The Last Post...

that's it folks...

I'm gone.

For lots of reasons I've
had enough.

Toodle-pip and thank you
to all of those who have followed
and commented.  I really do appreciate
your taking time out to share your thoughts.

The spam merchants...
Why did they target my most painful
blog post?
For months, every day I've had to
check and delete them.
Added to which... 
After the events in the news 
over the last few days,
I've decided I don't want to be part of the
cyber means of communication. 

The story of....

the man with the machete 

in Mauritius and a trip to

Dungeness.

Dungeness yesterday

Dungeness October 2013

Yesterday we set off to the Rye Country Fair to see a friend who was exhibiting his classic motorbike and sidecar.  We thought we'd surprise him and his new lady-love.
We were the ones surprised,
 as he was nowhere to be seen.

With heel marks in the grass Ted dragged me 
away from the shepherd hut conversion.
'There's absolutely no way we could get that
in the garden!'

'We could easily; we'd just have to get a crane to lift it in, that wouldn't be a problem!'
Even the guy selling it laughed.
A male conspiracy I decided, you would have thought he would have had an eye to the sale.
In my heart I knew it was just one of my crazy dreams and schemes.

"Let's go to Rye!'

As the car park at Rye was full,
never one to want to queue...

'I know, better still, let's go to
Dungeness!'

I love Dungeness, all thought of the shepherd's hut gone; my dreams of coming into
some money and buying a shack on the windswept pebbles took preference.

Our last visit had been days after
Lettice had died and I wanted to have cheerier memories of my fav place.

Hat firmly plonked on,
pashmina keeping the windy chill away I was a happy girl.

Ted was cheery to, having found out that
the only two flying Lancaster bombers
were planning a fly-over along the coast.

Wrong, they flew over Lydd airport instead.
From the beach they were just specks in the distance.  Driving back from Dungeness,
we saw a Dakota, with wheels spinning we stopped I hopped out and tried to get a photo
this is it...

Alright, I know what you're thinking!

Home we came, with me with a head full
of buying a shack and doing it up.
Just thirty-one miles from home and an ideal
get-away.  Well, a girl can dream.

Getting the bought on the beach,
home-smoked haddock and eggs
out of the car, with plans to make an Omelette Arnold Bennett,
I was happy... it didn't last...
as I went to get my hat out of the back of the car, the pashmina was nowhere to be found.  I came in full of woe, where had it gone, I just couldn't believe what my eyes were telling me. 

Twice we searched the car.


My tears I'm ashamed to say, fell into my mug of tea. I loved that pashmina, silly I know.


In my head I tried to think as to when it had gone; was it when we walked back to the car at the lighthouse?  It had been very windy and I remember wrapping it around twice to secure it.  Was it when I hopped out of the car to get the wonderful action 
shot of the Dakota?
The trouble was I just couldn't remember.  

Ted phoned the pub, to ask if it had been handed in from the car park... No!

I was between a rock and a hard place, should we go back?  If we did and didn't find it that would compound the loss.  If we didn't I would always wonder what if?
Two trips to Dungeness tinged with sadness.

Ted said

'I'm going back!'

We went back with big brave me
a wreck, trying with every fibre of my being to think as to when it had gone, and why I hadn't felt it go.
Every cyclist we passed I scanned them to see if they were sporting a brightly coloured scarf.  Every road I said is this it?
Until eventually the tiny layby where I'd got the 'action shot' hove-to with a bundle forlornly nestling in the gravel.
I couldn't believe my eyes.
Tears of happiness are a totally
different type of salt.

Driving back we marvelled at how it hadn't been blown into a hedge, the underside of a passing car, someone stopping and picking it up.  And we would never have known its fate.

I had no idea just how much I loved that
pashmina bought on Mauritius in 2006.

Every day we sat on the beach, the hawkers would come and try to sell us things.
We always chatted to them, understanding their need to earn a living.
One chap a tall black guy, who looked a handy sort of a feller who could more than look after himself said that he was having trouble  keeping safe, hence the machete.

As promised at the end of the holiday,
Ted bought me the pashmina; the guy was happy that we had been true to our word. And I was
now the owner of a lovely silk pashmina, which over the years has generated many admiring comments.

Birthday bon-bons...

Is it only girls that expect a lot from

birthdays?

As I get older they seem to deliver

less and less, or is it me

expecting more and more?

Got a horrible feeling you, as well as I, know the answer to this...

careful!

So many birthdays,

so many expectations...

exceeded...

so many wishes and dreams

falling wide of the mark.

A particular favourite of the

forgettable kind...

my 40th where I primped and preened

expecting to be taken to some

salubrious sexy

South Yorks hot-spot.

(alright, I know it's a contradiction in terms)

The entire evening I spent bouncing

on the kiddies castle in the pub garden with the daughters of farming friends.

I bounced away the pain along with

the thought of money spent on

facials, fluff and nails.

A night to remember of the

Hammer Horror Motives kind.

My 60th in the Arctic, 

words have no place here to describe

how things had changed in the intervening  twenty years.

A flavour of today...

The brooch...

 the tale of which I cannot tell!

Ted had this, one of my favourite

items of jewellery

repaired for me.  

The pin wasn't very secure and I was

afraid I would lose it.

Beautiful, beautiful

paintings of moths on the pages and
jackets of antique books

by a lovely new friend called

Helen

see better photographs on the link above

How can the manic murderer of clothes moths
love these so much?

These were from Ted.

This card I gave to myself
in rememberance of my much loved
and still sorely missed
Lettice

it is so like her 

This morning I searched in the long grass
for the cross we put to mark her favourite spot in the garden.  No matter how hard I looked I couldn't find it.
Getting dressed I saw from the bedroom window Ted doing a finger-tip search in order to find it (old police habits die hard).
This in my book is the mark of true giving, no money can buy that sort of gift.

The trip to Deal has had to wait as Ted
is suffering from a nasty cold/chest infection bug that has swept through the cast
of Oh What a Lovely War.
The price you pay for fame!

I baked my cake...
ingredients... the weight of three eggs.
The mixer was spurned in order for me to beat the eggs in very,
very slowly.  It works: this beat it all together carry-on, doesn't give
the light touch I was looking for.  My only nod at convenience
was to use Lakeland cake liners, hence the ridged sides.

It's four-o-clock...
time for the birthday girl to
sign off.
If you have lasted this long down the blog,
I raise my glass to you.

Birthdays...

memories of a charmed life...

One of my first birthday memories

is of a glorious summer day.

They always were it seemed to me, perhaps my

memory plays tricks?

The table was laid

the jelly made

 hundreds and thousands

quivered and crowded the 'jelly top'

tiny sandwiches

fairy cakes

candles crowned a feather-light sponge

 awaiting a princesses

breath to blow

The princess of the day was nowhere

to be seen...

she had let the excitement get a hold

it slithered and snaked...

sick she was and went to bed

Her guests all agreed the party was fun

Pity Linda had a jippy tum

Sixty seven reasons why...

getting old isn't that bad...

You can go knickerless and folks think you've lost your 

marbles along with your drawers

grey hair likes purple hair chalk

you can trump and being deaf pretend you haven't heard it

Say outrageous things with ne'er a care

Come on strong with young men knowing they won't

think you really mean it...

Oh how wrong they can be!

Go bra-less without fear of men walking into lamp posts

giving you the eye

Shimmy into a shift thinking the straight cut

hides the podge underneath

Wear platform shoes...

these orthopaedic jobbies aren't so bad

Wide feet suddenly seem an asset...

they anchor you to the ground when too many

Babychams have been partaken of

Elasticated trousers live the dream, cushion the load...

comfort is the order of the day

Linen... the cloth of ages...

au naturel... matches the wrinkles of a life well lived...

the iron lives to smooth another day

Arrange flowers and think yourself...
Constance 'Spry'...
'Trex' would be nearer the truth...
(Those of a certain age will get it)

Shake the mop in the cupboard without your mother
saying...
'What an earth are you doing Linda?'

Wipe the washing line with the hem of your frock

Explain...
'This is a haven for wildlife!'
as guests have to duck under the cobwebs hanging
like gossamer swags from the ceiling

ditto...
dead tights hanging over the edge of the bath...
"An emergency exit for spiders, don't you know!'

Snifferly scorning the drunken youth of today
on your 26th Sauvignon Sundowner of the day

Demanding in imperious tones
'More canapes, my man!'
(Cheesey Wotsits)

Only checking your appearance in the
most flattering mirror in the house

No need for eyeshadow...
you have home grown shadow
alright, it's under the eye...
but no worries

For thrifts-sake working your way back
through the many and various impulse
foundation purchases, finally arriving
at Pan Stick

Making an alchemist's mix of
the freebie perfume samples,
walking through the sprayed mist, arriving over
the other side, smelling like...
Well, frankly nothing on earth
(cheap and thrifty)

Plucking...
now there's a word...
did you ever realise all those years
ago you could make a friend of
your tweezers

It seems like forever you await the curse
to fly off to pastures new, and
then what happens...
it leaves you a constant reminder of
just exactly what you've lost...
a face free of hair,
moisture... in all departments...
I could go on...
best not!

Change...
you naively thought that you
did that at stations

Women glow...
Oh no they don't, they sweat...
by the bucket-load

Moles... why do they
suddenly take a fancy to
the warmth of the divide of
bosoms?
Some sort of joke that is,
perhaps it should be
Father Nature not Mother Nature

Liver spots, blood-shot eyes, creaky bones,
bunions, corns, hard-skin
a plethora of excitements of
the ageing kind

Bingo-wings... the 
must-have of this decade

I've got to thirty...
I think I'll go and have a lie-down

Only thirty seven more to go...
Feel free to help me by adding to the list...
lest I forget!

Plump, purple legs pumped...

as we thundered out 

Oh What a Lovely War...
and then it was over.

We've learnt a whole lot about ourselves.

To say we enjoyed every second, would be slightly underplaying
just exactly how we felt.  And you know me...
say it like it is LL, preferably with 
stonking great knobs on. 

Lots of times I've walked up sidewards 
to doing this after-show post.

You know something, the light has gone out.
I'm flat... even the diva sweets flown in especially
for me from Glyndebourne

now known as Grether's Pastilles

haven't managed to work their magic.
I'm resting, I've got an after-show cold. 
The thought of my birthday on
Thursday with flutes of bubbles, trips to Deal,
maybe even Dungeness, can't seem to lift me.
Perhaps, as has long been suspected...
I am a flaming prima donna after all?

This is the solemn last scene after a quietly sung a few bars of OWALW

 We blew our candles out, the hall went dark and we all remembered them.

Pantomime dame crossed with

Alice Cooper...

you've got it in one...

me on the opening night.

At five this morning it hit me square between the eyes...

what did I look like?

A couple of days ago I was told by the trusty members of the cast 

stage makeup had to be applied with gusto.

Wandering in on the dress rehearsal night, I thought

I'd made a pretty good job of it.

'Oh no, you need to emphasise the eyes, cheeks, eyebrows!'

'Say no more!'

Last night this strolling player applied with trowel,

 industrial tipper lorry loads of kohl, eyeshadow and lippy.

My eyebrows arched with black.

Scuttling up the hill, I took the precaution of wearing shades,

as any self-respecting thespian would.

Looking at the other girls, strange to
say their beautifully applied makeup 
had taken on a definitely more muted tone.
And still I didn't twig!

 Award-winning performances they put in gazing at my
ravaged face.

'Are these apple circled cheeks a tad over the top?'

'A little too purple!'

Well, in place of not having blusher, I'd applied,

purple hair chalk, what did they expect?'

I did have the sense to Nivea them off and apply

slightly more muted slap.

And still it didn't dawn on me!

Well that is until suddenly at 5 am like a bolt of lightening
it hit me...

Ageing drag queen, crossed with Les Dawson.
Today's performances will be less slap, 
more method acting and refinement...
femme fatale...
a parody in more muted motion.
People must never, ever say give it some wellie Lin,
cos that's exactly what I do.
I know, I know it's a question of degrees.

Ted needless to say rocked them in the aisles.

A star is born.

Wall to wall rehearsals for...

the opening night on Friday

of 

Friday 1st August at 8 pm
Saturday 2nd August at 2.30 and 8 pm
Monday 4th August at 8 pm
The last performance is on the actual
date that Britain entered the First World War.

After the show we will ask the audience to join us 
at the newly refurbished
War Memorial opposite the village hall.
There we will join the rest of the country at 11 pm
to remember their bravery, hardship and for many
the ultimate sacrifice.

Me, I'm making a minor sacrifice by letting Ted
at every turn upstage me.

I wouldn't mind, but I've always cast myself the diva around here...
not any more!  He out sings me, out acts me, out learns his lines
better than me.  To tell the truth, I've definitely gone off him.

No, it is not a halo! It's our wedding venue.

Box Office - 01580 211204

Book now in order to see
George Clooney's body double
before he gets signed by Hollywood. 

Size matters...

OK!

Picture the scene...

Hampstead Heath...

Saturday afternoon...

Alright, I know it's hard to imagine.

Us on Hampstead Heath,

(Never forget this is a fib-free zone.)

On train and tube we travelled 

and I'd like to say we were due to

headline at the...

 however that would be a STONKING BIG fib!

After a night of thunder and God's greatest

light show on earth...

we decided not to take our boules, due in no small

part to the inclement conditions.

Added to which we didn't want to give the teeniest inkling

that I, not the mention Ted, were under serious consideration for the

the forthcoming selection for the Fifa (grease my hand... not a good ploy in Petanque) newly to be announced Petanque World Cup.

Now if you sense a whopper...

you could possibly be right.

What's this got to do with size?   You must by now, begin to question.

Fat lass playing away.  On Hampstead Heath, no less.

Plucked and primped I boarded the train, 

happy in the knowledge that from any angle,

ne'er a whisker would glisten in the watery sun.

Train up from Kent, I was happy; we took our place opposite a very elegant

lady of oriental face, tiny feet, toned arms and elegance oozing.

I hid my book under the table

'The Lost Daughter of Happiness'

the erotic and exciting tale of forbidden love 

by China's most acclaimed writer...

Geling Yan.

I was happier still when a lady larger than me,

joined us...

weightlifter arms,

strappy top, chins aplenty.

I smiled inscrutably, then returned to my book.

The rustle tore my attention away from the many and various

Chinese ways to please a man.

Focusing on Brit with arms and chins and sticky bun washed down with

lashings of Coke. I got to thinking the meanings of life.

Sad to say it didn't last long...

back to the book.

Self-rightously I stepped out of the train,

floating on a cloud of self-congratulatory

smugness...

Well that is until we stepped on to the tube,

where pert young bodies

encased in tubi-grip pink elastic, nubile brown young limbs

mocked me.

Hampstead Heath awash with burnished taut tums and lean

bronze legs rising ever muff-wards,

did, I ought to say slightly spoil my day.

It was super to see WSD and James

and I did beat them at

Petanque...

the French have lived to fight another day!

Chilled Saint Véran in...

hand I sit in the garden

amongst the ripples of green...

thinking all the while as I watch

butterflies...

flutter by...

birds bathing in the carefully collected rain water,

this organical gardening is the only way forward. 

The solitary bee houses have tenants,

the pond has an odd tadpole or two...

still!

The greenhouse, houses a passing

hedgehog...

that is if he/she isn't pipped at the

feeding-post by a mouse.

Life as I sit and look is good...

okay, all the regular gardener's

lawns look parched...

but we are giving life to the wild things,

that without their contribution

our planet would be a lonely 

desiccated dreary place to live...

or more importantly...

to die.

With hollyhocks as...

high as an elephant's eye...

I wish you a happy weekend.

Ted learning his lines, err... reading... err, double err...

snoozing.

First sweet peas that the little shit-

sparrows haven't nipped out the blooms of...

who said wild gardening was a breeze?

Toodle-pip! 

Cookery books and how they...

chart our progress through life.

Just before luncheon today,

just after I'd learnt a few more words

to the songs,

sorted out my costumes for my 

*starring* (fib)

role in

'Oh What a Lovely War'.

Being at a loose end, as Ted was doing the lunch,

I idly perused my blog favourites, like you do.

One of my new blog fav's is
The Quince Tree
today her post transported me back in time.
That in turn got me to thinking about
recipes over the years which we've all used to
impress; fall back on as family favourites,
and, more importantly, ones that
conjure up time in our lives that, no matter how hard
we try, wish for, will never return.

The recipe for a coffee-soaked cake, star turn of my 
Seventies dinner parties,
 I was sure was in my much used...

'The Cookery Year'.

I rushed over to find it, only to discover...
I was wrong.
Where the devil was it?

Surely not the Robert Carrier
Cook Book that an old boyfriend of eons ago
had bought me for the princely sum of five guineas.
The inscription cut out by my father before
my wedding day.
I'm sorry he did now...
a tiny scrap of my own personal history gone.

Smells, tastes, sounds...
the recipe for a life well lived.

As I recline on the...

dfs, I got to thinking...

The problem is...

I'm on the cusp...

shall I pull out all the stops...

and be... 

Audrey Hepburn
(read slim)

I'm banking on it!

 in our local

'Oh What a Lovely War'

production, or give the latent

Miriam Margoleses

Just wish I could!
 
full reign of the double d's

and let it (or more to the point, them)

hang out?

I can't sleep at night for worry. 

What do you think?

I need help soonest.