Sunday, 30 March 2014

A Victorian...


We passed on the Mothers Day luncheon
at the Beefeater...
instead we took to the woods,
Hubs and I.
We ploughed through the 
undergrowth like a foraging 
Robin Hood and
Maid Marion.

Before Ted had time to turn
the chariot round I was off.
Within minutes in the ancient woodland 
I found exactly the decaying roots and
branches required.

The plants had been bought in readiness.
Primroses and violets I gathered from
the garden...
in the blink of a fairy's eye
 A mysterious grotto appeared.

 Mother Nature would be proud.

Sunday, 23 March 2014

Look... I don't do trading...


The nearest I get, is to idly perusing
the pink paper on a Saturday.
Then I only look at the pictures,
even the lovely Robin Lane Fox
is so up his own hoe I get irritated.
A male Maggie Thatcher does a little light
preaching on the merits of the joys of gardening.
Or put another way instructing the gardeners 
as to his wishes. 

Keeping this in mind...
you can imagine me falling off
my new dfs sofa on reading that one 
of my posts got 41 comments...
Yes you read it right
Forty one comments!

Now hold tight, I'm going for the sympathy vote here:
this is me of 51 faithful followers
of whom just a very loyal few, comment.
I read with envy other peoples' blogs
who have squillons of followers and
trillions of comments.
It's not that I'm envious, mind!

This morning looking at my stats
my post on Lettice's death...
('Dad always said...'
12 October 2013)
 flagged up 
all these comments.
I discovered on looking that I've been
or put another way

Now I do realise that I must come across
as a bright forward thinking intelligent
member of the human race... but still?
(Biggest fib ever)
Why me?
And why at my pain at losing my much loved
little faithful friend?

Now Forex followers of the world,
I openly admit I'm cringingly grateful for comments
XXXX off!
Go back to you charts and candles and
may I suggest you Quantitatively Ease them up your
not lit naturally!

Wednesday, 19 March 2014

With every fibre of...

my being I will endeavour
 to resist the naff gene.
 I can feel it awakening
deep, deep, deep in the very bowels
of my creaking bod.

This is the reason

our latest project...
and as we are off to the seaside today,
I'm ashamed to say I am partial
to a little saucy seaside naff.

An artistically placed piece of driftwood,
a bucket and spade,
a tastefully painted concrete dolphin,
beautiful plastic butterflies to sit on
the wooden mushroom, that I must say,
 my gardening guru at Scotney
was horrified to see me buy.
His view of my rusted, flying as if by magic
flowers accompanied by hummingbirds, was priceless.
They lay in wait for Ted, their soul aim in life...
to decapitate him.
Brightly coloured windmills,
A barometer in the shape of a galleon,
Kon Tiki fashioned out of lolly sticks.
Heart-shaped pebbles from the beach slipped
seamlessly down my left knicker leg.
A saucy songstress in red spotty dress reclining on
a deck chair who warbles every time you pass her by.

The list is endless.  
I will however draw the line at a gnome 
complete with fishing rod.
Heaven forbid that you should think
me a daft tart or worse than that...
one with no taste.

Monday, 17 March 2014

Any ideas...

you with entomologist leanings?

This wee beastie was spied on my window

Vital statistics:-

Wingspan - 3 cm
Body - 1.2 cm
Mocha coloured
Is that a sting in its tail?

Answers on a postcard please...

Sunday, 16 March 2014


I never thought my drawers would dry.

Bloody cheek!

Who does he think he is?
Come to that...
Who do they think they are?

What's brought about the tears of laughter
trickling down my my chubby cheeks and 
twenty six chins?
Oh, and not forgetting the three laps 
of the ceiling done in record time.

Rod Liddle, that doyen of the
svelte figure and three packets of fags a day
 has brought it to our knowledge that
the Saudis have banned the name Linda.

'Have you ever met anyone you liked
called "Linda"?
Lindas in my experience tend to be
unnecessarily cheerful, in a slightly sinister
sort of way, and overweight.
Also meddlesome and garrulous -
a nightmare really.
So, congratulations to Saudi Arabia 
for banning the name

This Lindy Lou couldn't agree more.
Why oh why did my parents lumber
me with the name?
On meeting another Linda I instantly, as they do,
know which year we were born...
sad really.

 I've often thought about the name I'd like...
something herbal, fragrant...
Sage, Tansy, Chervil.

When asked by my son and daughter-in-law
what would I liked to be called by my grandchildren,
the idea of Granny, Nanny, Grandma, Grandmama,
Nan even, all gave me a severe
case of the vapours.

Perish the thought...
 I don't feel old enough to be called...
Mum, let alone Gran!

It didn't take me a 'nano'-second to come up with the 
name Poppy, and Poppy I am.
I've even started signing myself off as Poppy, only to
them, mind!

Wednesday, 5 March 2014

To say I was...

offended would be the understatement.
I wouldn't mind but I had offered her husband 
a quick skeg of the Sun.

I recognised them from the hotel. 
Stopping for a comfort break at a grotty
service area I settled back with my 
Costa (aplenty) cappuccino.  
After a 20 second peruse of the mighty Sun,
I leant across and out of the kindness
of my heart, offered him the tabloid of the day.
From the length of her upturned nose she said

'Are you on the coach?'
'Do we know you?' was left unspoken.

'I recognise you from the hotel!'
I never forget a face.
Think pig, woods and truffles...
go get 'em girl, no one escapes my notice.
We got into conversation, or more to the point
we hit her on button.

'This is our first Shearings
I couldn't help saying in my best Lady Docker tone.

She asked us which excursions we had been on.

'None, we spent the days walking, 
well we did hop on a bus on the one wet day!'

'Aaah, you obviously used your bus pass.
We haven't got ours yet!'
Bloody cheek!

'What gave you that idea?'
Was my acid-drop reply.

She just lifted a lock of her hair and nodded in
my direction.
Bloody cheek!

I wouldn't mind but her hair
was battleship grey...
mine however, is 'Hardwick White' 
Farrow and Ball
don't you know.

Sunday, 2 March 2014

For those of a delicate...

look away NOW.

The irreverent confessions of a virgin 
coach traveller

Sit back, close your eyes and let me take you 
on the trip of a lifetime.

In these straightened times, I thought it
would be prudent to cut our cloth and all that jazz.
To this end, out went the dreams of the Maldives,
Mauritius, Palau, the Arctic and beyond.
In came, like a knight in shining armour
Mr Shearing and his trusty steed...
the coach.

What better way than to blow the many and various 
cobwebs away, than a little light fell-walking?

Hating with a passion snobbery: I have a sneaky feeling
I am one...

'A coach trip!'
 said in my best Lady Bracknell tones.

The worm hiding in the very depths of my innards,
stirred, lifted its head and wondered...
'Surely not!'
the ghastly thought quivered down its entire length.

Ted, I must say took some persuading;
in true feller tradition made a token stand,
knowing all along the inevitable outcome.

Monday morning, before even the sun was up,
we set off.
Pack-up, packed up.
Books, Kindle, iPod, pencil, notepad,
barley sugars, Fisherman's Friends,
Rennies. Imodium... you
get the drift!  All safely stowed away
like illegals in the back of a lorry.

A 90 year young pal said
'Remember there will be plenty of 'comfort' breaks
for the oldies!'

'That's alright then, that saves packing the left-over
Miss Tena pads from our lovely little Lettice!'

Merely a precautionary measure you understand.

We stopped, we started, we got on, we got off.
Our first real stop was at Clacketts service station
on the M25, a mere 25 miles and two hours from home.

"Sit back LL, try not to remember whose bright idea this was!'

Ten hours later we arrived at Windermere.

Taken as we enjoyed our hotel supplied picnic

My abiding memory of the trip was the sea of
personal communication devices (deaf aids), topped off
with waves of grey hair.

To say I don't count myself among their numbers
would be wrong, so wrong on so many fronts.
For starters... in my eyes everyone...
yes everyone is older than me,
even my grandchildren...
work that one out if you can!

The driver advertised the trips arranged for us.
With a bum rapidly sporting seat sores overlaid
with hard skin, I must confess I couldn't get excited.
Added to which one was to a retail park, the other a garden centre...


Living not a million miles away from
Bluewater, I pride myself on being the sole remaining
inhabitant of the S.E. who hasn't ever been and never ever will.


Would you want to, when there
are fells to be walked, or at least looked at
for the less able.

We did have fun, we laughed, we climbed, we strode
out like latter-day pioneers.

Our bott's didn't sit again on the coach until
it was time to come home.
We did however jump on a bus and use our free old
dears bus pass, which at home never sees the light of day.
And then on our return, imagine our dismay to read that
they are thinking of taking that privilege away from us...
Well I mean to say, what is the country coming to?

Sitting in the bar, we got chatting to a couple...
'We were very happy to find a Waterstones!'
'Wow, that was a stroke of luck!'
says I, thinking of deep and meaningful conversations
of Proust or Tolstoy.
Oh alright then, Bills and Moon.

'Sorry my husband means Weatherspoons!'
My interest waned.