'Madam, if you don't mind me saying...

you need to downsize!'

'You having a larff?' says I, settling my broad beam

 ever deeper into the clutches of the chaise.

'You need to free up some money in the house

for a pension.'

'Right on man!'

Mission Impossible was prepared for take-off.

Sitting across the kitchen table from my IFA, one Friday afternoon,

I spied the details of a 'quirky' cottage.

Now if there's one thing that makes me go weak at the knees it's

Quirky... in all its forms!

Reading it out to 'O sensible one wot does sums'

he said give them a ring.

'Not now, I've just cooked lunch for paying guests, we're out tonight 

and I've got more people with money, coming for dinner tomorrow night.'

In those dark days after Simon died, I plied my trade by a

little business run from home called

'Luncheon by Appointment'

Folk would come for lunch or dinner and pay good money.

That together with hundreds of talks was how I scraped

a living.

'Phone them up!'

'It's 5.20 p.m. they'll be no one there...

 and another thing it's a lot deeper into Kent;

I won't have time to get there and back and get the house and meal ready

 for my evening guests!'

'Do it!'

Lady Docker-like I phoned,

'I should like to come and see the quirky cottage

first thing in the morning, 

don't show it to anyone else before my arrival!'

9 a.m. the next morning I viewed

Rapunzel Towers.

Sleeping beauty could have been slumbering in the garden; 

brambles grew in profusion, completely covering the extent

of the plot.

By 10 a.m. it was mine...

'Be sure to take it off the market!'

 I cried as I climbed aboard my chariot.

Knives on the wheels flashed in the early morning sun, 

as I roared off down the hill and back

home to cook.

Rooms on top of rooms in this 300 year old oak timber framed

cottage... not at all practical and soon enough, I realised that

downsizing in your mind, is a completely different thing to

doing it for real.

My fertile mind soon came up with a cunning plan...

I'll extend!

Walking the course with the aforesaid IFA I explained

my vision of a cat-slide roof

(I'd left one behind, and missed it horribly... like you do!)

and magnificent oak extension.

The expression on his face was a picture; he gamely trod the ground

as if he'd got a walnut up his financials.

"Err... what about your pension pot Linda?'

Cottage before

Have digger, will destroy

The oak rook cometh

 Work in progress

I married the man... it

seemed the right thing to do!
I'd found him in the F.T. after all!

'Times are bad. Children no longer...

obey their parents and

everyone is writing a blog.'

Cicero, circa 43 BC
or words to that effect!

I've had a fit with my leg in the air,
by way of sorting out my studio.
To call it a studio is perhaps a little
ostentatious, although a liberal pinch of
pixie-dust never hurt a girl.

Let's cut to the chase...
I can't draw, I can't paint, I can't sew
and to add insult to injury with my arthritic thumb
I can't even pretend I can!

This year I've hardly ever darkened my studio door.
Unless we have visitors, then all gunge and crud is shoved
into my magic cupboard.
The beds are made, the shower room is Vimmed to within an inch of its life
and all is good in my artists retreat.
On visiting Charleston I quietly lust after the skills required to have a
proper studio.  Or in their glorious case an improper one...

  
***

The closest I get is a pelmet, the work of
Duncan Grant who designed it with curtain fabric to match in 1931.
The original fabric can be seen in the Garden Room at Charleston.
The material I made the wall hanging from, is some that I think,
was copied in the seventies.
Mine hangs in our oak room...

A cat may look at a king

I've finally got around to sorting out the studio,
driven not in some small part, by the fact we have friends coming to stay
at the weekend.

Who would think sorting out photographs and a little light feather dusting
 would hurt a thumb?
Such a piffling thing; such a piss-poor result.

  

Diary and Studio of a Nobody!

All fur coat and no knickers!

As it's budget day...

I thought we'd be spared Bargain Hunt

in order to see politicians, as opposed to real folk

trying to magic money out of thin air!

Masterchef, the final frontier...

1992... A journey back in time.

The tale of the Final, isn't about me, it isn't about the winner;

It's about the con-woman who competed.

martha... the winner Vanessa... me

The twelve programmes 

televised over the course of 3 months are recorded in two weeks.

One programme in the morning, one in the afternoon.

My first sight of Martha was as ships that pass in the night; I had just finished

my second round and won, she was just arriving to compete.

She staggered in with Harrods carrier bags fit to burst.

The thought flitted through my brain, how can she afford to shop at Harrods 

and stay within the thirty pound budget? 

Going home, I thought nothing more about it, not expecting to see her again.

Our next meeting was in the final.

I had made a last minute menu change, I was really pushed for time

thinking if I'm not careful I won't finish!

Across the studio, I remember Loyd asking her how she could stay

 within her budget serving foie gras?

She gave a plausible excuse, I was far too busy to think anymore about it.

Our judges were Richard Shepherd from Langhams and Clement Freud.  

I was very excited to meet the great man after having listened to him on

 Just a Minute on the radio.  

A wit and ranconteur, my excitement knew no bounds.

He was the most miserable old bugger you could ever wish to meet!

Boy was I disappointed; my eyes as well as my spuds were peeled that day.

I didn't win and in fairness, both Vanessa who won and Martha,

were better cooks than me.

Lots of doors open to the finalists, 

for me...

daytime television, radio, a Good Housekeeping cookery book,

hundreds of talks and demonstrations.

The finalists demonstrated at the Good Food Show

in Birmingham that year.

My next meeting with Martha was there.  After our

demonstrations we decided to wander around the show together.

I ought to tell you a little about Martha...

she and her family lived in a castle in the Highlands;

I thought Martha a strange bobby-sock-wearing American...

just that!

At each stand we visited she would produce her card,

at the sight of her address, out would come all the goodies.

Now usually on these occasions, you are lucky to get a tiny morsel

of something to try on a postage-size piece of bread or biscuit...

Not us, we got the full treatment, the champagne flowed.

By the end of the day, I was feeling decidedly squiffy

'Martha, how do you do it, I just don't get it?'

She replied...

'My husband says you must have everything in life you want!'

Through the haze I thought, sounds like a good idea to me!

'Linda, as we're all staying over tonight, why don't you join us for dinner,

we've booked a table at a good restaurant?'

Sadly as I'd made other arrangements I had to decline.

That was the last time I saw Martha.

Weeks later the news broke

'Masterchef Finalist wanted by Interpol'

'Wot?'

Martha and family had left the country, having run up huge debts with all the local suppliers in Scotland.  The castle was rented, money owed there; plus in dead of night

the castle had been stripped of lots of the valuable antiques.

A moonlight flit!

Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather!

Suddenly I realised what I'd been witnessing at the show.

On production of her card, one look at the address had had the desired effect...

This woman is loaded, let's treat her well and get ourselves some good business.

What a clot, why didn't I go out to dinner with them?  I could then have jumped on the  money making bandwagon, selling my story to the Sun.

'Ive been in a den of thieves!'

Telling this story on one of my Masterchef talks, a woman came up afterwards and said

'You know Linda, you were lucky you did have another engagement that night.'

'Why?'

'Think about it... you all would have gone out for a slap-up meal and when it came to pay, mysteriously they would have forgotten to bring their money.

'Oh dear I've left my wallet in the safe at the hotel; 

can you pay Linda and I'll pay you back at when we meet at breakfast!'

Do you know, I think she had a point.  Martha had obviously sussed me out

as naive and trusting and I am, and happy to be so.

Interpol still looking for them?  I doubt it!

And Martha and family I'm sure are working their magic 

in other parts of the world.

Me... my life took off in so many ways...

happy in my honest state.

Having a gander at...

my Glass's guide of gardening I try to discover the 
root of my little problem...
Droop, wilt, sag, slump or slouch.

The seeds that have germinated have romped away then
suddenly keeled over.
The tomatoes I blogged about a couple of days ago are

hanging on by the slimmest of threads.

Should I ask Ted to go in disguise to our local
garden centre and ask if they sell
plant Viagra?

Have I made them too cosy, by not opening the greenhouse 
on the cold snowy days?

This gardening lark is a nightmare; it's one area in my life in
which I usually flourish.

Alright, I admit, I have made the hammock, gin and tonic
sort a speciality, but still...

I can feel a premium rate number coming on...
The helpline of that famous
Welsh gardening guru
Dai Bach.

Lars... the Viking...

a story. 

Well what's a girl got to do on a cold, blowy and wet Saturday morning?
Feed the inner fires of unrequited love.

Picture the scene...

For a special birthday, man said to wife
'Where would you like to go for your birthday treat?'
Never one to pass up on a jolly, she replied with a polar bear's
frosty breath...
'The Arctic!'
Facetiously adding
'Before it melts!'
Little knowing at the time, how true that turned out to be.

On arrival in Oslo
man said to wife
'Whatever you do don't look at the prices!'
Well what a stoopid thing to say.
'How much?'
reverberated around the archipelago.

Three nights in Oslo, then fly off north to Svalbard.
On the first night, settling cosily into the leather sofa,
they awaited their first round of drinks; served by the old retainer
Gunnar, who had worked there man and boy, since the
Vikings decided to take a cruise around the world.

***

Across the bar, their eyes met: 
 a tall Viking with corn-coloured blonde hair
and whiskers, clad in black.
The only splash of colour was the
lips...

emblazoned on his manly chest.

His lips medallion; the size and weight of a hurling stone hung on 
a mayoral silver chain, the thickness of a babies arm.

The scene took on a

misty, viewed through a soft focus lens...

I want to have your babies sort of feel.

The vision of Viking manliness, lazily strummed his guitar.

Eyes locked across an empty room; over he strolled looking 
for all the world like he'd stepped out of a spaghetti western.

His opening words
'I'm heart-broken!'

Trying hard not to dribble and with every fibre of her being,
she resisted the temptation to clap him to her matronly bosom.

Gunnar arriving with drinks looked a trifle miffed.

The conversation ebbed and flowed taking on a surreal quality.

Leaving the hotel to go out for dinner,
man escorted wife on shaky legs.

'Wow!'

'There's something not quite right?'
 said man with thirty one years of police intuition.

Sour grapes... unkindly thought wife.

After breakfast the following morning,
Lars was seen saying goodbye to departing party guests.
He was in the suite, next to their room.
Hanging on the door looking god-like in beautiful silk kimono he apologised
'Sorry, if we made a noise last night!'
'You were the reason I couldn't sleep!'
she replied, not for one moment letting on 
it wasn't the noise that had kept her awake.

Gunnar that evening became far more animated
when asked by man, obviously at wife's insistence, 
that he discover the story of the mystery Viking god.
'Taken away this morning, by the police; he had absconded from 
his usual five star abode...
a secure hospital!'

She's ashamed to say the trip of a lifetime...
the twenty three polar bears some with cubs, 
the whales and walrus, the glaciers
all pale into insignificance, when the
Northern lights light up her eyes with the memory
of
Lars the Viking!

Tumbling tigers...

 F1 circus clown more like!

I'm an avowed tomatoholic, so much so,

I haven't even entertained the much vaunted
12 step programme.
I'm happy deep in my addiction.

My all-time flavourite...
Tigerella...

To this end, in 2013 I decided to try the very upmarket relation... 

Roll of drums, with circus master's cloak swirling,
I introduce 
'The one, the only, trapeze defying
Tumbling Tigers!'

Tumbling Tiger is so up her own
flowerpot you only get 10 seeds...
Yes... ten, I know cos...
 I only went and blooming counted them.

Stealing a march, I got them started off early, together with
Black Russian, 
'mahogney-brown fruit with a delicious blend of sweetness and acidity'
named after their much venerated leader?

For the mortgage-inducing cost of the Tumbling Tigers,
prudence peered over my shoulder, as carefully I arranged just five seeds in a pot.
The black hearted Russian with 30 seeds, I could be a little more relaxed.

None of the little beggers germinated.

'Good job, I didn't like Viv Nicholson (showing my age here)
'Spend, spend, spend!' and sow all the seeds.

Second attempt was much better, 
four of the T.T's are just about clinging on to life, 
only with the intervention of 24 hour nursing, mind.
The Black Russians positively stormed away,
well that is until they were attacked with a 
severe case of droop.
They also have had to be brought into the warmth
 of the intensive care unit.

At this rate I'll be lucky to get one plant of each.

The gardener's mobile compost heap
she calls a car, sporting the much admired
fluffy dice and red noses.

White smoke...

heralding the arrival of...

another frosty morning in the Weald.

The tumultuous sound of 'Praise the Lord!'

echoed up, up, up and over the valley...

The hedge was aquiver with excitement,

all God's creatures rejoiced at 

the dawn of a new day.

We've survived another freezing night...

Hallelujah!

All was good in the world.

Garden Post courtesy of Postman Pat &...

his black and white cat.

As our neighbours on both sides feed the birds, we don't.

And the reason we don't, is because a couple of snowy winters ago,

standing watching our bird table, I spied a rat sat on the table 
filling its boots.

Showing Ted, he said 

'It's a squirrel!'

I know, he should have gone to spec-savers.

'Funny looking squirrel?'

'Oh yes!'

Lettice had been showing a lot of interest in the hedge, an arms length away 

from the cottage.

Collies are very inquisitive and will remember for all time, if once they spied a 

 wood louse passing by at five past three one winter's afternoon.

Me in my Beatrice Potter innocence thought 

'There's dormice in Bedgebury Forest a mile or two away,

perhaps we've got a family living in our magnificent hedge.'

Close relation I'll give you... dormouse...NO!

Inspector Clouseau like I waited and watched.

And my efforts paid off, I stood in the comfort of our oak room charting the stately progress of a rat commute to our table. It hopped off the table into the hedge and climbed up to about six feet then trolled past our windows at more than head height.

From that day on, we only put out water for the birds.

And diligent I am about it too, cleaning the bowls and constantly topping up

 with rain water.  In the winter it is just as important if not more so.

It never fails to amaze me when in the perishing cold the birds

hugely enjoy a bath.

By now you'll be wondering when Postman Pat and his trusty cohort

get to feature?

From a previous post, you will know I'm not a great fan of cats.

I like them, don't get me wrong; what I don't like, is the massacre

of the garden birds and the local cats using my veg. plot as a five star

pubic convenience!

I fell back in shock horror yesterday on spying a black and white cat sat

under our bird table.  A veritable bus shelter, out of the snowy wind with added

Kentucky Fried Blackbird thrown in.

With flat hands I thundered on the glass, giving it the shock of its life,

opening the door I hullabalooed with overtones of fog-horn.

Off it shot through the hedge and away.

Stalking anger-fuelled up the garden, I collected the holly trimmings

and carefully arranged them under the bird table.  Taking care to fill the gap in

the hedge with a prickly welcome should it think to return.

Taken this morning from the door 

I wouldn't mind but the cats will go home after a little light hunting,

to have their tickled tummies tempted, with a little lightly poached

chicken or 'Wild Salmon flavoured with Tarragon' Whiskas.

The garden this morning with snow nearly gone. 

Lettice... wonders with the wisdom of her fifteen years...
Now why have I been put out?
Strange how doolally in dogs, is so much more appealing than in people!