As I slathered Factor 30 on my face...

I got to thinking...

That seems to be all I do these days...

thinking.

Must confess it's usually

 What to do next for badness?

  As I prepare to brave the snowy wastes, is it essential to 

slap on sun cream?

Could this be the reason why my face befits

a nubile young wench (well in candlelight and with a following wind)

and my body represents

those contour maps made of plaster of paris; so beloved by town

planners trying to con (oops sorry, I mean convince) the local folk as to why their village would be greatly enhanced by a new housing estate.  The centre of which would have sitting proudly, a huge black man-eating spider. 

More commonly known as a super store. 

  How will I last until Hilary finishes the trilogy?

My reading life has been on hold, since book after book I've thrown out of a moving train

window, as yet again another tome just hasn't cut the mustard.

I suppose my other great love...

Thomas Hardy might fit the bill till then.

I've got the complete works on my kindle; although since I've got it in my head that

kindle do to books, what Readers Digest do, (condense them) I can't bear to open it.

Just had a thought, I've got the complete works of 

Macmillan's Pocket Hardy.

Instead of chuntering on, I can do a comparison test with

'Two on a Tower'

The first chapter starts...

'On an early winter afternoon, clear but not cold, when the vegetable world was a weird multitude of skeletons  through whose ribs the sun shone freely, a gleaming landau came to a pause on the crest of a hill in Wessex.'

Already I'm hooked on the idea.

This will I'm sure, shoot my crazy imaginings into touch.

  The news that antibiotics will cease to have any effect

in the not too distant future, has decided me to just learn to live with my arthritic thumb.  Smugly I said to Ted
'Well, we'll be okay as we don't ever take them!  When we do need to, they'll work!'
Wrong!  Apparently.

  Will the frozen pond kill the frogspawn?

  Why, oh why did I, on that warm day (was it really only last week?) get carried away, and plant out the seedlings I'd grown from the seeds gathered last autumn.  
Shouldn't I know by now not to?

  Is this blogging lark just displacement therapy?

 Should I finally bite the bullet and walk the four steps to my studio and sort out
the cupboard contents left to grow like stalagmites on the floor?



  

With goose steps...

and huff in every stride, we tried...

 my bovvers and me, to leave with a modicum of decorum...

wot fitted our new found place on the ladder of gentrification.

Home with warm socks looking forlorn

'Hmm... we've bin throne outta better gaffs than this!'

Beat a way out of me north and south.
I wouldn't mind but the snow was coming from the East.

And I was having such a super time, perishing but lovely for all that.
After opening up the out-post for garden guides, I ventured forth, wrapped in my polar bear coloured fleece jumper.  Not a good look for a top heavy girl I'll admit.
Warmth was the name of the game today, no worries as to whether my bum
looked big in it: it did... fecking
Enormous!
And that was before I'd donned my wind cheating little number 
more commonly called a marquee.
26 scarfs (fib... two), gloves and titfer.
Off I strode, happy in my solitary world.
I was just about to take an atmospheric photo, when the blooming camera
died, post mortem will probably reveal Olympus frostbiteus, more
commonly known to those of a photographic leaning...
battery dead.  Nothing a good plug in the wall won't sort.

My eerie cackle reverberated lonely, over through and round the valley.
"Bloody typical, the only time I think to take me box Brownie,
 the little devil lets me down!'
I had to laugh.
Off I troll... I know I'll explore the empty, near derelict house.
Climbing the old oak stair of the early 17th century house,
 I tried through finger-tip on bannister, to travel back in time.
All was deathly still and blizzard white-out quiet.
Leaning on the windowsill looking out of the mullioned windows,
I imagined the house with sounds of folk going about their daily lives.
Oh to have the skill, to travel back; a quick glimpse and be off,
what fun that would be.

Out in the garden I leant beneath a huge oak tree, trying to tease
a story or two from the bark biting into my back.
Maybe it tried and couldn't get through the layers of my fortified bod.

Ancient Monuments R Us.

Through the gloom I heard the putt-putt of a gardener's
trike.

'Aah there you are Linda, the garden is closed due to the high wind!'

Time to wend my way home.

A truly magical day, the like of which I'll probably never experience again.

This photo I'm sure wasn't taken this winter.
The window in the house was were I stood and dreamed of lives
and loves long gone.

Polar porridge...

with dried cherries, nuts and seeds.

Sir Ranulph Fiennes-like I prepare to

battle out into the Artic tundra.

At the castle I'll wander lonely as a cloud,

not many hardy visitors will think to brave the cold, cold day.

Intrepidly I venture forth alone; no old hand to clasp the new girl's mitt.

 With no experience of where to shelter out of the snowy wind, the 

five hours will seem so long.  I'll need the

Wimps Help-line programmed into my phone.

 Moving to keep warm, I'll manfully stride out along the moat, around the castle, up the hill, down through the quarry garden, back and round.

I can at least take comfort from the fact, the room stewards are just as cold in the cavernous house, without the benefit of fresh air or the ability to move very far.

I may be gone some time.

Unexpurgated love is...

"not feeling sad when you get a card on Mother's day,

when you really wanted flowers, choccies and luncheon at

le Gavroche.

Warming the bed on her side before she climbs in.

Using her lady shave new blades on your chin, in order that she doesn't 
chain-saw massacre her legs.

Taking her to the Garden Centre to choose plants for the new pond

and feigning interest.

Boredom not crossing your face, when you hear the story for 
the umpteenth time.

Not minding in the least when she 26 times, falls in love with totally inappropriate men, who nine times out of ten are gay.

Hearing the words...

'I think I'll paint the kitchen!'

knowing what she really means is...

'You paint the kitchen'.

Ditto...

'I think I'll wash the car!'

Not minding when she says

'What time do you want dinner?'

Then her cooking it, to her timetable.

Saying what you thought she wanted the hear,

only to discover you'd got it wrong again!

Lying when asked

'Does my bum look big in this?'

Not saying when she's spent hours doing her hair

'Aren't you going to comb your hair before we go out?'

Which once happened!

Reminder to self...

Must move away from my fixation with

pulled through a hedge backwards hairstyles.

Turning a blind eye to pop-socks.

Offering to get the lunch when she's busy blogging.

Not minding being featured in the blog.

Sweeping the leaves off the lawn when you'd
really rather be reading the Sunday papers.

Telling her she's light on her feet rocking...
when she's anything but.

Putting your foot down when it really matters.

Have you any to add?

Footnote.

We sat across the dinner table, the candlelight glinted on the tear in his eye.

'Let's raise a glass to our mothers!'

As our glasses chinked, he thought of his, always serving onion sauce with roast lamb.

I thought of mine, standing on the kitchen step, whisking egg white on a dinner plate with a knife; testing for firmness, by upending the plate over her head.

We raised our glasses and remembered.

I do hate name-droppers...

don't you?

He sat in our drawing room sipping
gin and flat tonic... flat because we hardly ever drink it.
My first meeting with the man of the moment...
 Nigel Farage.

I know in polite conversation you should never talk
race, religion or politics, however...
I've never been known to toe the line.

In those days I lived on the top of a hill, I still do; only another hill
deeper into Kent.
'I so love living on the top of a hill, it means you can look down on people!'
issued forth out of my motor mouth.
Simon, my then partner said in his fruity, public school voice
'Spoken like a true socialist Linda!'
Simon, I ought to say now, was a dyed in the wool Tory.
An unholy alliance one might think and across the dinner table we tried,
 oh so hard, not to talk politics.

After cooking dinner in a Royal household in 1997,
I stayed up all night to watch the results of a victory for the Labour party. 
Climbing into bed at 4 am... 
the thought of getting up at 7 am to cook the full English held no fear.
I was one happy chef.
First thing in the morning Simon phoned to congratulate me on Labour's
landslide win.
Not sure I would have done the same?

Fast forward a couple of years; not too many as Simon died in 2000.
I can't exactly remember how, via Nigel's father I think, who lived half way down the hill, we met the man of the moment!
For the first time in our relationship, Simon and I had common ground re. politics.
We were unhappy about what was going on in the EU.
I seem to remember we both, for the first time ever, 
voted the same way at the ballot box.

As I stood outside the Chilcot enquiry, on that cold January day,
I just hoped Simon could see me demonstrating against  
Blair taking us into an illegal war.

He would have laughed so hard.

I don't mind admitting I'm in a political no-mans-land.
What with cross-party Liar-Gate...
you can't put a fag-paper between them.

I've always voted, it's me age I suppose?
And old habits die hard...
so who to vote for?
UKIP... that's the answer...
well that is...
until I'd read in the paper our Nige
was dining with Murdoch.

Oh dear...
Twang your suspenders Miss Whiplash,
I've got a horrible feeling, I'm now going to waste my vote on you.

Can somebody tell me how...

to put on the bottom of each blog post...

'you might also like'.

I've seen it on other folk's blogs and really like the idea.

Is it a 'spin the bottle' type random selection
chosen by the blog god?

Ted back from Tai Chi has breezed in saying

'You got bloggers block?'

'Block' I said 'Not bott!'

although I should own up to both.

Usually my blog posts just explode, 
I rush to the laptop as if in the grip of gripes.

Blogging now is the only thing I can do without causing
my arithic thumb to throb.
Oh the joys of old age.

***

Bustling down the back alley,
well to be strictly honest in these fecking lying times...
I crept, courtesy of our very ancient dog Lettice,
who we love dearly.  She usually enjoys catching up with the village news
via the wees, widdles and other hot off the press postings.
Not today though, could it have been the rain?

Biker boots morphed into brothel creepers.
Pickfords snails moving home, shot past in the fast lane.
Life in this corner of Kent is dreary and dreek.
My time just two days ago,
 sat in the directors chair, feet on a flowerpot surveying
my pristine potager...  seemed a dim and distant memory.
This winter has seemed interminable; I used to crack on about enjoying each
season, my internal padding keeping me cosy...
not anymore!

The lads from Living Forest
are tackling our huge ancient hedge.

think this was taken last year?

Slipping and sliding up the garden with tea and best bickies, clutching photo
of hedge only a couple of summers ago.
'This is how low we want it, in order for us to once again see  
Bedgebury Forest and the Weald... just like we did in the old days.'

photo's taken summer 2011

When we bought the cottage ten years ago we had no idea of the extent of the garden.
Imagine our surprise on discovering
Kent's answer to the Lost Gardens of Heligan.

I tried to crop the photo of the yellow trug... and failed! 

Slowly I've made a veg plot, complete with greenhouse bought on ebay.

Last year not one sunflower graced us with its presence.

This year with a larger pond and the sighting already of one frog,
we await the patter of tiny webbed feet.

Lying in the hammock on balmy summer days I dream
dreams of Gertrude Jekyll proportions, or near neighbour Vita,
without the jodphurs obviously.
Sleepily I reach for a highball of Pimms...
my kind of gardening.

Happy Lazy Days.

As I sat waiting for the first layer...

to dry, I got to thinking.

(I seem to do a lot of... got to thinking these days)

Primer... Astral (Joanna Lumley swears by it)

Undercoat... Concealer

Topcoat... Dr. Hauschka...

 made of herbs gathered by a thousand virgins,

as dawn breaks... foundation cream.

Decrepit has many faces.

And I ought to say I'm happy with mine...

Well that is when I survey the artistry of my 

belt and braces beauty regime.

When suitably armoured I venture forth,

happy to meet the world, although...

I do try not to laugh when abroad

(abroad... as in out)

The reason... my dessicated skin sucks the life out 

of the many and various lotions and portions; causing me to leave a 

trail in my wake, not dissimilar to a severe case of dandruff man in wind tunnel.

Smiling aids and abets the process, so I don't.

Today I'm off to my lip-reading class, not a barrel of laughs,
so no problem there.  Although by the very nature of lip reading
fellow pupils have to look uncomfortably close at your visog...
lips especially.  Layers of lippy and gloss are applied, making the most of the only thin thing of my entire body. There's no justice in the world as I battle the podge;
all the while, my lips stay thin and mean looking.
Enough to make you want to suck a lemon.

Biker boots a Go Go...

As I contemplate my face in the mirror of my gleaming
toe-caps, I get to thinking...
What next to do for badness?
A constant refrain that reverberates around our
cottage.

This picture was taken before Ted worked his magic

Highly polished and biker boots don't seem to be
be the cosiest of bedfellows.

As I enter yet another phase in my life as a
National Trust Garden Guide,
Ted has taken it upon himself... Keeper of the Biker Boots.
With mirror toes I stride officially down and round,
through and over the garden ground.
Ignorance escorts my every step.
Sitting in the sun, I swot; as visitors hove into view, 
I smile and say hello, we're on a roll... easy tiger! 
Before you know it chapter and verse will issue forth.
It's a good job I don't talk a lot?  

Contently I sit thinking, four hours outside in the fresh air,
must be good for the muscles; brain as well as bod.

In the past as I've donned my boots, I've acquired the mind set
of a pimply youth.  As if by magic plain walls and railway lines
have developed a fascination... Art by any other name.
Tinnies and fags, hoodies, belching loudly and swearing,
as if by magic take hold.

Now by the over zealous use of boot black I'm snuffed and buffed,
spit and polish never tasted so fecking dire.
Stropping round in bright boovers just aint the same.
Pity innit?

Meanwhile, as the internal battle takes place, I'm mincing up to my potager 
to till the soil, in my poncy flowery wellies with matching trowel and gloves.
A little light hoeing is in order methinks?

Lin... just don't give in to the grey...
'orrible suits you so much better.

Peat digging in the Highlands...

Is that a petrified log I spy?

'Fraid not it's me in a state of collapse.

Good job the photo's fuzzy!

Eons (early eighties) ago I spent five years on the NW coast of Scotland
living a self-sufficient life.

Rowan sitting sunning herself on a rock on the left hand side of the picture

Truly self sufficient...
no hand outs, living by your wits and hard graft.
Goats, hens, ducks, pet lambs given by crofters, which we reared to eat.
Being pets I didn't need a dog, I just used to stand on the top of the hill beside the house and holler.  Their replying bleats filled the air as from far and wild they trotted home.
In many ways it was a good life, although the relationship didn't stand the test of
unending toil.
We grew vegetables, I could never get runner beans to grow there, too harsh an environment I suppose.
I milled grain in a mincer-type mill (not hugely successful!).  
Made bread, oatcakes, water biscuits, drop scones,
crowdie, yogurt and semi-hard cheese.
I used to spin and knit, selling my wares to visitors in the summer.
The biggest expense of time, but well worth 
the extreme effort was the peat.

The peat banks allocated to our croft were eight miles away,
north along the coast towards Drumbeg.
Parking in a passing place, we would walk a quarter of a mile along a track,
 then a climb to the top of a heather covered hill.

The grassy tops have to be removed first to expose the black gold beneath.
Being the feeble female, I was the one who's job it was to throw out the cut peats.
You catch them as they fall and throw them behind you, aiming to lay them out as neatly as you can, in order that each one lays flat on the heather.
The laid out peat obviously takes up far more room than it did
slumbering in its million year bed.
The idea of throwing them behind you, is to not catch up with yourself,
if you do, you get in a bugger's muddle not having anywhere to throw.
I got so proficient that I could throw them neatly one after the other in neat rows.
It won't surprise you to know I had a waist in those days!
The picture is of me having thrown out some of the winter's supply.
A breather before the afternoon shift.

They are then left there for a week or ten days,
depending on the weather, to allow a skin to form.
Back I'd drive, with man who couldn't,
to then stack them into threes to dry more fully.

The next trip is to build a stack were they will stand,
 until the big push to get them home.
This next stage I think was the hardest.
The peats were bagged up in hessian sacks, then balanced on our shoulders, carried down the hill to the track, where I used to wheelbarrow them along to the van.
Pack them in, then drive back the windy, sheer drop into in sea, single track road home.
This trip I did dozens of times to fill the store.

Fuel for free? 

My new name for the...

Sunday Times...

The Toss-Pot Times

Why?

Because I counted more than

33 photographs 

yes Thirty Frigging Three

photo's of 

Jeremy Clarkson.

Now don't get me wrong I'm nothing if not 

HUGELY biased.

I wrote about my feelings ages ago about the BBC

wasting our licence fees on programmes like Top Gear.

Three grown men capering around the world smashing up cars

led by the Oh So lovely (obviously his own inflated opinion)

Jeremy Clarkson.

I'm fully aware, I'm now coming across as a real Granny Grump,

and you know something, I don't care.

Is it any wonder that kids find fun in nicking cars and driving at speed.

Even fully legit young drivers roar up behind you,

you can see in your rear view mirror their mates egging them on.

And yes, an old grey haired dear zooming around at 31 mph in her

scratch black Smart with matching fluffy dice

is fair game.

On opening the Times, I huffed and puffed at the sight of my least favourite

man on the top of the front page.

The motoring section was featuring 20 years of J.C.

not content with illustrating each year with one picture, we

were blessed with 31 foto's.

My man, who by now you probably have a great deal of sympathy with, 

said mildly

'Lin they are making a thing of his contribution to motoring!'

'Humph... double Humph!'

'Daft tart!'  I hear you thinking, just don't buy it.

Well we wouldn't, but we do enjoy the culture section;

which before you get the wrong idea we only use for the...

telly section.

The phone glows WHITE HOT...

Why?

Ted has a special birthday today.

This was us on Ted's treat to me for my special birthday.

'Do you want me to tell the world at large you're fifty?' (fib)

'No thank you!'

'Okay!'

Look I'm a party animal to the power of...

a lot!

So imagine my dismay at his request of no fuss, no surprise parties,

no expensive 3 Michelin star dinners, luncheons, afternoon teas.

My crest has never been more fallen.

Our weekend has comprised of friends round yesterday for a bon voyage

lunch, before she sets off to N.Z.

I was just so good, I didn't even tell them it was hubs birthday.

Well not until we'd cracked open the bottle

 of bubbly, then my mouth and trousers default setting clicked in.

'ted's s****** tomorrow!

It just had to be done, didn't it?

Family from far and wide have phoned, even a friend who phoned to ask me something sensible, rare I know, I even had to tell her.  

'Happy Birthday Ted!... now about this problem of mine!'

Lettice has partaken in our very minor family festivities,

she's enjoyed the crab bits left over from the crab cakes I've made for our 

Oh so, understated lunch.

Dinner tonight by special request, is slow-roasted hand of pork;

no worries that the stove being on all day, will have emptied an Arabian

oil well.

Nectarine, blueberry and strawberry tarte tatin, 

served with clotted cream and custard.

Furred up arties here we come.

'But doctor if I give up all these unhealthy foods, will I live longer?'

'No, it'll just seem that way!'

The old ones are the best.

Our two days fasting will more than make up for our excesses,

especially as holier than thou, we've been on it since the programme was aired back in August last year.

I bought Ted for his birthday an all singing, all dancing chair for his

Star-Trek Enterprise computer set-up (three computers and a docking station for Daleks), in our cyber eyrie.

The old one he suggested we give to the Scouts jumble sale on in the village hall yesterday.

'That's a good idea, sit on it and ride it up the hill to break yourself in, 

in readiness for the day you take delivery of your mobility scooter!'

Ever helpful me!

Happy birthday Ted!