The Sunday sofa ...

Before and after!

This is the nerve-centre of my Sunday sofa empire. With my head full of blogging topics and my tum full of fried brekkie I survey my domain. It's wet so Lettice will have to wait for her walk. The super-strength sofa suckers keep my bot firmly fixed in its feather filled cushions' clutches. I valiantly try to prise myself out, then fall back comforting myself with the notion a cafetiere of coffee will be along shortly.

What to tell you about, that's the big question?

I know ... I'll tell you about the prick in my trews. The WHAT? Yes, you heard right!

I've got these wonderful creased, grungy screw-up-able trousers with an elasticated waist (an absolute must with a spreading girth). I wash them, hang them up to dry and then twist them up to maintain the creases, although having said that 5 minutes on and the creases have given up the ghost at the onslaught of my bulging buttocks. Lettice had to go to the vets so I decided that the creased ensemble would be the appropriate gear, especially as I would have to bend down to lift her onto the consultation table; get my drift?

I got the scrunched trews out and proceeded to put them on... what was that? I felt a scratch on my knee, probably a bit of thistle from the garden I thought. Up they went when suddenly I felt a sting on my thigh. Slowly, ever so SLOWLY I gently took them off. Peering into the nether regions of the aforesaid apparel I saw a socking great Queen hornet or wasp. Carrying them carefully downstairs I gave them to Hubs to sort. He peered into my trousers and nearly had a fit (no funnies please!) I am not telling porkies when I say the blooming thing was at least 2 inches long. The bite on my thigh looked like I'd been punctured by a thin knitting needle. Being a hero I whacked some Aloe on it and off we went.

The question is how did it get there? Was it there when I got them in from the line? Or probably most likely it came in and decided that my bundle of fun breeks were a des. res. for hibernation purposes .... WRONG!

Lonely Hearts (How I met Hubs)

'I'm warm, womanly and winsome,

54 going on 34,

full of fun and fizz.

You're loyal, loving and giving and

up for a laugh.'

The very last paper I would have ever considered buying was the F.T.

Why? Cos I was never any good at sums, that's why! However...

One fateful Saturday on a long and tedious journey with friends, we stopped at a motorway service area. I decided I needed to buy some reading material, The Socialist Worker, The Guardian, Farmers Weekly, The War Cry, Bunty. But no... the FFFFinancial Times???

What possessed me? To this day I'll never know.

My man had not long ago died, having said that, that most definitely wasn't the reason I read the lonely hearts column on that particular day. I ALWAYS read these ads, I could never work out how everyone was always "Tall, slim and attractive". Not in my book they weren't, least of all little ole me. Anyway, as we zoomed up the M1 I got to thinking..... if I ever did put an advertisement in a newspaper, this would be a good choice. The reason being (and here we get to the nitty-gritty) most folk reading this newspaper would be a) intelligent and b) have some dosh. Alright, alright... a) have some money and b) have a modicum of brain-power. I needed a man I could get out of the box for wining and dining, flowers, treats and choccies and other reciprocal arrangements. Then when it suited me bung him back in the box. Trouble is I never could get the bugger back, nor I hasten to add did I ever want to. And another thing ... I certainly got a) but not b), I'll leave you to decide which was which.

Two years ago today we were here...

Why?

Where better for a pair of 'recycled' chums to tie the knot?

My wedding bouquet of paper flowers was made from pages of the Financial Times.

Why?

To find out you have to leave me a comment -

the extremes I go to to get some response!

Have Halo will Travel Hubs

Why?

Cos he's lovely that's why!

Sailing off into the sunset...

to be continued.....

From today on... I'm going to try my level best to be SENSIBLE!

A big ask I know, however.....

at my age 63 going on 13 I really do think the time has come.

Fluffy dice, dog poo hanging in trees, cross-dressing scarecrows et al all have their place, not sure where mind! From this day on I will try and bring you my 'home thoughts from a broad'.

My passion is making stuff; although having said that the worst thing for me to do, is to look at other peoples' blogs and see their magical creations. I then look at mine and wonder what the hell I'm wasting my time for. My first craft fair for a few years was on Saturday and I think folk are finally getting where I'm coming from, just wish they'd let me in on the secret, then I could get the return ticket. At the 2006 craft fair all my wares were made from odds and ends (all recycled bits), trouble is I was a bit ahead of the revival; in my inflated image I was a trend setter, never one to hide my light under a bushel. The other stall holders with bought-in hippy tat, awful dried flower arrangements, fluffy scarfs, silver plated goblets and gaud all looked at me as if I'd stepped out of the police box on the arm of the rather delicious Dr. Who (Dave to his friends). Is it any wonder I sold precisely NOWT?

Four years down the line and suddenly they seem to get it. I'm now waiting for Rubenesque

buttocks and bosoms to be in vogue then I've cracked it!

My head spins with ideas ...

... my hands don't follow suit!

Today I've spent in the studio getting things ready for my first craft fair for a couple of years.

When I look at my pathetic efforts I get a huge dose of doubt.

Tuesday up-date ...

This was the start of my yesterday's post, I couldn't carry on. I felt horribly flat, my usual ebullience had deserted me. Why? The worry of my lovely little Lettice coming to the end of her life. She's had two mini doggy strokes and although she's bright, but wobbly at the moment, there is the awful decision sneaking over the horizon. I've always said I will do the right thing for her, never prolong her life for my own selfish ends. Trouble is knowing when. Not today nor yet tomorrow? She's bright and as always my furry faithful friend. I just hope I can maintain my fun and fizz around her so as not to give her an inkling of my fears.

Sunday sofa musings ...

I sort of knew the day wouldn't take the usual course ...

Why?

How many people do you know that lay in bed on a Sunday morning discussing the finer points of their mothers boiling the veg for 20 minutes? The addition of adding a teaspoon of bicarbonate of soda to the cabbage pan was also touched on. However that subject was scotched because coming from a more upwardly mobile family it wasn't the done thing in our house!

On our walk the next subject for discussion was the proliferation of plastic bags of dog poo hanging in trees and bushes. In fairness that subject was debated by us yesterday seeing a couple in the village field with two dogs, go to the bother of harvesting the excrement only to disappear down a track, returning with empty hands!?! Sawing a lady in half yes, disappearing dog poo ..... NO!

The Monthly Food Magazine in the Observer ... I love it.

Another quote in the papers that tickled me "As cosy as a cat in a cardigan".

Why have we in the UK started kissing each other on both cheeks?

Last but not least, the death of the lovely Claire Rayner ... What a woman.

Back in 1992 I met her on several occasions on BBC Good Morning with Anne and Nick. Although I was the new girl, she was friendly, charming and very encouraging as I waited for my appearence on live television.

Oh the joys of having an active brain ... just wish the bod was as busy ... the sofa summons ... zzz

With Boudica blades for elbows ...

... the frail old girls carve through the crowd.

Jumble sales in deepest Kent are battlegrounds for bargains.

Shrinking violet me, with only a nodding acquaintance of the rules of engagement, tend not to find my way onto the battlefield.

Call me brave, foolhardy even, the blood lust stirred in my veins.

My dulcet tones reverberated around our sleepy village...

"To War"!

I even queued!

Portmeirion Totem storage jars my spoils of battle.

Staggering down the hill, with retro bounty clasped to my ample bosom I fell in the door and demanded the old boy pour me a Port and Lemon.

As the dust settled I thought ...

"Hang on a minute Lindy Lou, you didn't even like them the first time round"

The Craft Fair approaches.......

..... and what do I do?

Sit here blogging that's what!

When a deadline rears its ugly head. The appeal of the chimney needing re-pointing, the windows needing cleaning, the cushions needing plumping, the shelves needing polishing, the books needing sorting, the floor needing mopping, the bread needing kneading, all take on an loathsome appeal. Even Henry sits cowering in the utility room rubbing his fluff-filled tum.

I don't know what I'm worried about because the last craft fair I did I was obviously ahead of my time. Recycling, upcycling, tricycling ... call it what you will, was unheard of. All the sniffy stall-holders with their bought-in old tat and artificial floral arrangements obviously thought I'd flown in on me broomstick from far, far away. Trouble was, so did the punters and that day I don't think I took a guinea. Alright it wasn't that long ago, I could have said a groat, that really would have been pushing it!

Anyway..... I thought I'd take a photo of what I have actually done today. Just for me you understand?

The top badge is made out of sea-glass gathered on the beach in Mykonos. The second one is made out of a peculiar pash I have for bandages.

Back to the sweat-shop!

Why is it I hate Dahlias SO MUCH?

Can anyone please tell me?

Am I alone I wonder?

Dahlias in my mind I associate with BIG PINK BLOOMERS, the sweet smell of lavender overlaid with wee.

Where does this association come from? Growing up in the Fifties perhaps? When men wore Harris Tweed jackets, flannelette shirts and trousers tied up with twine. Leaning on the garden gate with pipe at full fume, admiring their Chrysanthemums and the dreaded dahlias. In serried rows they stand with sentinel flower-pots on sticks filled with straw to attract the earwigs.

It makes me feel funny just thinking about it. Weird or what?

My worry now, is when will it be my turn to rush out and buy the bloomers. How will I know? Will I wake up one morning and feel it in my water..... Today's the day! And horror of horrors will I rush off to the garden centre and fill my left knicker leg (which I will be able to do courtesy of the elastic in the legs) with dahlia tubers?