tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70271562070543776592024-03-07T22:31:34.492-08:00The life of a rural wifeMrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-1048597702786599522012-11-19T11:55:00.001-08:002012-11-19T15:31:20.036-08:00Can I wear slippers in church?<!--StartFragment-->
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It’s that time of year again, when the elderly man in the
bungalow, with the long white beard, dons his red suit and we in the village
suspend disbelief for a couple of hours. The brass band decides whether to risk
rusting their instruments in the mizzle, and we the villagers traipse to the
square and pay vast amounts of cash for a plastic cup of watery mulled wine.
Yes it’s lighting up night. – hurrah!</div>
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Obviously, the charity shop will be selling charity seasonal
cards and the hairdressers will be steamed up with some sort of hands on
treatment. The post office will attempt to be jolly, with its decorations from
the 1970s, but will be firmly shut for the occasion.</div>
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The church choir (all five of them) will attempt at warbling
against the throng and I will no doubt take pity and raise the sound level with
my hearty soprano.</div>
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I’m not sure who will provide the mince pies and sausage
rolls this year, now that the hardware store (and his wife) are no longer trading,
hopefully our new upmarket bread shop and café will fill the gap – maybe the
Wives<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and Conservative Clubs or
Women’s Institute will rise to the pastry challenge. Clearly, we are not the kind of Cornish village that attracts ice-daring coachloads such as Mousehole. We just mooch about, say a few hellos, and head for the pub or telly back home.</div>
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From this day forward we are expected to display our
Christmas cheer in light form, until the New Year. As half of the adult
population, in my home, doesn’t recognise it (being ‘ba humbug’ until the
actual morning/afternoon of the 25th) we tend to have minor conflict over the cost of
electricity versus community spirit – all very loving and peaceful.</div>
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The art of persuading the beloved to hedge trim, around the
string of outside lights, requires the manipulating attributes of Eve. How to
persuade him that climbing up a ladder and trimming bits of foliage is a
remarkably good idea requires a great deal of subtle crafting. My tips are as
follows: never on an empty stomach, never on a cold, foggy night, always
provide the tools of torch and secateurs and be prepared to hold the ladder
clearly wearing more than an Eve-like fig leaf (it's more sensible to alert traffic rather than scare it). These tips are not foolproof and unlikely to work now I have blogged
about them. So if all else fails do it yourself.</div>
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As to Christmas this year, now the children are grown up we
have respite for a while. We can roast a bird, light a fire, drink a glass or
two and indulge in some quality choral renditions. I can Midnight Mass it to my
heart’s content and still get a book token (hopefully) - all with my slippers on (yes even the Midnight service because the church is my home too).</div>
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Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-60616842575982248502012-06-06T03:35:00.001-07:002012-06-06T03:35:31.312-07:00The 'G word'It was while I was securing my bunting to the hedge and planting my red, white and blue flowers that I started to list all the things I appreciate about being British. Of course a cup of tea is number one, although it has to be made as Brown Owl taught me and no doubt approved of by my village WI. Then there is the way we can have a conversation with anyone as long as we begin with the weather. Not only are we preoccupied with it, but we brave the elements in a way that is verging towards perverse. I fine example of this being that group of vocalists, at the Jubilee Pageant, heartily 'lunging it' for Her Majesty whilst risking death by rain.<br />
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Then of course it is not long before I consider the rich diversity of the English language which then leads me rather swiftly to my pet 'dislike' at the moment. It is beginning to become one of those irritations that might lead to a full-on heckle one day. Every so often I begin to twitch when a certain ugly Americanism is used, referring to me as part of a collective, and if it is used more than once then I positively steam under my cardigan. It happens in church, it happens in school and now I hear it has happened on the BBC, from the spokesperson for 'Queen's English' no less when she was talking about the media; she called them 'guys' - aagghh! Since when have I become a 'guy'? Not only am I female, but surely this term is the male equivalent to 'gal' or 'doll'. Whatever happened to 'folks' or even plain 'everyone'? Such bliss to be included in a group of everyone....<br />
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Last year my pet hate was the amount of 'likes' said instead of 'um'. In presentation assessments from a group of AS students, out of around 32 students not one managed a two-minute speech without a 'like', and the record of 'likes' in one speech was in the mid-thirties (no joke). It has become a generational speech impediment!<br />
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Thankfully, I think we have moved away from 'wicked', which was all very silly really, along with displaying underpants - although a few Cornish boys haven't quite caught up with the rest of UK culture yet (bless).<br />
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And we now have 'yeh, yeh, yeh' which needs to be said with rapid fire all on the same note. Why can't we just let our yes be yes and our no be no? What does this need to emphasise an affirmative mean?<br />
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But going back to the word 'Guys', don't we put him on the bonfire? So not only does this word have gendered connotations it has religious and political ones too. But to top the list of reasons not to use the word is that it is simply far too cheesy. Fair enough if you are an American cartoon character who needs to gather a group together it might be acceptable, passably, but only just. I have to say that I am a bit of an expert when it comes to gathering groups of people together: Year 8s, 9s, 11s, 12s and 13s to be precise. Needless to say I NEVER use the word 'guys' and have managed quite successfully to gather hundreds of individuals without uttering the 'G word' once.<br />
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So hopefully, the need to address us as male Americans will soon pass and like crimplene flares and Spandau Ballet blouses will become a thing of our cultural past and a mere mention in a Bill Bryson book.<br />
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<br />Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-50072911786755337572012-04-09T03:34:00.001-07:002012-04-09T05:55:42.705-07:00Time for a car boot saleOnce the lighter evenings set in I start getting all productive. This can mean that the 'to do' list can move into the ridiculous and the reality doesn't always match up to my creative ideas. Inevitably tasks always take longer than I think they will, use up more energy than I have and require more money than is sensible to spend.<br />
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There are other obstacles to achieving my aims in this order: Cornish wet and windy days, brambles, weeds and more weeds, lack of skill and a general curling up like the cat mode that seems to be preferable than tackling an overgrown hedge.<br />
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This said, I have had a massive anti-social bonfire that was very effective and thankfully part of rural living (all our near neighbours welcome the smell!) I have scrubbed the mould off the side of the cottage with a broom and scared a few elderly passersby (on their way to a village charity bacon-bap event) with my squirting hose-pipe. I've thought about pruning the raspberry canes and tidying the strawberry bed and intend to weed a flower border very soon (yawn).<br />
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I went into a mad frenzy yesterday clearing unwanted 'stuff', sticking price tags onto everything ready for a car boot sale. It is amazing how once you have space you can fill it with all manner of paraphernalia. I am not sure how we acquired a rusty set of 1970s golf clubs or how I can persuade my dearest to go through the four boxes of LPs under the stairs. He went through a phase of wood turning candlesticks, which means we have the finest collection - enough to fill an entire Dickens novel. So I have been ruthless and decided to purge the cottage of anything wax and scented that isn't 'BBC period drama like'.<br />
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My desk drawers have never been tidier and I've discovered a whole load of pens to put by the telephone - yay!. A few of the cobwebs have been attacked by the vacuum nozzle and I have decided to part with the foot spa.<br />
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I wish I could afford a whole team of labourers to cobble the driveway so it looks like the quay on St Michael's Mount, keep doves and have a yurt in the garden. However, I will be satisfied when the broken window pane gets replaced, the drive gets swept and we finally fill the chicken house with hens. It is a case of cutting our cloth and making do and mending. "With food and clothes be satisfied". Anything else will only eventually end up at a car boot sale or become a home for spiders. After all, we can't take it with us.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-53061253246748288702011-05-07T11:51:00.000-07:002011-05-07T11:54:06.666-07:00Flora Day<div class="MsoNormal">Today was Flora Day – an ancient tradition when the change from Spring to Summer is recognised by the whole town of Helston (where my mother’s nursing home is).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is, no doubt, some pagan significance to the ritual, but nowadays it is a mix of secular (make as much money as possible by any means possible – mostly real ale), general merriment with a touch of Church and folklore thrown in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All the gates are festooned with bluebells and rather ambitious arches of fauna that generally wilt by lunchtime. The town band does a magnificent job of playing a medley of the same tune over and over – which can be a bit mind numbing and most certainly lip numbing for the brass and silver sections. The tune would be good for a baby’s ‘go to sleep’ toy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, despite this year’s distinct lack of Lilly of The Valley for lapel nosegays (thanks to the royal wedding and Katherine’s desire for authentic English, Spring flowers; my mother had one solitary sprig) the jamboree carried on with gusto.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Tradition still holds as the dancers parade through my mother’s nursing home, Penhellis, and as a resident’s family member I gain the status of privileged person for a day. This involves sitting on a particular side of a piece of red-tape and I gain free access to a buffet table along with Pimms and wine provision.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is amusing to see the other supposed important people dance pass, including our local MP and the mayor. Ladies make an effort to wear long-length ball gowns with ‘Keeping Up Appearances’ hats. All the men are in suits and top hats creating a rather sweaty and red-faced scenario. The children dance in white earlier and 'pretend servants' do their bit at tea-time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mother in her wheelchair sat like the Queen and waved the town's dignitaries pass, I, her lady in waiting, drank tea and was thankful for a sit-down (knowing that a raised bed of weeds awaited me at home).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is the perfect opportunity for alcoholics to get drunk by lunchtime and stumble about the lanes of Cornwall. The day is ideal for family picnics and community catch-ups. Inside the nursing home it means all residents’ families can support each other, in a reserved way, as we cope with the reality of dementia, Parkinsons, sight loss and other conditions of old age. One resident is 102.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I made my way back home, I considered how after all the fuss and bother we all went to, and the effort we made to get a close to the Furry Dance, I still doubt whether my mummy will remember a thing. However, at least I was offered a respite from weeding and a chance to feel like the lady of a country manor for an hour or two.</div>Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-61736699587476076632011-05-01T15:53:00.000-07:002011-05-02T09:44:51.804-07:00Bamboo baby rescue<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">t’s amazing what you can do with a bamboo cane. Of course my village is 'bamboo central', in Cornwall, with three public sub-tropical gardens on my doorstep – each with an array of bamboo clumps. We have our own crop, which subtly hides our neighbours’ modern bungalow and gives the impression, from the kitchen window, that we live in an isolated paradise. Our neighbour is obviously offended by its spreading capacity and seems to be applying some killing chemical on his side; however we still smile and say “hello”; so all is well. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The super hero of my life has been at it again. This time he has prevented a small baby from slowly boiling whilst being trapped in a car.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At first I noticed a rather stunning ‘yummy mummy’, in a particularly arresting red sundress, on the petrol station forecourt. I daresay that most men would leap to her defence if she cried, “I can’t work the air pressure thingy” or “there is a squashed fly on my windscreen”. So at first I didn’t bother as my dearest went to attend to her and her car.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It wasn’t until five minutes later, when he beckoned me over, that I realised I was needed in yet another rural drama.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Picture the scene, we are on the outskirts of Truro, it is a hot, sunny bank-holiday and a tiny baby’s mother has locked her keys into the car along with her child. It wasn’t an emergency so the police said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The hero of the scene, already well accustomed to panicking females (in fact, he rescued his daughter’s organic pork in the oven, after she locked herself out of her second-floor flat, only a few days ago) took charge and began to master the problem. Incidentally, over the same weekend he also held her up while she fainted at a concert and rescued all her silver bangles and rings, which she took off in a Turkish restaurant in order to play the guitar and sing (as you do) - all another story!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Back to the sun scorched garage, “What we need is a garden cane and a coat-hanger,” he said. Thankfully a nearby gardener had decided to grow Sweet-peas and an already gathering group of concerned onlookers went knocking on doors for metal wire. So armed with a bamboo garden cane, the art of rescue began.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thankfully the dippy delight dressed in red had left a tiny gap open in the driver’s window. This enabled the hero to slide the cane through the aperture and thus gain access to the stifling car.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The baby was oblivious tot the growing concern outside and I had begun the task of bossing my beloved around (something I have 25 years of experience doing). “Right a bit, left a bit, there press now!” all said in an attempt to press the controls on the inside. Despite two attempts we failed and it became clear that the ‘safety technology’ of the car was far too safe. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">By this time several nearby homeowners had turned up with an array of coat-hangers. However, dippy-delight yummy-mummy had left her keys on the passenger seat (for the last time- we hope). Using the bossy wife and super hero teamwork, along with garden bamboo precision, we managed to tip the keys over. Then locating the precise button super hero pressed down hard and yeehhah the locking mechanism did its bleep and flashing light thing thus releasing the door locks – phew!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At this point the mother leapt into the car saying all sorts of endearments to the oblivious baby. There was a cheer from the crowd, waving unwanted coat-hangers, and then the mummy leapt out to hug and kiss my husband saying, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thankyou, oh thankyou!” His cheeks matched her dress and I must admit to joining her in a few tears of relief.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we drove off I reflected on the fact I had married a useful sort of male, the type to be marooned on a desert island with. In fact if I was to write an article for a leading women’s magazine on ‘how to find a good husband’, I might set up a series of tests:</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> What uses can you think of for a garden cane?</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> How would you break into a second-floor flat to ensure the pork in the oven doesn’t burn? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3.</span><span style="font: normal normal normal 7pt/normal 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How would you rescue a boiling baby in a car?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Finally</span><br />
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</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do you grow Sweetpeas?</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
Four out of four equals marriable.</span><br />
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</span>Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-21377198587783362912011-04-16T05:09:00.000-07:002011-04-16T08:51:16.278-07:00Pork chop crash<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"> </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><div class="MsoNormal">There’s never a dull moment in the village. We were being lazy – hot pot of coffee, reading the news (on Facebook -not weekend papers) when we heard an almighty bang and then subsequent crashing metal noises. My initial thought was that the phantom tractor driver was back to destroy more cars parked in the lane. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My dearest, wearing only boxer shorts, rushed upstairs in search of combats while I considered wearing my spotty pyjamas with green wellies to face the scene; I decided to leave him to deal with the crisis.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He came to report that an old boy had crashed into a parked car and rolled his own over - creating a bit of a mess. By the time ‘the hero of my life’ arrived a few villagers were already standing and staring whilst the old boy sat stunned, airbag inflated and blood pouring from a gash in his head. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It took only a few moments to assess that no-one was actually doing anything so as usual, ever the interventionist, ‘Mr Fix-it’ got stuck in. This involved persuading the rather muddled motorist that it wasn’t going to be a good idea to drive home straightaway, especially without a windscreen, and that maybe a roll of loo paper might be applied to the side of his face.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">By this time the Church Warden had started sweeping the road, his wife was calling for emergency services (which we all knew would take at least 15 mins to get through all the lanes) and Mr Garage man came down to generally join in the throng.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Mr Fix it – wonder man’ had turned off the engine, put the handbrake on, applied toilet roll and begun piecing together the story. The old boy had just come back from Pool Market with his weekly shop of meat and was worried:</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My wife will kill me,” he fretted. Thus began a pastoral conversation, a soothing chat that whilst wives may be bossy and possibly angry at their husband’s driving techniques it was ever likely she wouldn’t actually be cross but rather concerned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course once the paramedics arrived, after a brief promise to pray for the old boy, my beloved returned to luke-warm coffee. It was a sad moment. We considered how this would most likely be the last drive for the old boy. I was reminded of my own mother’s scrapes with parked wing-mirrors and sides of cars before she finally got so lost around a roundabout that she admitted defeat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He has probably been pottering about the lanes of Cornwall all his life, and will now have to rely on the pitiful provision of public transport. It was then I considered his weekly shop. “Hadn’t we better put it in our freezer?” I suggested.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good idea”, Mr Fix-it said bounding out again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He thinks the police-officer was rather amused. But for those that are familiar with Pool Market meat wagon – it is hardly Waitrose and probably supplies most pensioners and benefit recipients in West Cornwall.The boot was opened to reveal the largest bag of Pork chops imaginable. After some deliberation it was decided that Mrs Garage owner should look after the butcher’s bounty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You are officially the keeper of the Pork chops,” she was told as they were handed over.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe it will be last time this elderly couple will manage to gather their own produce for a Sunday roast. I am slightly comforted by the knowledge that we have one of the last, surviving ‘meals on wheels’ in the country (run by village volunteers) but even so there is a poignancy in witnessing another’s youthful vigour pass into frailty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></span>Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-32299362203083708342011-04-13T16:41:00.000-07:002011-04-14T00:34:58.912-07:00Power surge<div class="MsoNormal">I’ve succumbed to old-fogey paraphernalia. It started with reading glasses (ugly pair by the bed, sophisticated pair by the patchwork) and has progressed to garden kneeler and finally a ‘hidden extra’ on the bicycle.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In my defence it is discreet; from a distance I look like an old-fashioned midwife. The Somerset-levels wicker is already ensconced on the front and the frame is of classic design. However, sneaking behind the central ‘thingy’ (the bit that the saddle sits on) is this rather super-duper power surging battery. Oh, the freedom!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is almost like being on a horse but not. I simply power up the hills, arrive sweat-free and don’t pass out in hedges – it is marvellous. Obviously I am very road aware, but despite this, I have noticed a few admiring glances from traffic queues, as I power up the hills – dressed in my becoming 1980s trackies, found on the beach shades, safety helmet and bright green mac’. They obviously think I’m a very fit plump lady.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For those familiar with the territory – I nearly made it up to the top of Maenporth hill. It feels like a ‘big daddy’ is pushing you along – he obviously conked-out in Cornwall.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I shall be venturing out on my new wizzy gadget – ringing my bell and generally whiffing those country smells as I go. I must try hard to avoid swallowing a bee, which I did whilst haring down that mammoth hill at Lacock (with Sam Godfrey and Claire Lillystone for my Sheldon readers) aged 16.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am slightly troubled by the fact it is similar, in principle, to one of those power scooters and I am painfully aware that I don’t look like one of those frog-like, lycra-clad Sunday road congestors - but at least I am as happy as the day I first rode without stabilizers - which is all that matters.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-29899550924508148422011-03-31T14:46:00.000-07:002011-03-31T14:46:53.391-07:00You can never tell<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">They’re digging up the road in the village. I am assuming the ‘they’ is someone official and not some random group of road vandals. The process inevitably involves lots of ‘tractory noise’ and juddering just outside my open windows. Part of the spectacle involved a rounded foreman type, wearing the standard bright green tabard, who sat the entire lunch hour, in the drizzle, on the war memorial. This is about as exciting as it gets in Mawnan Smith.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The village notice board has a few other excitements advertised. Not least is our attempt to celebrate the Royal Wedding with hog roast and beer (no matter the weather). The WI is still going strong, as is the rival ‘Mawnan Wives’ group – goodness only knows what culinary rift precipitated such a public divide.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There is one notice telling me I can go to Pilates on Tuesdays but I have to decide whether I am needing a gentle or for the ‘slightly fit’ class. I will of course be mortified if all the elderly are hyper in the front row and I pass out at the back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thinking of being mortified I made the biggest blunder this week. A very important managery sort of person, in a suit and painful high heels, flew down from Newcastle and then hired a car to visit me in my little room for those who hate school. I was able to offer her a canteen sandwich, made by a very cross, red-faced canteen lady who quite frankly terrified me into choosing a smelly egg sandwich. Anyway, after our ‘working lunch’ my motherly nature kicked in and I felt sorry for the poor love as she was apparently six months pregnant, had been up at 5am to catch the plane and was heading ‘up North’ imminently. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My little room not only has Classic FM on most of the time, but I have three comfy chairs (mostly for drug counselling) but I also use them for those 11 and 12 year olds who have started smoking in their break-time and come over all queasy and need to ‘gather themselves’. They lie down and I talk of poison and how a 20 a day habit cost £2,500 a year. They of course don’t listen because they prefer Classic FM and nick all their tobacco anyway. I digress. The dear lady from up North was looking post-lunch sleepy and I, being imaginative, visualise some medical emergency in the clouds above Birmingham. So I said, “I expect you are really tired, I really don’t mind you having a rest for 20 minutes if you need to, being pregnant……”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m not pregnant,” she said!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is the moment when I wish I was a heartless, cold, not caring a bit about anything person. Of course I grovelled and apologised and said something like, </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Who am I to talk being ‘Mrs Porky’”. My colleague, later, reassured me by saying, “at least you didn’t say, ‘are you sure?’” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have never seen anyone look so six months that isn’t six months. Oh well you live and learn. At least she didn’t look as pregnant as the road-digger man sat on the village green this lunchtime.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-58851367669443446712011-01-26T11:53:00.000-08:002011-01-26T11:53:41.316-08:00Do you have any strong thoughts on the following?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"> <!--StartFragment--> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Cambria;"><div class="MsoNormal">Today I went for a walk along the Helford Passage <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helford_Passage">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Helford_Passage</a> as it is a fantastic place to reflect and gain some peace and clarity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It would be easy to assume that Cornwall is a place of constant idyll, where the only terrible thing to happen is a hard frost or the fox getting into the hen house.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">However, this last week or so I have been feeling a little disturbed. I am months behind time, primarily because I don’t read the Daily Mail or Mirror and somehow missed the saga in the West Briton.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Only recently I discovered that an old school colleague of mine, in his 50s, left the school I was teaching at about the same time. He then went on to have a relationship with a 16-year-old pupil (despite being married for the third time already). Apparently they were just within the law because she was 16 and he was no-longer a teacher.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure why this has had such a profound effect on me, but I feel like I have seen a very nasty road traffic accident and every so often have flashbacks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I suppose the difference in the country, as opposed to the city, is this kind of scandal effects so many people as we all know him - or his family or her estranged distraught parents or her cousin’s cousin. I used to sit and watch him eat his sandwiches in the staff room and think someone who loved him very much must have made them, as they looked sumptuous (perhaps he loved himself just a little too much).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I suppose I empathise with the girl’s mother, unable to bring her home, because of the Children’s Act: her will reigns supreme. It is a similar situation as when a young adult become infatuated with a guru and joins a cult. I have two daughters who are young women and I would have been horrified if they had gone to live with a man 30 odd years older.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Believe me I l have nothing against 50 something men, I have many friends who are and much older. I appreciate schoolgirl crushes and the Police’s “Don’t Stand Too Close To Me” was an ‘80s fave. Jane Eyre is my favourite book and the age gap in her eventual marriage was considerable.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I think what distresses me most is that the girl had no opportunity to reflect away from the situation. Let’s face it if a young woman is told repeatedly that she is beautiful, loved, unique bla, bla she will succumb to the intoxication of being adored, especially if she doesn’t hear that kind of affirmation from any other place. She would be vulnerable and susceptible to persuasion.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My opinion for what it is worth is that she should have been taken to a place of safety, away from all influences so she could have some intensive therapy and be totally aware of the life choices she was making. There should be a clause in the Children’s Act to allow a multi-agency decision to be made concerning the well-being of a schoolgirl prior to her taking exams and still in full-time education. Obviously the law, as it stands, didn’t allow any caring adult to step in and protect her from what could be a catastrophic life choice</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, two years on and she is in a marriage that apparently is totally ‘fulfilling’. Having many married friends and from personal experience I know married life is a battle – ‘for better for worse’. Without the love and support of family this couple are going to walk a rocky road.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I had assumed that in other cultures that this kind of situation might be commonplace, but having carried out a bit of research 18 is the average age for marriage in nearly all countries worldwide. Yet shacking up with someone is perfectly law-abiding as this case shows.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Looking at recent photos of the couple they appear to be in that euphoric first phase of most relationships and they have presented a normalised front to what is extraordinary. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My hope is that the young woman has someone she can turn to in the future when she will inevitably face tough times. Work stress, sickness, money worries hound every marriage.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know the village she comes from well. I used to horse ride weekly around its lanes and fields. It is the kind of seaside village where everyone greets you – everyone. It just goes to show that the forces in a man’s heart and mind are just as at work in a picturesque rural place as anywhere else.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--EndFragment--> </span>Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-47649286652868029592011-01-07T16:33:00.000-08:002011-01-07T16:33:39.659-08:00Old fashioned remedies<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I have been ill for several weeks now, which is very boring. It started with the flu and progressed to a chest infection. Now, as I come out of my ‘fug’, I feel as if my ribs have been punched by someone with very sharp knuckles. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have of course tried a range of remedies, but have discovered that Baileys is the best. I think that the Irish cream marketing team should stop trying to sell it as a sophisticated after dinner treat (as we all know it is the Babycham of liqueurs) and place it on shelves next to cough mixture. I’m convinced they would make lots more money. It should have a similar advert to Calpol but with adults sleeping instead of babies and then running around feeling much better afterwards. The voice-over could say: “Mrs T, a proper rural wife, recommends Baileys for those nasty chesty coughs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During my remedy seeking time I recalled some of my late Granny’s. She was born at the turn of the 1900s, came from a family of 12 siblings and was the first married woman teacher in Cheshire (she only had one child herself!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently if you had an earache then her mother would boil an onion and put it in a sock for one to hold against their head. She washed her teeth with bicarbonate of soda, used lavender for headaches and considered a warm vest to be essential. </div><div class="MsoNormal">“Eeeh, you’ll get crompus on the mar,” she’d say if she caught you without one in winter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Feed a cold and starve a fever”, she’d say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Every morning she ate porridge, every evening she had a bottle of stout (for iron). For those times when she had a ‘funny turn’ she would take a sip from a flask of brandy in her handbag. The handbag was the size of a small suitcase and made long car journeys more pleasurable for me as I was allowed to tidy it. Inside there were:</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hairnets, hair pins, a plastic rain bonnet in a plastic pot, eau-de-cologne, bright red lipstick, face powder in a compact case with mirror, white cotton hankies, diary, leather purse, Parker pen, toffees, silk headscarf , sewing kit, silver brandy flask, horn-rimmed sunglasses and her crochet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was allowed to watch her get dressed in the morning, which involved a lot of huffing and puffing. She wore an amazing bra that had about half a dozen hooks at the back and was built like armour. Her thermal vest went over the top. Her French knickers were made out of a similar fabric to airtex and on top she wore a girdle. Attached to this, with metal clips, were her suspenders, which held up support stockings. They simply don’t make underwear like it anymore.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then came a full-length petticoat and then finally a smart easy-care dress or a two-piece suit, leather brogues and then her jewellery (gold watch and necklace). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Finally, a top tip for those who are on a tight budget after Christmas, she would exfoliate by using a rough towel.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My dearest has a really bad topical remedy for acne – turmeric. It is effective, but stains the skin for a few days and has unfortunately been tried out on one of daughters!!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My favourite remedy of all (for every kind of illness) is a pair of baggy pyjamas along with a duvet, hot Ribenna and the kind of book that you would never tell anyone you had read for fear they would think you half illiterate (these can be found in most supermarkets). I have read the most naff books imaginable over the last few weeks. My granny would be dismayed, no doubt. I have her collection of Dickens and Thomas Hardy but somehow they aren’t quite the balsam for a fevered brain.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So having beaten the bug with Baileys, I am going to attempt my first braising walk in the morning and in memory of my granny I shall wear a vest.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-90726947029074170192010-12-06T10:02:00.000-08:002010-12-06T10:02:04.825-08:00Wellies and slippersAt this time of year, living in the country, my feet are either in wellies or slippers. I am fully aware that some people rarely wear either, which I find hard to comprehend; they must only walk on clean pavements and have very warm houses.<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">My slippers are especially stupendous being the pink ‘Bo’ pair from <a href="http://www.moshulu.co.uk/ladies/slippers">http://www.moshulu.co.uk/ladies/slippers </a>They were last year’s Christmas present from my beloved and have survived the washing machine twice. What makes them especially useful is that because they have rubber soles, I can wear them on the vegetable patch when I need to dash out to pull a leek or do a spot of driving and dropping off of teenage daughter.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I realise that neither of these items of footwear are remotely cool or sophisticated, although my eldest daughter has a photo of Kate Moss, at Glastonbury, looking both in her wellies (she was looking particularly naffed-off with my daughter incidentally), but I am psychologically and emotionally attached to both pairs. Wearing them is quite ‘self nuturing’. Wellies enable me to go anywhere (along the coastpath, through snow drifts, muddy fields and streams) and slippers mean once they are on my feet I am truly home. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact I have been wearing wellies and slippers since toddlerhood (woolly tights and cardigans have a similar effect on me). Wilf is delighted by both pairs; wellies mean walks and slippers either smell wonderful or he just enjoys seeing my searching for the one he has stolen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I used to read the News for Bath FM, I often had to do a Saturday shift on my own (well with the DJ too). Slippers on my feet meant that the 6am bulletin was slightly more bearable and I could almost convince myself that it was a day off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Similarly, the fact I always had wellies in the boot of my car meant I was able to clamber across field gates and get to the scene of a farm fire and interview the fire-officers way before the BBC got there!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am fully aware that women all over the British Isles love shoes; they collect them. They all look impossible to walk in and desperately painful but I am in awe of their grace as they totter about. The last time I wore anything remotely glamorous was to a party, however this was in a marquee in a field. Before I could greet my hosts I was wiping my heels with tufts of grass and looking longingly at someone else dancing in a shift dress with wellies. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This reminds me, you can now buy white wellies for brides, for when they go stomping across the grass or beach for photoshoots. I think that is quite a positive indication of a bride’s character – it means she is prepared for better and worse.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am intrigued if anyone else has similar attachments to items of clothing?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><!--EndFragment-->Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-59875396316654847262010-12-02T17:22:00.000-08:002010-12-02T17:22:48.631-08:00Something and nothingFor those who have been eager to know the outcome of the abandoned car in the village, it was a bit of 'something and nothing' I'm afraid. I am reliably informed that the driver was spotted driving away, but we don't know who they were as the eye-witness, behind the post office counter, was serving a customer at the time. They weren't 'local' (which was said with a slight sniff) and all that was seen was a mysterious shoulder.<br />
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It rather reminds me of another 'something and nothing' time when the burglar alarm in the post office went off in the early hours of the morning. I jumped out of bed in order to spy on the dastardly culprits from behind a crack in the curtain (I could see myself being quoted on Crimewatch) only to watch a completely deserted lane and then the alarm stopped. Apparently, it was a large spider that triggered the alarm off!<br />
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The whole village is turning out for bit of 'something and nothing' tomorrow evening. We all gather for the Christmas tree lights to be turned on. The sea scouts are selling hotdogs, the hardware store offers free sausage rolls and mince pies (next to the bird food and pet food) someone heats up the mulled wine and we sort of warble a few carols along with the brass band. The smithy fires up his furnace and the potter and printmaker open their doors. The main excitement is that Cornwall's very own Father Christmas lives in the village (in a bungalow). He looks and sounds exactly like Captain Birdseye and each year grooms his super white beard and does the whole 'ho, ho' act.<br />
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I am just a little sad that this is the first year that I have no children (grown-up ones even) to share in general lighting-up jollity. The pull of a free ticket to see Pixie Lott in Plymouth is rather stronger than Father Christmas. Oh well, we have our twinkle lights ready on the tree outside the cottage and the Parish Church has set up the stable scene on the green next to us (Wilf will have to wee somewhere else for a month). I daresay we will squeeze into the Red Lion and strike up a chat and join in the banter.<br />
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My Christmas tree this year is a branch from Sancreed (from my three weeks on the moor). A farmer was cutting down a dangerous overhang, in the wind, so I stuffed a bit into the Landrover. It has lots of lovely lichen on it and with some lights and creative sparkly things will satisfy my 'child within'. If it was in an art gallery I would entitle it a 'bit of something and nothing'.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-27964782140860805642010-10-26T15:51:00.000-07:002010-10-27T02:20:44.782-07:00Nature lovingI have taken this rural lark to a new level - the Somerset Levels to be precise. Call me and old hippie if you will, but I would prefer sleeping in the great outdoors to negotiating some floral patterned, air-freshenered, greasy mealed bed-and-breakfast any day. It also saved me 90 quid. So I slept in my car for a couple of nights in two different fields, overlooked by Glastonbury Tor, and have returned home to Kernow.<br />
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The purpose of my visit was to minister to a broken heart (young love) and as said individual has ADHD and plays Xbox until the early hours, I thought it best to deliver my healing coffee and walnut cake and then sleep soundly in the Somerset countryside instead of in his flat amidst a cyber war-zoned nightmare.<br />
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My first night was in a gateway with a handy ditch (please don't ask for details but a lady needs to do what a lady needs to do). A full moon meant I could change into my 'jammys' and bed-socks without a torch and then snuggle down on a foam mattress, on goose down pillows in a caterpillar-style mountaineering sleeping bag. I awoke at 4am, needing to visit the ditch, with ice on all my car windows. At this moment I realised that nasty bed and breakfasts, with plastic-framed prints on the wall, and custard creams by the kettle exist for a reason.<br />
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On returning to my bag I consider dying of hypothermia: "A heart of gold who died of cold". I put on my Scottish cashmere cardi' and cover myself with the National Trust picnic rug, with plasticated bottom, in an attempt to survive and then breathe my own doggy, sleepy breath into the bag (how I've stayed married so long is a mystery).<br />
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I awake to a frosty start, have a light shower near the ditch, and outbreaks of sunshine which makes washing in cold water mildly bearable (I used to read the weather on Bath FM).<br />
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The second night is wet and drizzly and has the added bonus of me seeing a Tawny Owl catching its prey. In the morning, the farmers tractor chugging up and down, in the next field but one, makes my lady's toilette slightly 'nervy', but my Celtic ancestors would be proud of my techniques.<br />
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Of course in Glastonbury loadsa people are doing it - sleeping in vehicles. However, most of them need to take mind-altering substances before such an idea seems sensible, which is a bit troubling really as I am on Yorkshire Tea.<br />
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Well I have pampered my nurturing nature, and soothed a troubled soul with some hearty cooking and a prayer or two. Tonight I shall retire in relative luxury, underneath the thatch, to the sound of a developing Cornish sea storm.<br />
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PS. I shall get to the bottom of the village abandoned car asap (see previous post for details).Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-80144917178696212052010-10-21T03:56:00.000-07:002010-10-21T03:56:07.703-07:00Intrigue in the Post OfficeA car hasn't moved in the village for two days. If this happened in a town then it would barely get noticed, but here in West Cornwall such things provide fodder for endless tales of intrigue. So this morning as I entered the post office, to buy a newspaper, I was unaware that I was one of the central characters in one of these mysteries.<br />
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"Is that car anything to do with you?" I was asked by the assistant behind the counter.<br />
"No"I replied, looking at a black estate car that seemed to be cramped with what looked like camping gear.<br />
"Only it hasn't moved, not an inch, for two days. We thought it must be a friend of yours."<br />
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This of course was an easy assumption to make as we live next-door-but-two to the Post Office and have a whole range of vehicles, and their occupants, visit our cottage on a regular basis.<br />
"That settles it then. I'm getting onto the local lads to trace the number, as it could be someone who went on a walk and has got into trouble." I at this stage imagine someone in their walking boots, wrapped in their pac-a-mac nibbling on their last sandwich crust lying on the coast path. I then imagine our local Police Officer (who last time he paid a visit stopped for a full hour, by our fire, and used his time to suggest a whole range of security measures whilst keeping a keen eye on the telly) becoming a hero in next weeks' paper for heading up a successful cliff rescue.<br />
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Obviously awful things do happen down here, people drown or get their limbs caught in farm machinery and the air ambulance is called into action. However, today's front page news, in our local weekly paper, consists of a dog "Cherry" having been bit by another dog and there is a rather pitiful picture of her with one of those lampshade-style-collars on her head. The headline reads, "Pet dog needs emergency surgery after attack".<br />
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For those who read my previous blog and may be concerned, as I was, by the fact one of my elderly neighbours is walking around with a watch telling the wrong time. They will be pleased to know that I met him again and adjusted his time-piece. Hopefully he won't miss "Strickly" or a bus in the near future.<br />
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After spending yesterday afternoon sitting with friends and pot of tea in the garden, basking in the last of the late summer sunshine, we had our first frost overnight (well as near to a frost as we ever get down here). It means I will have to wrap up my banana tree before it's too late, but the good news is that now the ground has had a freeze we can start harvesting the parsnips. I am now off in search of my spicy parsnip and apple soup recipe.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-25297705142971143942010-10-15T09:53:00.000-07:002010-10-15T09:53:27.349-07:00Village informationThe thing about standing in the centre of our village with a pot of paint, paintbrush and ladder is not only do you become the subject of endless banter such as "it's going to rain in a minute" and "I like your moves Jo" (as I move my arm up and down) but every passing car assumes you know everything and are a public information service.<br />
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For those that don't know Mawnan Smith it is a bit 'posh'. Although we have lots of hard-working struggling families, we also have more than out fair share of millionaires. I don't know any of them personally, and they make sure I don't pop 'round for a cup of sugar, because they have gated long-drives with security technology keypads on the roadside. These privileged few overlook the Helford Passage and are a mystery to us commoners.<br />
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However, as I slaved away painting my own cottage (because I can't afford a team of workmen) I caught a glimpse of several of these swish individuals as they glided past in their shiny royal-like vehicles.<br />
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It was then that I reminded myself of the importance of "with food and clothing be satisfied". This was a trifle tricky due to fact I looked my worst in paint overalls and wellies and am on a diet. However, I embraced the general principle and reflected on the fact that wealth doesn't necessarily equate with contentment.<br />
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It was while I was deep in thought, and singing a hymn, that a rather spiffing, navy-blazered retired gentleman asked for directions. I'd already given several but was pleased to play the role of tourist information assistant. But this gentleman had a mission, he was using his retirement to fundraise for charity and was obviously aware, despite his apparent access to money (judging by the car), of those in need; he was planning a coffee morning and needed directions to the caretakers house to access the village hall.<br />
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Now for those who don't live in the countryside they will be unaware of the significance of such events. For those of us who don't have Starbucks and Costa Coffee on our doorsteps, and live in the middle of nowhere, the fundraising coffee morning is a bit of a social hub-bub. There is always a raffle and although many of the prizes can appear raffle after raffle everyone enjoys the chance to gain a bottle of plonk or box of chocs. There is invariably the chance to buy cheap greeting cards and the odd plant. I warned our fine-looking gent' that the post-office counter was already crammed with harvest auction, a choir concert, table-top sale, art class and talk by the history society but he marched with purpose to advertise his event.<br />
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It was after I'd directed several walkers to the coast path, admired a dog and made a polite 'jolly sound' in response to yet another mildly amusing quip that I spotted an elderly man shuffling down towards the post-office. I apologised for my ladder, paint pot and general clutter in his way. It was only a matter of moments before he passed again but his bag appeared to be empty. We then had a conversation that went something like this:<br />
"Is the post-office shut?"I asked.<br />
"Yes!"<br />
"That's unusual."<br />
"I know. What day is is?"<br />
"Thursday. What time is it?"<br />
"Three o'clock."<br />
"That is strange. Do you need anything? Milk?"<br />
"No I'm fine thankyou."<br />
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It wasn't until he shuffled up the hill that I realised that the post office and general stores is NEVER closed outside the stated opening times. Unless a major event such as <u>death</u> had happened then why would it be in darkness long after lunchtime? So off I went, with my Miss Marple persona ready, to take action. When I knocked the postmistresses door she opened it.<br />
"Mrs Lugg," I said. "Are you alright?"<br />
"Yes", she said.<br />
"But the shop is shut".<br />
"It's lunchtime."<br />
Of course not wearing a watch, because I was painting, meant I hadn't realised the old boy's was an hour ahead of time. So no doubt not only do I look like a complete nincompoop, covered in paint, but I have behaved like one. The disadvantage about living in a village is that everyone will know I'm a twit and will remember I am for several generations. Thankfully, with food and clothes I am satisfied and am not trying to be voted on the parish council.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-28419127962280323912010-10-12T03:29:00.000-07:002010-10-12T03:29:45.350-07:00The bird tableI have a little animal feeding trip around the cottage and garden, each morning, while I wait for the kettle to boil. Dog first, the sack of food being in a metal-dustbin in the shed (to stop the mice); Wilf then gets shut in in the kitchen to avoid him committing daylight-breakfast-robbery. Cat next, Thistle's breakfast is put under the boat to prevent seagulls swooping and causing a huge vet's bill and finally, I feed the birds. The fact that my garden birds probably eat a more varied diet than most of Falmouth Uni' students is one of my little luxuries. This daily trip is carried out in a very old Boden, mauve dressing-gown which the Robin is fine with but quite honestly would make a nice dog blanket (I think I'll get a new one if I ever need to go into hospital). Maybe I should just ask Johnny for a new one claiming 'faithful service'.<br />
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This morning as I put out the muesli-style base, peppered with berry fat strips and then dried meal-worms and caught sight of my 'extended family' gathering in the trees. The collared doves are particularly startled by my dressing gown, so prefer to wait until I am safely away in the kitchen. This morning they gave me a bit of a shock, temporarily. Mr and Mrs Dove mate for life and are a lovely team to watch. While one feeds, the other keeps watch and then they swap over - how romantic. Anyway, suddenly there were three and for a brief second I was dismayed - how could this nasty gooseberry barge in like this? Then of course I realised it was their offspring! Smaller, punk hairdo, slightly gangly with a need for one of Mrs T's super boosting fill-ups. My next anxiety is how they will find a mate in time for Spring. Do the doves have gatherings where they arrange such things (like a Jane Austin tea party)? There are so few Doves in the village......<br />
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As I sit at my study desk, a pile of research to my left, the family Dove are digesting their morning repast sat on a Hazel branch in the Autumn sunshine. Thistle is carrying out her ladies toilette on top of the log pile and Wilf is lying at my feet on 'Blankie'. He plays the big bully but is actually a big baby when it comes to Blankie. So all is well.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-91223866503075462552010-10-09T11:37:00.000-07:002010-10-09T11:37:18.547-07:00The pianoI am sat listening to my beloved playing a borrowed electric Rhodes piano. We started out with '40s popular and have progressed to '70s funk. Anyhow me and my youngest, a waitress in a local posh local hotel, think we can rent him out in a dickie-bow for dinner-dos. I, of course, burst into rapturous applause after each melody (he joins in for himself!) All I need is some 'family diamonds', a Martini cocktail and red lipstick.<br />
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I spent some of this morning cutting my mother's fingernails. Apparently, if you are a carer or nurse you are not employed, or insured to, look after fingernails. If someone doesn't have a caring family member they, I suppose, grow long, mucky talons. Similarly, if you don't have a daughter to measure you for a bra and try several on, if you are in a nursing home, you are left to rely on 'whoever' to purchase your undies. Anyway enough of my rant about care for the elderly.<br />
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I am working on my dearest to play a selection of really naff 'family favourites'. My plan is to subject those gathered at tea-time in the nursing home, on my mother's birthday, to the family Van-Thomas. I think "what shall we do with a drunken sailor" "Lavenders Blue" "Favourite Things" and "Ashgrove" will go down a treat (while my biker husband squirms in his very tough boots). I will, of course, supply the birthday cake and wear a frock.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-23812459970778465422010-10-08T00:07:00.000-07:002010-10-08T00:07:49.643-07:00The tipIt is of course Friday and in our village that means bin-day. The fact that my beloved has forgotten to put ours out, for the umpteenth time, would be justification for me to create a big 'song and dance' (using our metal bin lids as percussion). However, the wisdom that comes to being married for so many years enables me to manipulate the situation to my advantage. For those who read yesterday's post, you will of course remember today is the big hedge cut day. By dusk the Landrover will be jam-packed full of hedge trimmings and I can suggest that a trip to the dump, along with bin-bags, makes amends for his fuzzy-brained forgetfulness.<br />
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For those who think I might be being a little harsh, you may not realise that a trip to the council tip is similar, in our household, to ones taken (by city-dwellers) to Ikea. It's not as if we scrabble around rubbish heaps like slum-dwellers, no we do very 'respectable rescuing'.<br />
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For instance I am sat on a walnut antique chair covered in a pleasant rusty velvet. This was handed over from one very cultured lady's car-boot to ours before it got to the skip. She obviously hadn't heard of eBay (not unknown in West Cornwall) and was delighted we could make use of it. The desk I sit at is solid mahogany and came from the Dental Estimates Board dumping pile (with permission), when all their executive staff were forced to sit at new, EU health and safety standard, plastic coated desks instead.<br />
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In fact half our delightful cottage is full of cast-offs. The piano was thrown out by a chapel, two antique mirrors have come out of skips as has the wood used to make my husband's work bench (thankyou Lloyds Bank in Frome for giving us your old door). There are rugs, chairs, tables all with a tale behind them. However, there is a ban on candlesticks; we have started to look like a stage set for a Dickens' novel. So who knows by the end of today I could be finding place for yet another piece of valuable 'rubbish'.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7027156207054377659.post-38163520889097864832010-10-07T14:04:00.000-07:002010-10-07T14:08:47.424-07:00Harvest timeI tried to fake genuine amazement at the three harvested peppers and two cucumbers. Call me a 'spoilt supermarket saddo' if you want, but these items were decidedly poorly looking. It's not that I am not impressed that my dearest for 24 years (anniversary this week) has grown a pepper plant and harvested the fruits, it's just they look a little shriveled and they have suspicious insect holes in them. The cucumbers, instead of being green, are of a strange pale yellow hue. "Wow!" is the general 'cover all' for any offerings, muddy and slug-eaten, that are presented from the garden.<br />
<br />
We had one of the plum-sized peppers in our home-made chicken soup this evening. There were tiny specks of dark green pepper which we, of course, made exaggerated yum-yum noises at. The cucumber didn't pass the cutting stage as it tasted like vinegar - nasty vinegar.<br />
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The dog is spending less time in the greenhouse (the plants are slowly dying). His usual trip around the garden consists of cat bowl, wee up the boundary stone, eating tomatoes (that have dropped off the tomato plants onto the greenhouse floor), followed by licking the kitchen drain for any sweetcorn, bits of cooked rice or other washing-up-bowl titbits.<br />
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There are two harvest suppers in the village - one run by the WI and the other is in the church. I am not sure who I will fall out with if I attend either. Since the front hedge needs cutting, and I am likely to cause a major eye injury to some unsuspecting dear person very soon, it is likely I will be attempting a straight-horticultural-line during suppertime anyway (after 5pm the lane is free of traffic and safe to start strimming in).<br />
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I am a bit fed-up that I only made a jar and a half of Blackberry jam last night. It took Wilf (Standard Schnauzer) and I half an hour to pick a colander full of berries. We had to avoid dog-muck, nettles and then find prime fruit; some were too squashy, others too hard. It was getting dark and I feared some nasty weirdo might be lurking in the hedgerow (watched too many crime dramas on ITV). The result of our "all things bright and beautiful" escapade only made enough jam for one Victoria Sandwich and a few midnight feasts - ho -hum.Mrs Thttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09066920795340276006noreply@blogger.com0