A flavour of my...

day.

All is spider quiet in

Rapunzel Towers.

Ted has taken our guests

out for the day

to Hastings and Rye.

'Don't rush back!' 

Sitting in the shade of the magnolia-pagoda tree,

after prepping tonight's dinner,

all is peaceful in my 'show'em a good time' world.

As WDinL has often said

'Linda never knowingly under-caters!'

as she staggers, clutching tum from the table.

'My tummy is getting in the way of my knitting!'

she cries as she flops onto the sofa.

Tonight's menu...

Home cured prawns

Baked Cod

Basil Panna Cotta

with boozy-baked Madeira Oranges.

Oh and the Elizabeth Shaw Mints,

which strange to say... survived.

Last night Ted and I went out for dinner...

alone and without one of us (Ted) worrying about

drinking and driving.  And us both worrying about Lettice.

Our friends suggested they dog-sit to

enable us to go out.

 Part of the deal was for us to be taxied

there and back.

In the back of the car I said

'It feels like our first date;

don't you go getting any funny ideas,

I'm a clean-living old tart I'll have you know!'

We went to the 

West House in Biddenden,

which Giles Coren-like, I will bore you with at some later date.

I've always fancied myself as a restaurant critic,

mainly because it combines two of my great pleasures...

eating and writing.

Contentedly I strolled out of the Michelin starred

restaurant proudly sporting not one but many

Michelin stars in my eyes...

Much rubber is going to have to be burnt to

balance my spare tyres.

Whipped dripping, the very idea!

What a fabulous meal we had.

Trouble is, I come over all cheffy and get ideas

above our usual diet of Ginster's pasties,

MaccyD's and KFC*

Just popping in to make myself some tea and a slice of

Victoria sponge.  Talk amongst yourselves 'til I return.

As I was saying...

trying not to spray the keyboard with

cake crumbs

I said to Lettice only the other day

'What cur of your acquaintance

has a kennel with a cellar?'

Of late she's taken to sitting out in the utility room,

which does have a bottle or two stored 

for occasions such as this weekend.

Her favourite tipple...

Chateauneuf du pup. 

One other thing before I go

a picture for Ian Hutson.

We're very gourmet in this neck of the woods,

even the spiders have

lobster for supper here!**

* Whopper... probably the biggest one to date!

** Followed hard on the heels... an even bigger one!

How to pass the time when...

waiting for weekend guests to arrive.

Picture the scene...

for the first time this year the house is clean.

Dusted and polished to within an inch of its life.

When the family come to stay,

 I just drift around spraying the air with Pledge...
not this time though.

These are real guests!

I'm, Fanny in this house,

Ted is the char, butler, sommelier and K.P.

Johnnie come lately to Fanny's

demands.

When I complained about not having a

K.P. in a past life.

A man who shall be nameless

said in a very regal tone

'K.P? What do you mean?'

'Kitchen Porter... err...... Sir!'

'Oh I thought you meant 

Kensington Palace!'

Anyway I digress.

The house is ready, I'm clean and chilled

under my barrow load of slap.

Tea?

'Yes please!'

 I grandly replied 

'Shall we have some

Victoria sponge?

'I don't think so, we'll be eating far too much 

over the next few days!'

said his master's voice of reason.

I hate clever sods don't you?

The butler then disappears for his afternoon

time off.

I sit fragrant in my King's chair

idly wondering what to do to while 

away the time before their arrival...

I know I'll have an Elizabeth Shaw

mint with my tea...

Is it any wonder I'm so damn fat?

If I had net curtains I'd...

twitch them.

Call me a nosy neighbour I don't care!

A flavour of my day here in darkest Kent.

Living on the top of a hill, I look down on  people.

The day always starts by my looking out of my cyber-eyrie window,
to see if my  neighbour's kitchen window is open 
and there is washing on the line.

The reason for this is, these kind folks were the
ones who stopped me from taking flight when I moved
to the snobbiest village in Kent,
ten years ago next month.

They are the lovielest neighbours you could ever
wish for.  From the North East with humour to match.
I love them both with a passion.
They are both elderly (who isn't!)
and in failing health.

My reason for night and morning looking out
is to see if they are up and about.

With drawers flapping in the breeze (theirs)
I can relax.

I have informed them of my 
busy-body qualities.

Oh, how hard I try to limit my phone calls
to once a week.

***

Jumping in my Smart I roar off to 'work'
Tuesdays are my days in the shop.

Today, not really a good day,
because I just wasn't in the 
'Can I help you modom?' mode.

Mrs Slocombe... yes.

In a past life as a buyer for a wholefood co-operative
in York, it was well known for me to
stand on a box in the bakery and say

'I'm bored!'

As a shop volunteer
 you are expected to dust.

'Dust?'

said in my very best 
Lady Bracknell voice.

'I don't even dust at home!'

I love the people side of the volunteering
work I do.

Things I've said to folk today...

One customer in a wheelchair said 

'Don't worry I won't be doing a runner!'

To which I replied

'How fast is that machine?'

'4 mph!'

'As fat as I am, I'd easily
catch you at that speed, so
just don't even think about it!'

Another gentleman asked if we had
maps.

'Of Scotney?'

'No of all the N.T. properties.'
he gruffly replied.

I took him over to where the maps were

'Is this what you were looking for?'

'How much?'

'They're free!'

Opening it up he very crossly said

'Not as good as the last one I bought!'

My matronly bosom rose as I couldn't
resist the reposte...

'Never look a gift horse in the mouth!'

His mouth opened and closed,
his wife laughed and like many men 
who've crossed my path before
 probably thought...

'She's a handful!'

Smiling I left them to it.

Standing behind the till, I looked up into the
face of a very tall
woman. At first sight it was obvious
smiles hadn't featured much in the life.
Beaming brightly I returned her
pugnacious stare.

'We haven't got a bag large enough, can you manage like that,
 or would you like a carrier bag for five pence?'

'No!'

Smiling ever more sweetly I managed to find a recycled
coffin-sized plastic bag and carefully placed them in there.
Wordless she stalked off.

'Thank you!'
I said as she departed.

After a chat with two ladies of a smilar vintage
to me, one of them said

'Do you have a Visitors Book, everyone here has
been so friendly!'

'No I'm afraid we don't, although you are very welcome
to fill in a comment form and don't forget to let me
have your address for me to send you the tenner!'

*'My name is Linda, shall I spell that for you...

L I N D A!' *

Walking back to my car I spied a group
having an afternoon picnic in the shade of 
the walled garden.

'You've picked a lovely shady spot there!
I said

'You going to come and join us?'

'How about coming and sitting with
me on the rug?'

'What a cheek!'
 one of the ladies said, it's not even his blooming rug. 

Another said...

'Once he got down there, he'd never get up!'

'Don't worry, he wouldn't be able to afford my prices!'

I said as I walked away, with
their laughter ringing in my ears.

Just a taster of how not to be a volunteer.

* That last sentence re. my name was a whopper!*  All the rest is true.

With emeralds the size of tea-trays for...

eyes, she idly peruses other peoples' blogs.

Not a good idea for a green-eyed monster 

such as her, I'll admit.

Envy vies with avarice as her blood pressure

soars ever higher.
Her only hope is the rate of blood through
her bitter bile filled pipes will swill away the 
badness she feels inside.

The turn of phrase,

the artistry,
intelligence,

the wit,

the skill,
the snaps (she snapped)
the colours,
the crafts,
panache on every page.

The dragon, snarls, turns and with fiery breath
bites off her own tail.
Indigestion she carrys around for the rest of the day.
Serve her right some might say.

'Frankly my dear I don't give a damn!'
she cries.

She does

She does

She does

She frigging well does!

This blogging lark she decides
as she retires to her cave under
the stairs should carry a government
health warning.

Blogging seriously harms your
artistical aspirations.

I'm fed up at...

fifty.

Look, I know it's a good age to be!

But 50 followers is where I seem to stay.

Fellow bloggers who joined at a similar time to me,

 have stormed away.

Alright they have interesting and

informative crafting blogs like...

150 recipes for placenta

Making furniture out of discarded

milk cartons

Creative crochet with air-dried cat crap

Felting with navel fluff

Macrame patterns for bikinis

made from Abel and Cole string

Garden grottos fashioned from

unloved Lego and egg boxes

Baler twine knitting patterns
for bullet-proof thongs  

Gathering the hedgerows bounty

of dog poo bags and turning them

into thought provoking

Christmas tree decorations.

(It's amazing what transformations can be

made with Pritt and spray sparkle)

Senna cake recipes to serve to

ensure the mother-in-law

never again comes for tea

   I'm seriously hacked oft;

 my saying outrageous things offends some,

 and what upsets me, is that men 

(being sexist here... sorry!)

can get away with it.

I say something vaguely (alright... very) naughty

and folk drop off.

I'm doing it for me

I'm doing it for me

I'm doing it for me

or am I?

As I sit here this wet and cold miserable
Saturday morning I definitely am.
All is quiet in the house and I'm happy.

Not a bad place to be is it?

As I tied a scarf around my...

head, I got to thinking...

I look like an amalgam of

Gypsy Rose Lee and

Dr Barbabra Moore.

From this, my thoughts turned to other

eccentrics.

Patrick Moore

Quentin Crisp

Zandra Rhodes

Ian Hutson

Stephen Fry

Isabella Blow

Ken Dodd

Vita Sackville West

both of my grandfathers
Nigel Kennedy
Clement Freud
Lady Gaga*

Duke of Windsor

True eccentrics...

do they know it

even if people tell them, do you believe them

wear odd clothes

mega-intelligent

vain

not give a stuff

not know the meaning of money or

conversely know all too well

shoot from the lip?

Honestly I haven't a clue,

what do you think?

Who have I forgotten,

probably hundreds.

When it came to compiling a list,

my mind went blank. 

For the life of me I couldn't think of a single

artist** or author.

The Bloomsbury group,

Pre-Raphaelites I didn't include, because well, not to

put too fine a point on it,

apart from their art they were driven by other

forces.

Does sexuality come into it I wonder?

Does the not knowing whether they're coming or going,

cause the strain to come out in other ways?
Intelligence and finely honed artisticals
 has to be a factor as well...
or does it?

In the meantime I'd best be off to 

polish my crystal ball.

*  Not sure whether she qualifies or not?
** Lucien Freud

Fracking... an everyday story...

of gullible folk,
lied to by scheming politicians.

This is the way forward,
if you are to believe one sodding word of
what they have to say.

I well remember the promises of 
cheap gas and oil when the
North Sea was plundered.

Wind turbines are now a blot on the landscape,
and not a hugely efficient way of generating electricity. 

What I want to know from my really
'know very little' standpoint is...
what about wave power?

As far as I know, you can't turn back tides,
or come to that time.
Wind you have to wait for, or put another way,
be very embarrassed when it catches you unawares
 and you trump in a public place.
How do I know?
Well I'm going to tell you...
The other day in a National Trust shop (Sissinghurst) I was idly perusing
the books when a very elegant lady made a very fruity sound.
It must have been loud because even I heard it!
She guiltily turned and for once in my life I was very
discreet, I feigned immense interest in 
the book in my hand which happened to be
entitled...
'Gone with the Wind'*

Now I'm fully aware you think it was me,
hand on heart this time it wasn't!

Wave power, is I suppose hugely expensive,
Tell me what isn't?

Ian, Mr OW got it right,
when he suggested they frack under the
Houses of Parliament,
or the City.
There's a man I admire, who in my opinion is 
very much in touch with his feminine side.
What makes me say that?
Well he's one of the few men who it would seem has the 
courage to comment on my blog. 
Added to which,
I can't see him getting his knickers in a twist
about women's problems and the like.
Spiders yes!

Alright I know I'm not the normal old dear...
Margaret Rutherford 

crossed with 
Peggy Mount, I'll admit.

Throw Lady Docker into the mix

and you've more or less got the picture.

Fracking I've decided should be called
yes you've guessed it...

F**king!

because that's what man
is doing to the planet.

* That was a fib; the book was a self improvement tome entitled...

  'Confessions of a Feather Duster, cleaning through the ages'*

* Another fib, I'm afraid.

In the darkest corner of my mind...

I feel...

that life is passing me by.

It's years since I've been invited to feature on 

Hello magazine...

so many years, it's almost like it never happened...

'Really!?!'

I wouldn't mind, but in readiness, I set the char to

triple clean the house,

phoned my old mate Zandra to

loan me a couple of her frocks.

Ted went especially to B & Q to buy industrial

packs of Polyfilla.

My slimming machine was dug out of
 the far reaches of the attic.

My buttocks wobbled to the strains of...

'I will always love you',

as I peered into the mirror.

Do you know something, the anticipated

call never came.

'Really!?!'

I felt at the very least they would want my take on...

the Jennifer Aniston interview.

Fergie (not the footballing one) staying in the main house.

The latest fitness, as opposed to thinness craze.

 In the ES magazine, the latest party photo's 

where the brightest and the best

stand one hip and leg thrust forward,

with puckered up, glistening rosebud lips,

 resembling the bum from whence the fat came.

The shock horror of today's Sunday Times Drive

magazine not featuring one

yes, you read it right, not

one

photo of Jeremy Clarkson.

The world as we know it is

surely coming to and end.

And as for fracking...

(between you and me, I thought that was what two consenting

adults did on a Sunday afternoon, after

the roast Beef and Yorkshire pud)

if only they'd phoned, I'd have given them a 

few column inches of my thoughts.

Why do all protesters...

Well, not put too fine a point on it...

look frankly...

 odd?

Vegan, to a man I would imagine.

That's probably why they look so pasty

and thin.

Have you noticed, the men all seem to play the penny whistle

and the women, you can well

imagine fashion hemp flour sacks

into sanitary towels.

I blame it on the nut milk,

it's made them all nutty as a fruit cake.

Not at all, like it was in my day,

it was all flowers in your hairs,

free love and ideals.

Alright I know the ideal

was evaporated milk...

no worries,

it beat almond milk any day.