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?

Easter thoughts from a...

broad.

'Men' 

are my chosen subject; it seems only right

on Easter Day.

First...

What a breath of fresh air the two

new Ecclesiastical big cheeses are.

I think before I start, I ought to lay my stall out...

I love all men, yes I know, gay men are a particular secret pash

of mine...  It's their wit don't you know!

These are my subjective thoughts on 

homo erectus.

Every British Summer Time Sunday morning across the land,

men will mention the change of clocks and the effect on 

their manly bodies; this will carry on for a few days until the next mid-week

football game comes on the telly.

Men never get the message behind the words.

They take what you've said as what you actually mean.

They get pneumonia, when women get a sniffle.

Their shoes are the best turd magnets known to man.

If it's a weekday... dry toast with Marmite.

Weekends... toast with Europe size butter mountain

topped off with 26 varieties of jam, honey, marmalade.

One guy I knew in the Highlands, his wife told me

for six months of the year he would have a boiled egg for brekkie,

the other six months a fried egg.

Routines are of especial importance.

The colour of the fob on keys are not noted ie

Red for the studio

(my thinking... red for love...my space!!!

Blue for the utility...

Fridge, washing machine, cold.)

I explained that this morning, not for the first time,

only to hear the chuntering reply

'If they're not on the right hook...!'

on man's abortive return from the cold outpost. 

Tripping carrying cups of tea are a constant

floor show around here.

They just love walking up to the village for the papers.

Lawn mowing is a speciality.

They still love you (just!) when your rapier words
cut them to the quick.

Men I salute you!

✞♡✞

Happy Easter!

What exactly is the point of..

Panna Cotta?

Too many leaves of gelatine and 

the offending item sits with an air of attitude,

just as silicone tits sit on a beach.

Too few, and it flops like junket, flabby with

flobb and full of apology as it slivers down your throat.

Macaroons?

The skinny girl's answer to cup cakes?

Passata?

A squashed tomato by any other name.

Extra Virgin?

We're hard pressed to find any virgin, let alone extra.

Deconstructed?

Thrown on a plate... by lazy cooks like me.

Sushi?

Produced by cooks, too mean to turn on the gas.

Halloumi?

Sponsored by Pirelli.

Tofu?
Soya... the under-cover agents of a 
genetically modified army?

Quinoa?
A low fat answer to Camber Sands.

Linseeds?
The Dyno-Rod of the 
digestive tract.

Think I'd better stop I've come over all peculiar...
think I better have a nourishing glass of slug slime on the rocks.

This rock salt is over 200 million years old,
formed through ancient geological processes
in the German mountain ranges.
Best before 01-04-2004 
Label on a container

In the mouse quiet of the house...

I stand and watch Lettice with collie

curiosity stare into our wildlife highway of a hedge.

Lettice a while ago... she's now greyer of face and deaf of ear

The meanest pricks of snow pepper her back, 

oblivious to all, she sniffs...

A rat, a too soon awakened hedgehog,

a passing squirrel perhaps?

All wildlife using our ancient hedge as Pilgrims Way

to a warmer Easter world.

Ted slumbers on; the table's laid:

while I wait I spread a piece of toast

with half Marmite and half Bovril,

in remembrance of my mother and father.

For the life of me I can't think why now, 

I remember them and am sad.

Was it the white feather on the stair last night, as I climbed ever higher

in our cottage of rooms on rooms?

A message from My Mum, my lovely mum

gone since 1971.

Perhaps?

This morning a long forgotten memory springs back

of me going to a Happy, Hippy event

in London a few years ago.

(No surprise there LL!)

In an audience of hundreds I sat carefully listening to a

talk on angels...

I wanted to believe I really did.

However the more people that put their hands up and asked if this American woman could tell if they were accompanied by angels, the crosser I got.

I think mainly because the angels names got more and more wacky and far-fetched.

I could feel it building up inside as I glanced round at the exalted faces.

Before I knew it my hand shot up, smiling graciously she turned to me.

'I'm sorry but I think this is a load of codswallop and I can't bear to stay

a minute longer!'

Imagine the shock horror of all around me as I tried to

limbo-dance away without spoiling the moment of her other

disciples.

I got to the door just as one of her acolytes gently grabbed my hand

'Your mother is your angel, you are safe in her hands!'

Shakily I wandered away...

Happy or sad I really couldn't say.

Just what was the significience of the spread on bread, when

all I remember of mum is

her love of Haig Dimple whisky and Hacks!

She always said

'If you want to live and thrive let a spider run alive.'

She died at the age of 48.

Her little theory didn't hold up; however I have never killed a spider, 

thinking always of her when I carefully scoop them up and free them from the bath.

Or more more honestly get Ted to do it for me!

My father's great saying was moderation in all things,

I often think of him when I apply butter to my toast with the help of

a builders trowel.

☺☺☺

Gobshots...

They're like snapshots...

of the wordy kind.

Stupid things I say...

If anyone asks me how many of anything I want

I always reply... 26

I call the fridge t'oven

Beetroot - rhubarb

Tomatoes - cucumber

'Is there anything else to do Lin?'

'Yes, please will you repoint the chimney!'

is a common refrain that reverberates around our old homestead.

That never gets done, I can't for the life of me think why?

Could it be that it doesn't need doing LL? 

I say the most stupid things...

only yesterday I got chatting to a woman in the coffee

shop of my local Waitrose.

I asked if I could join her; from the planet she was on,

she came down to earth with a ploomp.

'People watching I can tell!' says I.

Well one thing led to another, our subjects ranged from

the suffragettes, the pill, women who wear well and so on.

I could tell she was foreign.

We got to talking about regional accents and how acceptable they were now.

'Be proud, nothing to be ashamed of!' spouted out from my mouth.

She said she was from Germany adding

'What about the Nazis?'

I was just about to say

'I'm from Dartford, what about the tunnel?'

Funny thing was, it didn't seem the right thing to say;
in the nick of time I discovered my prudence gene and

decided to button it!

I touched her arm, our fellow feelings talked
in a way words never could.