Friday, 31 May 2013

Summer garden...

on the 30th May 2013...
A grumpy gardener records the parlous state

come through the garden gate

on the right by the olive tree is the front door 

up the steps to the newly Autumn sown
Emorgate Seeds wildflower 'meadow'
can you spy the ScareCrow?

 potager left to do its thing,
cutting flowers are my plan; although 
I love the thuggery of wildflowers.
I always bow to their superior knowledge

 the work of baby blackbirds...
helping me weed!

 the pond, in my impatience
we didn't dig deep enough.
The mushroom bought at Scotney;
gnome-like I sit pond-side,
watching the tadpoles grow

 raised beds with red onions
and garlic, Romanesco and black beans

 little Tommy, the sole surviving tumbling tiger
flanked by his big butch brothers...
the Black Russians
I've got my doubts any of them will
catch up?

 'White' Wisteria bought by me
from B & Q
(that'll teach me!)

 rhubarb in a water tank,
the last raised bed waiting for its
precious cargo of
gourmet sprouts coming in June

 the oil tank, I wanted anywhere but here.
'Stop! This is where I want it!'.'
'Okay, I'll have it there ☜☟✌!'
'No can do!  I'll tell you where you can have it.'
'Here, out of the way?'
Oh how I wanted to tell him where to put it ☝!
'Health and Safety!' he suavely shrugged.
With poo-shoes look, I graciously agreed.
Lady Docker would have been proud

 more evidence of baby bird gardening

  directors chair...
from which I usually orchestrate
my potager... feet up and wine in hand

 shambolic greenhouse...
all forlorn

 the wildflower meadow, unevenly sown

 the site of the hammock,
no sign of it anytime soon

 the table, where every morning I diligently
clean the birds' water bowls

and back to the garden gate.
'Come again soon and
next time stop for tea!'

Thursday, 30 May 2013

What to do next for badness...

Lettice and I are home alone.
Ted is out doing good for the community.
This morning taking a lady to East Grinstead Hospital,
this afternoon off to Tenterden emptying
the Kent Air Ambulance boxes.

In the dust-draped quiet I sit and blog...
is this what my life has come too?

Jumper-clad June approaches.

I, with every fibre of my being hate donning jumpers.
With podge-bod, you would wouldn't you?
I need silk to skim, linen to layer,
dresses to float.
Camouflage by any other name would look as sweet?
Jumpers are apparel for dinosaurs to don at the dawn
of the ice age.

My clothes are my armour,
my boudicca blades I sheathe in slub silk, fine lawn
and gossamer woven Irish linen.
Hairy, hoary hemp has no place here.
My Achilles heel is clad in biker boots. 
Cutting a swathe through the crowds,
it's the women that give an admiring glance.
Gone are the days, when men walked into lamp posts as I passed.
(That is probably the biggest, fattest, stonkingest fib I've ever told here!)

I wouldn't mind, but today's a fasting day, so I can't even console myself with
the odd pasty, pork pie or scotch egg.

I doubly wouldn't mind, if this fasting lark was working!

I feel I'm growing old...
I'm beginning to feel the cold!

Err... Mr YP how do I now un-pixelate my wrinkles?
Done it... 


Tuesday, 28 May 2013

Cats kept away as...

the kids played.

A new role was found for our
Ministry approved cat deterrent.

The summer paid us a fleeting call yesterday.
In the sun, Charlie and Hope
discovered a new role for... 

Shucked out of clothes like peas from a pod,
they nonchalantly strolled past the
evil, on the look out for cats, eye.
The tech-whizz that is ScareCrow
randomly lets off hard spraying spouts of water.
There is an eight second pause then, move a muscle and it
peppers you with the power of a pressure-washer on speed.

Ted, Poppy (me) Aaron and Claire
look on from the safety of a glass of something
alcoholic.  We prefer our water served in gentler ways
with ice and a slice, middle cut, no pips.

Family from York are here.

Today... rain, fire lit, games played...


Sunday, 26 May 2013

Casing the joint we went in for...

a beer.
The restaurant opposite our hotel in Chiang Mai
was very upmarket, family run.
The place was full of oriental antiquey
Full of locals enjoying the food.

When away, Ted and I always eat the local food.
Little cafés,
 street food and at the stalls in
shopping malls.

The dish everyone seemed to be eating in the restaurant,
 was little meat patties.
Although we always get the language basics,
we don't get so far as to enquire as to the provenance
of the food.
We tried one portion with our beer,
they were delicious.
We had a few lovely meals there,
all with the starter of these little savoury meat cakes.

In a cab, in traffic, a chap pulled along side, 
 on the back of his moped he had a cage
full of very distressed poodle-type dogs.
I looked away with the horrible thought of
the ingredient of the tasty patties.


We were lucky enough to be there during the
Festival of Lights 

We don't holiday now, due to Lettice.
Our holiday money is spent on Miss Tena bed pads
for our elderly lady (no, not me)...

Lettice on her Miss Tena triple-protected
Thai triangle day bed bought in Chiang Mai

A dramatic irony?

This recollection came about due to the question posed by 
Yorkshire Pudding about Palau.
If you haven't found his blog you must go there now!

Friday, 24 May 2013


in order to get the full force
of these words, you need to say it out loud, in
a Billy Goat Gruff voice.

Yesterday on arrival back from lipreading class and
shopping, I was just putting the car away
when up the drive came a group of people.
Ted being an ex-copper decided to investigate,
like you do, or to be more precise...
like you did in his day!

They were looking at our row of cottages, and telling their
daughter's French husband and family about them living in the
cottage at the opposite end to us, thirty years ago.

Like a galleon under full sail I got stuck in
'Come in and have a look at how our cottage has changed since you left!'
Now I ought to own up here, that to coin a phrase...
I have got previous.
All my life I have the desire to show folk a good time.
The joke in the family is I would invite
strangers in off the street, and believe you me, I have!

What's this got to do with dusting?
I invited them in, secure in the knowledge that the house was clean.
Because Ted does it while I'm out of the way. 

'Have some tea, coffee, cake?'
They, I could tell, thought I was some mad half-crazed woman,
and to be honest they'd be sort-of right.
The mum and I (she, I suspect was out of a similar mould)
got on like a house on fire.
Our row apparently, was the hospital for the row
across the way, which was the Workhouse.
Details of which, I am sure as promised, she will send.

I have this funny notion that when in foreign
lands, the only way to get a feel for the country
is to see the locals in their homes.

In Palau a couple of years ago, in the restaurant of the hotel, 
we got chatting to a lovely family celebrating their
very old grandmother's special birthday.
We raised a glass to her, had a super time talking
and having fun.
The next day, the waiter said the family had thought how lovely we were(?)
and wanted to ask us to come to their home.  They decided against it
because they imagined we would think it strange.
Well, you can tell exactly, how upset I felt?

Kindred spirits.

Tuesday, 21 May 2013

My Turkish slippers will be the death...

of me!

When I fall in love I do it with every fibre
of my being.

I have a pash. pot pourri...
gay men top the list
the smell of...
the quiet country-side
crushed underfoot

the play of words on a page

the British put-down coming from caring

Worn, torn clothes, weft and warp imbibed
with history in every fading fibre

My Turkish slippers...
bought over ten years ago.
Many times they have been to the snobs (cobblers)
for a make-over.
Every time he says this will be the last.

I wrote about them on 4 February 2011
'The cobbler mopped my tears with a shabby chamois'

Ted rode to the rescue...
here we are two years later,
the snob rolled over at the onset of my tears,
followed hard on the heels of man on a mission.
Since then he has restitched them, saying once again those fatal words
'This will positively be the last time!'

Once again Ted was sent on the covert mission to 
not only get my slippers reconstituted, but my Russell and Bromley boots
as well.  Bought years ago for the princely sum of £5.

Same conversation, only with the added threat of how much
it is all going to cost.
Water off a duck's back, when the force that
is 'Lady Docker' is in full spate.

Now I know I'm always cracking on about bribery and corruption...
however when needs must...
palms and folding money come into play.
I'm not proud!

Getting home from a damp day in Scotney,
my slippers awaited my return.
Drying myself off, my first job was to try them on.
'Ooooh, they're a bit slippery!'
Man retires to garage to rough-up their soles.
Back on they go and the very first thing I
do is skate-board across the fat I'd just skimmed from Lettice's casserole,
falling with a crash and bending my knee
ever-so badly back.

Soaking in a Radox bath this morning,
I idly thought perhaps the cobbler
is planning the end game? 

Monday, 20 May 2013

I know, I know... I am making a mountain out of...

a mothball.

Lady Docker aka LL, in furs:
the full length mink, the flying fox draped around her
front row forward shoulders, pulls herself up to her full height
5' 4" in old money.
Let's face it, old money's the name of the game.

All of that paragraph is a totally stonking great fib.
Well to be honest, I have on many occasions been called Lady Docker
and I am 5' 4'.
The furs bit; just the thought gives me a fur-ball moment right in the pit of
my tum.  How anybody could, just defies me.

The reason I came out with that twaddle,
was two-fold, firstly I'm a tart and want to draw folk in,
the second and the reason why I'm having an ugly strop is...

We seem to be experiencing our very own in-house blizzard
of the flying kind.

From 0 - 60 I'll fly off the sofa as a moth flutters gently by.
Snapping my capable hands together for all the world
looking like a Spanish dancer exploding into a frenzied flamenco
I strut my stuff.
The little buggers are everywhere,
I even opened the fridge in the utility room to find one
fluttering over the cold cuts.
Now I know they like wool, although I thought they would draw the line at lamb!
On opening the wardrobe, I just wasn't quick enough to smack the
one that sneakily limbo-danced its way between the light fitting.
I prodded it with a coat hanger until suddenly I thought, is a moth worth
a lightening Dr Who trip to local sub-station... NO!

I've spent a fortune on cedar balls,
moth-exciting traps filled with the moths equivalent of speed,
and the herb killer.  I've even against better judgement 
brought in the heavies by way of...

The war came to an ugly head last night when 
going to bed, there, on my side, were two of them  bonking!
With great glee I did the dastardly deed, 
secure in the knowledge they had at least, died happy.

Now in the past I've written about my love for
worn, torn and tatty clothes.
I think in modern day parlance it's called
deconstructed.  And yes, I ought to own up,
some folk might say I'm a deconstructed sort of a lass,
or put another way...
a cucumber slice short of a Pimms.
However, I like my worn look to be courtesy of me, not a 
frigging band of moths with aspirations of
the Vivienne Westwood kind.

Saturday, 18 May 2013

Close your eyes and

 picture the scene...
I'm with one hand poking wotsits down my throat as 
fast as particles in the Cern.
Am I hoping for Higgs Boson?
Who knows?
The speed increases with the strop levels,
as I sit reading the advertisement in the FT's
travel unravelled
how to spend it special travel edition.
All lower case cos, well to be honest I don't know?
Perhaps that is how you are, when you are achingly rich.
How would I know any road?

Open the magazine and what do you see...

The words in case you can't see them are...

'Why this watch?
This watch is a witness.  To words that moved nations.
It's dared men faster.  Further.
Worn by luminaries.  Visionaries.  Champions.
It doesn't just tell time.  It tells history.'

Err... it tells me that these people
have been given a free frigging watch...
What does it tell you?


Can someone tell me what this is all about?

I've had an email from Google to say I need to agree
the terms before May 21.
As I don't use my blog for advertising of any sort,
what happens if I don't sign?
Will my blog and all who sail in her, fly off into the ether,
never to be seen again?

Answers on a postcard to...

Me... here.

Thanks I'd be grovellingly grateful.

Friday, 17 May 2013

I had a fluffy dice moment...

yesterday, it came and bit me on the bum.

I have a thing about naffness...
It's like this; I honestly can't make my mind up
as to when an article slips from naff to art?
Are the fluffy dice in my Scratch Black Smart, together
with my 'Smarty pants' sticker bought for me by wicked 
step-daughter Belinda, my bête noire or
just the icing on the cake? 
I dunno!

Yesterday saw me stroppily frog-marching around the 
The Decorative Living Fair at Eridge Park.
How I stopped myself from kicking
some of the pretentious bankers' wives that
tend to frequent these events I'll never know.

'It wos me biker boots me 'onour, not me.
Wenever I wear 'em I get the desire to give 
folk a good kicking!' 

'Guilty, as charged, send her down!'

Driving there, I made myself a solemn promise
I will not buy another one of these...

Claire, my daughter-in-law always
groans when she sees my men work at work sign
saying 'It's the sort of thing we did at Uni, how awful!'
As good a reason as any to keep it, I say!

On arrival at the fair, where was the first stand I went to?

Yes, you guessed it right...
and what did I buy?
One of these...

Bird on one end and ball on the other.
Because the stone sphere is obviously a lot heavier,
it isn't evenly balanced, which I liked... PLUS
it is different from  the one I've got.
I had to buy it didn't I?
Obvious innit?

It has pride of place in the little
courtyard part of my garden.

I love my roughty-toughty horticultural piece of heaven,
 where in my 'potager'
(too much hobnobbing with the toffs!)
I let the wildflowers scramble through the veg.
"Uniformity is a fine thing!'...
has no place in my garden.

A couple of weeks ago in the Scotney Castle shop I bought
 a toadstool made out of the trunk of a tree.
On telling a gardener and a garden guide, 
they both staggered back in shock horror.
Inwardly smiling, I stopped myself from adding
'I will sit my fishing garden gnome on the top!' (fib, haven't got one.)

Yesterday I was at the fair to support my lovely friend
Viv of Hensteeth
Check her out, her work is truly lovely.

I bought this super French beaded

I just have to wait now for the
'No Nails' knob to go off,
then I'll hang it on the wall!

Wednesday, 15 May 2013

Twelve years ago today...

we met...
I thought I was making small talk...
he thought he was being interrogated.

A glass or two of bubbles, will be shared tonight with
good friends.


Tuesday, 14 May 2013

I think I've...

found the elixir of youth and vitality.

Yesterday my 11,000 steps took me to a magical place.

The spring at Scotney Castle

Back in the day in freezing February, I saw the sign
'Spring Walk', thinking to myself more blooming daffs!

That is until yesterday when Rose said
'Have you seen the spring Linda?'

'Err, no, didn't know we had one!'

What a truly magical place.

By the side of the stream,
under two magnificient evergreen trees,
from out of the ground bubbled the iron-rich

Stooping to cup the water, my heart slowed:
the taste - iron.

We wandered back through the newly emerging wild garlic, and cuckoo
flowers.  All the while I was thinking, I'll return later alone.

For the rest of the day, chatting to the visitors, my
thoughts returned to the spring.
I had to retrace my steps.
Slowly I walked, enjoying the solitude.
I met a couple returning from the spring.
'What did you think? Wasn't the spring just amazing?' I asked
They said they had thought it was just a Spring
Walk, not a spring walk.
We laughed and the rest of the of the way was mine.

In the quiet of the late afternoon,
I watched the water lazily bubble up in the middle of
the stone surround.

The gully taking the flow into the stream runneth over
onto the vegetation, turning it orange with rust.

I stood, eyes drinking in the primeval sight 
gurgling out of the earth.

The same water that made Royal Tunbridge Wells the spa town it is today?  
The Chalybeate Spring in the Pantiles?

As I walked away, I vowed to each week 'take
the waters'.
This morning though, the doubts set in...
Is it safe, I just don't know!
What do you think?