She comes up to me...

and says

'Do something Mum!'

No grey face here!

What to do about the dog?

I've always said I will do the right thing by her when the time comes.

The problem is how do you know when the day dawns?

Last night she wasn't at all well, she was slightly sick and didn't look at her dinner.

I went up to the greenhouse with glass of wine and watched the rain start to fall.

My head was full of, are we getting to the point when before things

overtake us, and she becomes really ill should I make the decision.

Coming back down the garden she was stood outside the door with tail

between her legs.  Ted was stood watching her with a worried expression.

She looked at me with no welcome in her eyes, we went in

and she climbed into her bed.

While we were having supper she went and ate hers.

Relief, she's coming back.

We often sit with tears in our eyes thinking of when the time comes.
 I have always said that I would rather do it before she is in real pain.
However saying what you propose to do, and actually doing it, are two completely
different things.

Lettice is now fifteen years old and she has been part of the family since she came
from the rescue centre at the tender age of 6 months.
She was skin and bone and had been horribly ill-treated.
She was one very timid dog and has been all her life,
well that is, until the dementia set in.  Now she's very chilled and not at all fazed when people come.  I have never had such an intelligent dog; a collie with all their funny
little foibles; a joy, a faithful and non-judgemental friend.

She loves the Proms, every last night I wonder
'Will this be her last?'

A couple of years ago she had a mini stroke (ataxia) and we sent for the vet thinking that this was the end.  He arrived ready for the dastardly deed to be done.  On seeing him she barked, and he said that she was far from the end.  On explaining what was wrong and what to expect we were happy to carry on.  She has had a couple more attacks and  now is very doddery on her feet.  

Ted takes her in for her nails to be clipped every six weeks as like many old girls she has trouble with her feet.   I don't go as I transmit my fears!

When we take her out for a walk, we plod along accompanied by the pitiful looks of
all we meet.  It's not good to see in their eyes what we know in our hearts.
Lettice is coming to the end of the road.  She is still keen to go out for a walk although the distant gets shorter by the month.  She sleeps when she gets home for the rest of the day. During that time, she has to be put out, to save on bed linen, as her muscle tone isn't what it was, whose is?
Our washing machine is going most days.  Ted gets up every night at 3am to let her out.
The only time he slept through the alarm, she had an accident, she was as mortified as he to the puddle on the floor, Ted thought he'd let her down.  Miss Tena is now our faithful friend, as our holiday money is now spent at her door, allowing Lettice dignity in old age.

Our old family dog Poppette, one winters night was let out and my father couldn't find her, she was sixteen and had wedged herself between the coal bunker and the house
waiting to die.  He brought her in and 'saved' her for another couple of months.
To what purpose?  Her life was miserable after my mother died and he was at work all day.  Eventually she was taken off by the vet to be put to sleep.  When I heard, I always vowed I wouldn't let it get that far.  How to know, that's the problem?

Old age apathy has me...

by the goiter.
I can't believe I've let the passing of
Maggie Thatcher pass me by with ne'er a rant.

Insouciance stalks my every step...
Is this the beginning of the end?
I've tried, oh how I've tried to mine the seam
of discontent.
My views on her were strident; I could
have handbagged her from a thousand yards.
Now with my Spec-Savers soft-focus lens something's changed;
  I wouldn't mind but I don't even wear blooming glasses.
Bloody worrying I don't mind admitting.

Just wish today's politicians had her balls.

My days of revolting are over; even my stropping around outside the Chilcot
inquiry when 'Bliar' appeared, seem a dim and distant memory.

What to do now, as I wait to die?

Join the W.I. I suppose.

The air of mystery...

the sights, the aroma of the kasbah

were somewhat spoilt by the

man in a flat cap.

Herbert Smith...

from Keighley with pockets full

of dried peas.

They travelled the world the man
and his peas.

From Mona Lisa in Paris
to Monte Carlo or Bust.

Pea-filled pockets rattling,
Monique in Paris was heard to say

'Ello 'Erbert izz zhat a gun in your pockett?'

In broad Yorkshire accent he replied 
'Nay lass it's me peas!' 

A late developing lothario he cruised the world.

Tanned and fit he returned to us...
he was my Grandad and I loved him.

☺♥☺

I'm on the cusp of calamity...

My love affair with Lewes is heading for the Crown court.

In any relationship both sides should work at it, in order

to keep it vibrant and fresh.

 I'd be the first to admit I have been tardy in not being there for it

when perhaps it needed me most.  Well to be exact... my money most.

I'm ashamed to say the last time I was there the foxgloves were at their

most foxy and exuberant.  That gives you a clue.

When I first discovered Lewes I marvelled at the off-the-wall,
wacky and weird shops where even the funeral directors offered
an out of body experience.
Floating around the town on an odd thermal, I would sniff the air.
Art by any other name.
Mums dressed in Birkenstocks, legs with brightly coloured droopy stockings towing their sprogs in chariot-like contraptions on the back of their bicycles.
Steiner school lunch boxes stuffed with toasted tofu and knitted
nut and edamame bean hummus with a side of sprouted alfalfa.

Dads to die for, dressed in corduroy, chunky manly sweaters 
and crimson desert boots.

Life back then was so much simpler.
I would retire to Bill's for a little light luncheon,
sitting on the pavement watching the world go by.
Glass of chilled Chilean, salad served in a cup.
Nobody but nobody looked normal, all were a 
feast for the eyes.

I would then wander up the hill, in and out of all the shops that seemed to 
have a busy coffee shop included within.
 I would buy interesting bits, that before my trip I really had no idea 
I just couldn't live without.
Buying odd clothes that swept the floor
 leaving a trail of broken hearts in my wake. (fib)
One mid summers day, I well remember going into the bowels of an antique shop and seeing a holly decorated bag with brightly coloured balls issuing forth.
I had to have it: the bloke who had just thought to take the Christmas decorations down
was bemused my my request.
'How much?'
'A fiver!'
'Done!'
Happy I clutched them to my chest, careful not to crush them.
No old balls these; they just had the patina of a year or two of neglect which I loved.
Each Christmas they come out, I carefully open the bag and gently spill them out to settle where they will.
A fiver... cheap...
for the memories alone, 
my friend was speechless,
how to explain...
I didn't even try.

With empties clanking in the boot I set off.
'Don't take the bottles to the bottle bank' I airily said to Ted.
"I'll take them back next time, you get money back on the bottles!'
First port of call...

'Same again please!'
As I put the carrier bag on on the counter.

5p small bottles,
8p large...
just like the old days I thought as I stepped out of the shop.

I trod the tried and tested route,
nothing seemed the same;
the magic was gone.

I came home with just the bottles of beer 
and some stickers.

I was irritated by the artistry of
artfully arranged sparse windows.

Has Lewes changed or was it me?

I snooped, I stooped...

stealthily I crept looking for all the world like

a peeping tom of the pervy kind.

Our hedge wasn't having any of it,

playing its cards close to its chest, secrets of a nesting kind

 were concealed to the human eye.

This is the reason why...

a thrushes egg found on the grass.

Thrushes haven't flourished in our garden, the reason I think is

because the blackbirds guard their ancient hedge with aggressive zeal.

A couple of summers ago, I found a nest, carefully watched it

and two fledglings emerged.

One I nearly trod on early one morning when I was walking the course;

luckily it fluttered into the hedge were mum fed it for two days until it was ready for the off into the big bad world.  The other I'm ashamed to say, got killed in a rat trap we had behind the greenhouse, where a family of rats had taken up residence near the compost heap.  I was there at the time, I heard the squawk, the trap snap, and rushed to find it 

dead.  I just can't begin to tell you how I felt.

On another occasion a fully grown thrush was being harried by a blackbird and flew into one of the oak room windows.  I rushed to its aid, just in time to see it breathe its last.  The strange thing was, out from under one of its wings, a large black insect emerged, the like of which I'd never seen before.  Horrible looking thing it was, it then disappeared back from whence it came.  Word is obviously out in the thrush world, our neck of the woods is not a safe place to be.  So you can imagine my delight the other day to see a thrush working away at a little light Wimpey building.  Since that day, I haven't clapped eyes on it, perhaps it's sitting on its wood chip mattress, trying oh so hard to hatch a family.  

Our garden I pride myself on being a haven for wildlife, only yesterday we saw a pair of

partridges perambulate through the hedge, a quick shofty round then back.
The trouble with being laid back is that my runner bean flowers get nipped by the 
sparrows, they use the veg plot as a dust bath.  The blackbirds have to inspect every green shoot to see if they're growing... well they were!

The slugs obviously have a field day, I'm hoping my home-spun
frogspawn when it grows up will police the garden with zero tolerance.

I swing lazily in my hammock on sunny days secure in the knowledge
that my relaxed gin and tonic gardening is proving a huge success with
all the wildlife of the Weald...
definitely my kind of gardening.

Just got to get the weather on board now and
the job's a good'un.

taken... not last year... oh dear me... No!

The Grand Fashional...

Am I missing something here?

Those of you who have got to know me via

my blog will know I'm not in the least bit horsey!

  I could so easily, had it not been for an early experience

of my stout rump hitting the ground from

 the dizzy heights of a horses back.

Boy am I pleased... 

I took up boys instead; much more managable over the jumps!

I just don't get it, this horse racing thing.

How can you be a horse-lover and be a part of horses

dying just for mans' enjoyment?

I've only been horse racing once. 

I went with a friend who lives, breathes horses.

She also, when out of jodhpurs, looks a million dollars...

very well-bred.

I trailed in her wake, as the ugly sister would Cinders at the ball,

when droves of young bloods massed around us.

The champagne flowed, the neighs got louder,

her fetlocks were felt... all jolly good show don't you know.

My enjoyment of that day was people watching, I don't think I once 

went to the rail to see a race.

I felt happy in my homespun, topped off with a Laura Ashley hat... 
cutting edge I definitely wasn't.

Now we get to the rub...

my beef (oops sorry I must mean horse meat) is

let's turn horse racing on its head and have the horses

paraded around in the paddock, safe from harm.

The great and the good can study form much the same as men do

with the scantily clad women.

Leaving the field clear for the fillies' (tarts)

to compete.

With prize money and a cup they'd be over the jumps in a trice;

fuelled naturally by copious amounts of Champagne.

No worry of doping here, well apart from the odd line of coke

 taken in the ladies before the off.

1.10  The Tarts Titfer Challenge

1.45  The Mounted Muffs Steaks

2.15  Pelmets for Skirts Sprint Cup

2.50  Fecking Fascinators Fillies' Mile

3.25  Fake Tan Sun Chariot Stakes

4.15  Stiletto Handicap

5.10  Totally Unsuitable Shoes Sprint

5.40  The John Smith's 12 pint Handicap Hurdle

If daft tarts fall over and break their necks
wearing ridiculous shoes... that's their choice.
Horses however don't have that choice;
their demise I abhor.

The sport of Kings?

The Diet Less Travelled...

With rucksack of podge on your back, never tread this path.

You are destined to be on the rat-run for the rest of your life,
if you so much as place a toe.

Yesterday, was a snowy day here so for want of something better to do, 
I decided to have a clothes cull.
Very interesting it was too...
the reason being, I noticed after filling black sacks,
that the clothes going back decades, were more or less the same size?
A bolt of enlightenment shot through my podge bod,
 with the realisation that all these years of dieting really hadn't worked!

Since the age of 11 I've been on a diet...
all these years of constant worry have only
managed to keep me treading water.

Two different occasions earlier in the week, made me stop
and think about my views on tubby me.
The first occasion, I was waffling on, as I have a
tendency to do, about how if I get a check list of
attributes I require before my next trip to earth,
the one I want the most is to be able to draw.
The man said
'And what else?'
That shocked me, I hadn't really thought further than that.
I thought for a moment
'Well I know this sounds shallow, I would like to be naturally slim!'
As the words issued out of my mouth, I thought how trite.

The next time, I was saying how Ted and I have been on the fasting 
thing since we saw the programme last August and how it was so much part of our
weekly regime.
When the woman who I'd just met that day, said
'I wouldn't have thought you need to!'
Settling myself back on the chair, after having fallen off in shock
I tried to rearrange my face, with gob that had never been more smacked.

❛☀☜☺☃❈☝☹❧❜
Speechless!

These are my findings on years of dieting

1.  Don't, ever!
2.  Throw out the scales or like me put them in the loft.
3.  Never look at models or celeb's with a green eye
for lots of reasons, the main being you are a sad and shallow person.
Added to which...
 the photographers airbrush the lines, wrinkles and podge away 
to a land of make believe.
4.  Get yourself a sympathetic mirror.
5.  Celebrate the you.
6.  Don't ever talk of dieting especially around young girls.
7.  Celebrate your curves; remind yourself just how exciting stick 
insects really are... well okay maybe to an insectologist I grant you.
How many of them do you know anyway?
8.  You will never need to have the fat off your bottom
injected into your face, because it's already there.
9. Have a good appetite for life and food, 
those folk are fun to be around.
10.  Never, ever join a diet club, they are a business,
they take your money knowing you will ultimately fail;
they then will once again, fill their tills with your hard-earned cash.
Yes, you will certainly lose pounds...
this sort though
£££££
11.  Walk tall; thinking all time of an elastic band...

the more you stretch it the thinner it gets. 

She looked as if she's been poured into her clothes

and had forgotten to say 'when'.

  P.G. Wodehouse

# The farmer wants a...

wife...
E - I - Adio 
The farmer wants wife #

The story of the farmer, his wife of five years 
and her 1930's Austin Seven.

This isn't it!*
I ought to say now, this little story doesn't have a happy ending.

It's snowing in the Weald of Kent, and yes I should be ironing, however...
I find a little light blogging eases the pain of a throbbing thumb.

Back in the day; on my return from the Highlands, after five years of 
living a self sufficient life, I returned to York.

I needed a job, and managed to land a well paid job selling chemicals and fertiliser
to farmers.  Don't ask... yes me from living an organical life to that!

Needless to say I was absolutely blooming hopeless.
My boss used to say
'Linda the only thing you sell is yourself!' 
Well it's before the 9 o clock watershed so we won't go into that! Joke!
'The dour Yorkshire farmers' warm to your bubbly outgoing personality,
it's just a pity you can't sell the products!'
I didn't last long; no surprise there.
Along the way I met a young farmer, eight years younger than me.
He I think, saw an unpaid helper hoving into view, plus a means to
get away from his father and brother.
Me, well I don't know what I saw; perhaps in my naive way I
thought farming with the use of tractors must be a lot easier than
the life I'd just left... wrong!

The days of unending toil on a small dairy farm, I just can't begin to
tell you.  The highlight of my day was scraping out the muck on my little 
red Fergie tractor. I drove huge trailers with big round bales through the
Vale of York.  Loaded and unloaded thousands of small bales of straw.
The reason I now think, for my very worn out thumb.
Life was hard... bloody hard.
During that time, my father died.  He lived about fifteen miles away,
and because of the workload I didn't get to see him as often as I
would have liked.
I phoned one Sunday afternoon of a very stormy weekend to see how he was. 
 A police officer answered the phone.

'He's dead isn't he!'

'I'm afraid so!'

Dad had died that Saturday night alone in his lovely little
cottage and I wasn't there for him.

Something in my heart changed, I could see the grinding toil of my life
stretching ahead without cease.
I knew, I just knew.

With some of my inheritance I bought myself an old
Austin 7, 
British Racing Green,
BOL 715
The numberplate amused me, what with me living 
such a champagne lifestyle.
I loved that car, although it cost me a fortune.
It continually broke down on my trips into York;
husband with serious hump would come out to tow me home.
Being towed at 40 - 50 miles an hour along twisty
country roads is not an experience I would recommend to anyone!
His way of getting me back I thought, for spending the money on something totally unsuitable: and yes I suppose he had a point.

One bleak morning I got up and knew I had to go.
I threw some clothes into a bag, got my little car out
and drove away without a word.  Still milking, he didn't see me go.

I drove to my father's cottage, which luckily I'd kept, for this reason?
I think so, that's a lie, I know so.

That evening he arrived
'I've come to take you home!'
'No, I'm sorry!'

Why, did I say yes when he asked me to marry him?
A question I've asked myself many times.
There is no answer! 

* Can you believe that the only record of my little car and time on the farm, is on the Masterchef tapes?     

Winceyette-clad Wonder woman rides...

again.

With feather duster...

far too chilly for feather boa a go, go.

Sheeps wool comes to the rescue, courtesy of one...

Mr Ken Dodd...

a tickling stick by any other name.

Spring cleaning is the name of the game.

Look!  Before my idle blog personae takes a

nose dive into the dust and fluff...

I want you to know...

it is just a passing fancy.

The clean gene will soon die.

The clothes cupboard has been sorted,

all strappy, summery 'little' numbers have been thrown out.
In comes...

Industrial strength Damart, thermal, Eskimo seal-skin suits,

jumpers knitted in virgin wool, complete with nature's little insulation 
in the form of lanolin;

to the uninitiated, that's unwashed sheeps wool, 
We are ready for the heady days of summer.

Crampon clad I cross the courtyard to the utility room
(blue key), to sort out the multitude of cooking paraphernalia.
Out goes the clanking Kenwood Chef...
high and low I've looked for the mincer attachment,
surely I haven't thrown it?
Probably gave it to the Rag and Bone man, who before I could change my mind whipped up his horse and careered down the hill, thinking...
'At least tonight, I won't have to brave the elements clambering on 
a church roof!'

The mixer patiently waits in the garage, ready to be loaded, along with skinny clothes for their journey through the snowy wastes, to the charity shop.

What now to throw?
The huge red wine glasses that happily take a whole bottle of
Chateauneuf du Glug?
'No best keep those; you never know, we could fall off the wagon any day now?'

The many and various sizes of flutes?
'No we might win the lottery?'
Best remember to buy an odd ticket, 
I think the odds of winning are extremely low
if we don't?
I'm quick like that!

Cake tins enough to build a heat shield in case of nuclear attack?
'No, you never know I might have a fit with my leg in the air and
join the WI?'
No chance! 

My knick-knacks are knacked; they don't know it yet, but
the air of austerity is about to blow over, round and through
the old homestead.
Vintage has had its day, as has...
Retro, Kitsch.

The wind of change fills my big pink bloomers,

Hope I havnae keeked my breeks! 

enough to safely sail Sir Francis Drake
around the Horn.

The modern day nod to...
Patchwork...
cutting up perfectly good clothes, cutting them into
shapes and resewing them together to make?
What is that all about?
Ever heard of duvets?
I've had enough eiderdowns to fluff a duck. 

Uber* 

is the way forward...

Pretentiousness in all its forms is

my mantra of how I'm moving on up.

Forget the past and move on.

Looking back in time...
Forget it!
Let's live for today.

* A word I heard and liked, in my little shrinking violet way! 

Timber frame house building in...

the Weald.

Look I know weather-boarded, timber framed

cottages are de riguer in this most

pretentious part of Kent...

however I was very surprised to discover the birds are getting

in on the act.

Over the last couple of weeks I've been delighted to see a thrush

or two in the garden.

Mostly the bully-britches blackbirds

have been giving them short-shrift.

They patrol the huge hedge with all the clout of

Roman soldiers strolling the ramparts of Hadrian's wall.

Today I was delighted to see a thrush on the bird table,

digging under one of the water bowls.

When I clean out the bowls, underneath there are wood lice and sometimes worms

which I thought were the source of interest.

On closer inspection I could see the thrush had been harvesting

splinters of wood; beakfuls were being taken further up the hedge

for a spot of, what I can only think, is a little light timber-framed

housing project? 

Work in progress

over many trips

Is this normal I wonder?

The hole where the wood was harvested

Any ideas?