of chilled white and his favourite dinner may secure my release. I'm off to my domestic goddess duties right now. See you next week, I hope,  unless he's buried me in the pond before then.

   

Hello my dear reader and welcome to Chez Comb I hope I find you well and in good heart. What a wonderful week of good weather we have had here in North Yorkshire. I know we English bang on about the weather a great deal - we are renowned for it - and that's because we get an awful lot of it. We never quite know from one hour to the next what will come our way and believe me, when it's a week of glorious sunshine we go about smiling and exclaiming about it until the cows come home.

   It has been a very quiet week here at Chez Comb as spouse has been away every day. He's a volunteer driver for a charity that takes folk for medical appointments, be they near or far - and this week they were far. Like the buses, you can wait for one to come along and then three come at once and so the appointments came in for spouse, every day this week and all long distance. So my dear reader, marital harmony has been at its peak , spouse has departed at the crack of dawn and returned tired and hungry at dusk.

   I have been keeping the home fires burning so to speak, well - not actually burning as it's too hot, but I have been keeping hearth and home together as the electrician, plumber and carpet fitter have all called and done their work to finish off our summer sitting room, had tea and biscuits and departed. In between these gents and my domestic goddess duties I have been working in the garden with an inconsolable Simon seagull trailing in my wake.

   Simon seagull entered our lives at the beginning of last winter along with his mate Sophie. Now the seagulls that have made their homes in and around our Yorkshire Wolds village usually perch on the roof and chimney tops, talking and squawking animatedly together and generally keeping well away from us humans on the ground.  They might deign to come for a drink at one of our bird baths and snaffle the odd worm or two from the lawn, but that's it - at the slightest movement glimpsed from within the house, they are off like little white rockets.

   Simon is different as seagulls go. I cannot describe him as bold. Seagulls living on the coast become accustomed to us humans being around and develop a boldness of spirit that can extend as far as being food thieves - hence all the notices, 'please do not feed the seagulls.'  Simon arrived in our garden one winter's day and from the first he was a gentleman among seagulls, gentle, kind, never greedy and always grateful. On that first day after cautiously doing a recce of the garden, he invited his mate Sophie to hop up on to the bird bath and get a drink whilst he kept watch. Only after she had slaked her thirst did Simon take his turn. After this he turned his attention to the bird seed set out on a plastic plate on the lawn, meant for the blackbirds and robins that cannot cling to the bird feeders hung from the trees. Again, after cautiously inspecting the goods and checking no predators lurked nearby, Simon stepped back and watched over Sophie whilst she ate.

   This was the start of our friendship with Simon and Sophie. They came every day, usually twice a day for food and drink and gradually over the winter months they became less wary of us and started to trust us, not flying off at our approach and even getting to used to spouse as he dug out old tree roots, preparing for his new shed base. We began to leave them seagull treats out - bits of fish went down a storm In the depths of winter when insects were scarce. When we looked out on frosty mornings, Simon and Sophie would be hanging around hopefully in the garden. How could we resist? Spouse was out of the door with a generous seagull breakfast whilst I prepared ours indoors.

   Simon and Sophie have been our delight all through the winter and early spring. We have watched them quite obviously arguing and falling out with each other, Sophie flying off to perch on a different roof and chattering away indignantly, whilst Simon chunters away to himself on ours. Eventually though the quarrel is forgotten and they get back together, so obviously glad to be reconciled and a lot of joyful wheeling around the skies ensues.

   With the coming of spring we were looking forward to welcoming Simon and Sophie's chicks and laid in some gastronomic seagull delights. But it is not to be, there will be no chicks this year as Sophie is no longer with us. We don't know what happened, whether a cat or some other country predator caught her unawares on the ground, but our lovely Sophie is dead. I came downstairs one morning long after spouse had departed on his hospital driving mission, to hear Simon frantically shrieking down the bottom of the garden. Something was obviously amiss. I was too late to be of any help to Sophie. She had gone and Simon was distraught.

   I have buried Sophie in the garden. I shed many tears as I went about my work, with Simon watching intently, softly squawking and crooning all the while. Seagulls mate for life and he is inconsolable. He nibbles in a disinterested way at the choice fishy  morsels I try to tempt him with and sits dull-eyed for hours on our roof. eschewing the company of the other seagulls all around him. When I work in the garden he is with me and my heart breaks for him.

   What of the future for Simon? I know not. How long will his grief last? Will he find another mate? This remains to be seen. Meanwhile I will do my best to keep him company through the summer as I go about my garden wrecking and re-building. I feel very privileged to share his company and his grieving. Love and loss go hand in hand. I hope Simon will love again one day.

   

Hello dear reader, I hope I find you well in this merry month of May.  Spring is well and truly springing all over the place and the birds and bees are doing - well, what birds and bees do - finding mates and nesting, especially in the trees in our garden, in spite of all Spouse's activities out there.

   It has been a very busy week at Chez Comb. The builders have finally departed having completed their work on the new summer sitting room and we have enjoyed a few days peace and quiet. We now await the electrician, the 'blind' man and the 'carpet' man next week and then hope to move in. Meanwhile as Spring has sprung, whilst I have been having a bit of a spring clean indoors, Spouse has been outdoors.

   I don't know if you recall dear reader, but I decided to dispense with the old washing line and metal posts as although practical, they do not enhance the view or add to the ambience of our little patch of England. Also, as Spouse had had a rather unhappy encounter with said washing line he had come around to my way of thinking and whilst the line had been dismantled, the metal posts supporting it still remained. Spouse went to his wondrous new shed and emerged with a long electric lead and grinder.

   Spouse - electricity - powerful grinder ... need I say more. No, I'm sure I don't need to, but I will anyway. I think the motor in the grinder overheated trying to cut through the two metal posts and I heard the yelps of pain as I wielded my duster in the house. I'm sorry to confess dear reader, but I rolled my eyes and reached for the First Aid box, thinking 'now what?' Apparently the grinder had got so hot, smoke issued from it and then flames shot up his arm. Thankfully he dropped it  and only needed minor burns bathing and dressing.

    So that was that. Washing poles 1, grinder 0. Not the best outcome ever. A new grinder would have to be purchased. Now as you know dear reader, Spouse is a Yorkshireman and expenditure of any kind is not undertaken lightly, but in this instance expenditure there must be, as I was not going to stare out at a metal post standing like a totem pole in the middle of the garden. It was Spouse's turn to roll his eyes, but having done this, he shook the moths out of his wallet and took himself off to the DIY store.

   The next day I'm happy to say the second metal pole was down and the new grinder has survived the experience, also Spouse. However, the week was not yet over and all the while the sun was shining and more importantly, the grass was a-growing.  Off to his mega-shed trotted Spouse and came out with the lawn mower and all was well, two thirds of the lawn was given a haircut, but the lawn beyond the hedges must have been sown with a different variety of grass, as it was almost knee high and needed the strimmer on it before the lawnmower could go over it.

   Spouse - a strimmer - and a nearby bonfire ... well, there you are. I don't really need to write any more do I dear reader? Yes, you've got it in one. There was Spouse happily strimming away, knocking down the grass like a good 'un, not a care in the world and then bingo! How does he do it? Smoke and flames issued forth from the strimmer, right next to my lovely dry bonfire material. My, my, it could have been November 5th - pity we didn't have Guy Fawkes on top,  the lot went up in flames in moments.

   I had my lovely new rotary washing pole up with loads of laundry on it which soon got covered in black smuts and smelled like - well, smelled of the bonfire. It would all have to be done again. I was not exactly the happiest Easter bunny there ever was at this prospect. Not only that, but now we had no strimmer and a very doleful Spouse had to take himself off to the DIY store again.  Twice in one week! Dear reader, he is almost a broken man and so are the poor old moths that have been made homeless from his wallet.

   If it wasn't for the fact that it is a Bank Holiday weekend and the Tour de Yorkshire cycle race is coming through the village, I would go outside and do a rain dance. Now that would give the neighbours something to talk about. However, I will resist the temptation as I have no wish to spoil the weekend's revelries for everyone. I will have to try and keep Spouse out of the garden for a day or two somehow. A burnt arm, a lump the size of an turtle's egg on his head and an empty wallet is enough for one man in a week, isn't it?

   Have a good weekend dear reader and with luck I'll be with you next week, unless one of us is electrocuted, burnt  or blown up. Who knows ... least of all me.