Sunday, 28 October 2012

Fleet of foot...

I walked out into the biting wind.
Poppy pinned to my chest,
proudly I went.

Looking for all the world like,
Miss Candy of Saturday morning pictures...
remember them?
Tray of poppies clapped to my heaving breast,
down the hill into the teeth of a
cold, cold day.

I was the new girl;
all the crusty old codgers like Ted who knew the 
ropes, had their rounds well established.
I was given two roads on the council estate.
Excitement coursed through my veins...
in an old-girly way, I thought I was brave going into battle!
Let's face it times are hard and most folk have so little money.
The first house I went to,
 brambles caught on my coat as I approached the front door.
Sleeping beauty I idly wondered?
Weaving through the greenery I managed to
get knuckle to door.  A discombobulated voice was heard to say...
Which I took to be, go to the back door?
Where I was met by a younger than me, guy
 I'd seen many times before. 
He'd obviously seen my approach and had two pounds in his hand.
Down the hill feeling love for my fellow man I floated.
I turned into the estate full of heart-felt hope.
The next house the door opened a crack
and a whiskered chin said she had already bought her poppy!
The next house a lovely lady came down the side of the house saying
'Don't get too close I've got a tummy bug!'
Putting a pound into the tin she scurried back into the warm.
Warmth and kindness was my welcome at all houses.

At 1.30 p.m. it started to sleety rain, so I bobbed up the alley
back home for lunch.
On arrival Ted and I compared the weight of our tins,
mine by a mile was heavier.

Earlier in the week we had had a skirmish on the sofa...
Oh yes LL... do we really need to know this?
Well, only in order to furnish you an accurate account of 
my poppy training initiation, 
(Oh and an idea of what a contrary monkey I am)
I think the tale must be told.

Sat cheek by jowl on the sofa, one evening I jumped up,
dived into the drawer and withdrew our stash of coppers.
Ted seeing where this was going said

'Stop!  Don't put the coppers into your tin!'

Well!  I'm afraid to say if someone, especially Hubs,
 tells me not to do anything AND explains the reason why...
In every fibre of my being I feel compelled to disobey.
It's only natural... 
isn't it?

'Why carry the coppers when you can put them in at the end...
think of your thumb Lin!'

Tears rolled down my face as I shoved each penny, groat,
and copper into my tin.
It was worth it for the rolling around, side-splitting laughter, plus 
the look of disgust on his visog
(like that word).

Any road taking the extra weight of my stolen stash out of the
equation, my tin was by far the weightier.

We compared notes, his, to all intents and purposes
wealthy clientele weren't so giving. 

Battling a desire to stay in the warm, out I went.
Folding money found its way into my tin that afternoon
and not only once!

At nearly the last house, through the door, I saw a shape jump
excitedly down the stairs.
I said as he opened the door
'Sorry it's only me; you look as if you're expecting someone exciting!'
He said 
'I've been watching you, from upstairs and it shouldn't be someone
out collecting on a day as cold as this!  It should be a young person!'

Well... I roared; to say it tickled me, would be the understatement.
Back-peddling for all he was worth,
he obviously realised that what he'd said, wasn't very diplomatic,
which made me laugh even more.

'Look, I'm a very straight-talking woman and if there's something I like, it's
someone who tells it like it is!'

He'd already bought his poppy at Sainsburys, although as we got chatting
 more and more money found its way into my tin.

Guilt quids are as well received as any other in my book.

Smiling and light in heart, feeling every year of my age, 

I puffed back up the hill.
Cold but content, happy to, in some small 
way, show my appreciation 
 for such a worthwhile cause.

Today, our 4th wedding anniversary
finds 't'old lass'  (Yorkshire expression) tucked up
in the warm
awaiting her celebratory flute of fizz.


Sunday, 21 October 2012

Feet higher than my head...

legs over the side,
I settle ever deeper into the clutches of
the feather filled cushions of my bosom buddy...
the sofa.
With tum full of freshly baked scone,
I do what I always enjoy doing, on one particular
Sunday of the month...
I devour the
Observer Food Monthly.
I turn first to the comfort of a fellow 
happy eater...
Jay Rayner.
A kindred spirit if ever I saw one.
His slummocky lived-in looks appeal,
only in a culinary way you understand!
I love seeing folk who look as if they
enjoy their grub, don't you?

He talks this month about his lovely mother
Claire Rayner, who died two years ago.
I wrote on June 6, 2011 about going to a wonderful evening 
celebrating her life.
What a woman and still much missed.

'True luxury didn't need spin'
she said.
I couldn't agree more.

I often think the chefs are doing the theatrical bits
purely for their own gratification.
Sort of porridge porn...
'Let's see how far we can push the punters!'
Emperors and clothes come to mind.

On seeing 'lobster and chips' on the menu when being 
treated to dinner by Jay and his wife.
With a glint in her eye Claire said...
'Now that, is class!'

Son and mother tucked in.

Lovely memories Jay.

My culinary experience of the weekend
was the huge delight I gained from spying a giant mushroom
 (dinner plate size) magnificently gracing a grotty old piece of waste ground. 
Definitely on the wrong side of the track.
I lifted it... Oh so carefully, making sure I used my 
left hand, as in my right I carried the not very savoury
bag of doggy do.

Home we went dog and I,
me dreaming of the brunch I would prepare on our return.
Careful of course to...
wash my hands first!

Friday, 19 October 2012

One woman went to sew...

went to sew a meadow...
 a meadow of memories.
And here it is in all its...
 roughty-toughty* glory.





 Us blogging fruit gum chums...
get close, in a way men can only dream of.
I feel very real affection for the pals I have made in
LOVE even!

'Oh NO!  The daft tart's not falling in lurf again...
God help us if she's progressed from gay men to...
Is nothing sacred in this virtual reality world we all inhabit?'

Well to cut a short story long...
I've met a very talented lady
called Viv 
who I took an instant green-eyed
antipathy** to...
Well you would wouldn't you...
her being so talented an'all!
I'm not an only child for nuffink you know!

Viv has the 'honour' of being my very first
female blogging love.
Groans all round!
You can mock all you like!

Any road, poor Viv has had the misfortune to
cross my path more than once.
She's obviously not very nimble on her feet poor love!
Most folk see me coming and bob off down a
dark alley to avoid the full-on,
headlights, main beam, steam train, full throttle,
Larger than life - Lindy Lou.

Out of the blue Viv got a missive from me to ask her to

make a work of art out of the above card. 

One can only guess at her dismay?
Being so artistical, she must have groaned BIG TIME.
Unlike me she doesn't seem to have the
'On yer bike!' gene.
Many times after talks on my life, people would come up and ask me if I still cook, 
i.e. me cooking for the Royals, thinking they would book me,
to come along and do an 'odd'
dinner party or two.
My reply was always the same...
'On yer bike!!!'
It didn't matter who they were,
 titled or otherwise, that was ALWAYS my reply.
It's funny but I seem to have a superb 
command of the English language?

Isn't it just the most amazing wondrous work of art?

I get to finish it, which for me

feels like I'm walking in the footsteps of giants.

*  Roughty-toughty - 
is good in my book - just love it!

**  Antipathy - 
"Sympathy constitutes friendship; but in love there is a sort of antipathy,
or opposing passion.  Each strives to be the other and both together make up one whole."
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Sunday, 14 October 2012

A fly on the wall of...

my weekend.

Friday found my heart broken, strop levels soaring.

On arrival back from tai chi and the barbers,
Ted informed me that waiting to be snipped
(NOT that sort!)
he got to read the...
Daily Mail...
now, as if that wasn't bad enough...
Hang on...
The Daily Sport 
could have been worse?

He, in hushed voice informed me that my latest squeeze
(and I wouldn't mind, but he's not even GAY)
((my first deviation from the norm...
that'll teach me!!!))
has found a new love.
You'll never in a million years guess who...
Auntie Bessie...
Auntie Bessie?

Yes that one...
her of the cardboard Yorkshire puddings.

My culinary organical world has come crashing down
and as for my furtive lusting...

Keith, my card-carrying, cardigan wearing
idol of veg boxes (bet he even has soil under his nails) has sold out.
Ted said when I shot off a missive to Abel and Cole...
'Sold out sounds a bit harsh Lin!'
Edward, always the diplomat and peacemaker.
'That's exactly how I feel!' Strop replied.

Saturday morning found me much improved...  
I strode purposefully up the the 
WI Autumn Sale - 10 am
last Saturday I'd done the same...
problem... I was seven days too early...
Now I know queueing is de rigueur on these occasions 
however this was definitely taking the Michael.

I bought a three metre length of wonderful Sanderson
fabric for £2, a tray cloth and a bamboo vase thingy.

Buying raffle tickets I said...
'My only raffle prize was at the age of seven, when I won a 
hundred fags... that's how lucky I am!'

I then went to case a local Flea market, for flogging off my remaining
treasures.  I came away feeling a trifle flat.
Has the bubble burst I idly wondered as I shot home, 
breaking the sound barrier in my
scratch black Smart, complete with Smarty Pants sticker, 
fluffy dice, red noses and HUGE cow-catching poppy on the front.
Sarah Brightman eat your heart out!
Beaten you... so there!

Fish pie and Strictly evening...
Sad I know!

now you're talking...
All's good in the world.
Ted had limbo-danced at dawn out of the marital bed, 
in order not to awaken the slumbering giant.
He is off to a Fibonacci appreciation society meeting.
Fibonacci I said, not flaming Liberace!
Don't ask?

A quiet day was planned for Miss Tena and me...

Can you spot the raffle prize in the form of a magnificent 
basket of fruit?
Would I have preferred the invitation to the Ambassador's party
by way of Ferrero Rocher?
I'll leave you to decide!

We went for a slow walk to the car park and back.

I then scooted up to the paper shop,
only buying one, as I had major plans for landscaping the pond.

Coffee at eleven

taken in the directors chair
surveying the work.

In for lunch, quick blog, 'Little Weed' like, back into the garden 
to enjoy the warm Autumn rays.

Roast Sirloin planned for dinner served with
 MY Yorkshire puddings...

Two eggs
4 oz plain flour
Dash of cold water, in the form of tears!
Smoking hot fat...
Oven roof lifted.

Friday, 12 October 2012

I know I sound needy...


Why don't many of you comment on my blog?

I get shed loads of visitors,
It's been a long old struggle to get above 30 followers.
I say something a bit near the mark, then one will drop off...
so I'm only just treading water.

Ted often reads my blog and says
'Bet a lot of folk haven't got a clue where you're coming from!'
My wind-pain smile of a reply, speaks oceans!

Perhaps I do?

Oh dear!

I can feel a tartan slipper with buttons and bobble moment coming on.
Before you know it my big pink drawers hanging on the line 
will alert air traffic control at Gatwick. 

'Unidentified low flying object spotted over the Weald of Kent...
proceed with extreme caution!'

Thursday, 11 October 2012

As I sit and painfully knit...

I get to thinking...
Gone are the days when I sat high atop the wagon
looking for all the world like Calamity Jane
riding shotgun on the Deadwood Stage.

A mornings work in the field stacking by hand,
straw bales into piles of eight or ten then,
up onto the trailer to carefully stack, and 'knit' in a very precise
manner, so as to ensure they stay put as we trundle home.
The Vale of York used to reverberate with cries of 
'Whip crack away!' 
As I sat on the throne I made for myself
on the very top.

Once home...
me in the barn catching the thrown bales and stacking again.

I was 40 then, in the rudest of rude.
Taking it all for granted...
Fast forward 'cough, hic, sniff' years and here I am
trying to knit with an altogether softer medium and you know something 
it hurts like hell!

Don't get me wrong, if this is the extent of my ills to date...
I'm fully aware I'm in clover.

It's just...
This is Teflon Lin...
striding, rail-roading, digging, laughing, hugging,
shouting, talking, moaning, groaning, eyebrow raising,
stomping, stamping, giggling, crying, tickling,
say anything (not always wise!), do anything (even  worse!)...  

('Show some decorum pleeese!')

It's arthritis, the x-rays confirm it.

The lovely Mr. Specialist looking, I ought to say as old as my 
grandson (that is a fib... oh alright then - son).
I naturally took a dislike to, well you would wouldn't you...
Wouldn't you?

'It's wearing' and he showed me where!
'It's minor as yet'
'What about the pain, that's not very MINOR and the toothache pain
goes from hand to shoulder!'
At this point he did look surprised...
One to me!
'To alleviate the pain I suggest anti-inflammatory gel and pills
and a thumb splint or a steroid injection.'
'Hold tight!  I don't do pills or steroids, I've got enough problems with
my hairy chin as it is!'
'And another thing...
1.  I can't use it when I wear the splint.
2.  They don't make them in purple.
3.  Grubby rose surgical appliances won't do my street cred one jot of good!'

Smiling wanely I could see he had given up the will to practise.
An oath I could see forming, not the Hippocratic type either.

'Sorry I feel I've wasted your time!'
'Well it was lovely to meet you' he gamely lied.

'Look, my legs are fine!'
Oh No, she's not going to peel off her pop-socks to prove it!
I could see flash across his bemused gaze.
'So I will be leaving you!'
Weakly he shook my hand, both him and me conscious of the pain!

Striding down the corridor like a disgruntled
tugboat... I thought...
'All it needed was a magic wand!'

Saturday, 6 October 2012

Let me ask you...

a serious question?

Those of you who do visit my blog,
 (thank you, your comments make it all worthwhile)
will know that of late I have been suffering with a 
throbbing thumb.

Which of these projects
would you think has caused me the most pain?

I'm extending the pathetic pond,
made by me earlier in the year with a
large flower pot.
Each morning I would sit with mug of tea in hand,
in my 'directors' chair (had to be didn't it?)
peering into the pool.
Every fibre of my being, willed there to be a frog.
One morning I nearly fell off the seat as, low and behold,
 a frog had arrived to take up residence.

this is the hodge-podge cushion I'm making for a friend
mentioned in an earlier blog.

It may surprise you to learn that it is the sewing,
 not the digging that has really caused my thumb 
to thrum.  I know that's not exactly right, however,
 I like the word and I'm using it, so there!
I'm sure you get my drift? 

It's thrumming painful any road.

Did you see that one coming?
Bet you would have said the digging wouldn't you?

What to do next to keep 
Eileen Fowler fit
that's the big problem?

I've given up aqua, all this bashing the water,
plus the grappling to get the wet podge bod out of my cossie.
Grapple the bozooms into high tensile
armour plated apparel I call
a brasserie.  Although could be called braziers -
size is about right.

If I had a quid for every lost soul that's 
said to me.

'Can I warm my luck at your brazier?'
'You don't get many of those to the pound!'

I definitely wouldn't need to buy a lottery ticket. 

I've reluctantly had to stop thrashing Ted at badminton.

My personal trainer, (that's a fib, cos I'm too tight to pay her)
keeps coming up with ideas...
'Haven't got a bike AND I live in the highest village in Kent!)
'I do a lot of that on my blog.'
'No I meant a Rambling Club!'
'Oh dear me NO!'
'It's full of old dears who put carrier bags on their shoes
when they go in pubs!'

Let's face it you really can't maintain your style icon
status carrying alpine sticks and
wearing those funny spats that go over your
boots to keep the rain out...
now can you?

And as for frigging bobble hats!

Wednesday, 3 October 2012

'Look!'... I said as I...

strode womanfully into the darkened room.
'I've got hearing aids, that residing in the drawer at home, don't do a lot of good.
I definitely don't want to add a pair of specs to my collection now do I?'

As I flumped into the chair she said,
'You'll need your glasses'
'What glasses?  I haven't got any!'
She visibly brightened...
A sale!

Eyeball to eyeball, she put me through my paces
I read this, I pressed that.
I barked out the letters on the second to bottom line, 
without a pause for breath.
 Clearly and confidently I narrated the script as if auditioning for
the part of Lady Macbeth.
As the appointment progressed she shrunk before my eyes;
was this a trick of the light I idly wondered.

'You are very lucky to be long sighted in one eye
and short in the other, and although your long sighted eye has deteriorated
a little... you really don't need glasses!'

Am I pleased I didn't go the Specsavers.

Monday, 1 October 2012

I'm selling me bits...

And what 'bits' might they be LL?

This is why...

Perusing peoples' blogs I get it in my head, to try yet another skill,
adding yet more strings to my bowed bow.

What now?

Slashing... that's what.
I do like a nice slash, don't you?

Close your eyes and picture a very resplendent
Henry VIII in magnificent doublet with slashed sleeves.
The myriad of sumptuous velvets, silks and slubby fabrics spilling
out from the slashes.

Job's a goodun, thought I, how easy that will be...
all you do is lay lots scraps (such a good idea in these straightened times)
onto a base fabric, top with another interesting material.
Sew as if the devil was jigging on yer Juki.
Then just cut between the lines.
How easy is that?
The best bit is the duffing up... 
you can whack it, bash it, smack it, not forgetting to wash it!

Now comes the really exciting bit...
out of the washing machine comes this truly
one-off piece of 
Salvador Dali meets Picasso on a bad hair day
(Yes, I know Picasso didn't have any hair latterly, 'bare' with me!)
work of art.

And here comes the rub, yes I did rub it...
too hard I think.
No self-respecting rag would be seen dead looking like this.

Get a grip LL...
let's face it you're no
 Cath Kidson (perish the thought) of the crafting world.
On the floral front, Constance Spry can rest easy in her grave.
Fanny in her kitchen in the sky, with diamonds.
Coco Chanel in her cutting room on a cloud.

You just, whichever way you look at it...
  haven't got it.

don't let's kid ourselves anymore.


Over the next few weeks, I shall be flogging off
all things over the years I've collected, squirrelled and generally

Starting with these

and these

and these

this magical flapper dress,
given to me by a friend whose Mother has just died at 
just short of 100.
This is the genuine article.
She suggested I cut it up...
How could I?

And as we speak, a carrier bag full of things... 
just like this has turned up

Yes, I know I look like I've just stepped out of
 Downton Abbey.
Upstairs or down, I can't decide,
although in my heart I know!

My head tells me, with my waspish way with words
I could so easily be the Dowager Duchess.

Any road, I'm off to learn my lines...
just in case the call comes!