With hazel eyes and an air of corduroy, he...

held the door for me to totter through.

Me, looking for all the world like Mr Chad,

over the Pisa pile of boxes I was carrying.

Our eyes met, with not a flicker of recognition on my part.

I felt weak at the knees, not from my burden of craft paraphernalia.

An Adonis with a beard, and mane of blond hair flopping in his eyes.

Lithe legs clad in brown corduroy transported me back in time...
Michael, my brown eyed handsome man, I wonder where you are?

Setting up my stall on a bitterly cold winter's day, I thought no more, 

busy in my own middle-aged way.

A shadow fell across my stall...

'Hello Linda!'

I looked up to see Ben peering down at me with a smile

which played a fluttering tune on my heartstrings.

Looking vague (not uncommon on my part) I quizzically

lost myself in the deep pools of his beautiful eyes.

'It's Ben, don't you remember me?'

How could I forget?

'Sorry no I don't Ben!' I replied wracking my brains 

and kicking myself at the same time

(not an easy feat in anyones book).

'It was in Westerham, where you were the cook

and I came in after school to wash up.'

My mind skidded back...

to the boy with his arms deep in suds,

always willing, chatty and helpful.

"NO!'

I couldn't believe it.  Such a lovely lad,

grown into a magnificient man.

He was at the fair with his radiant 

girlfriend Victoria,

Their makes just blew me away.

I spent more on their wares than my takings allowed.

I didn't care.  

Magical mini works of art.

Just wished I'd kept Victoria's cards 

instead of sending them to folk who may not appreciate or love them.

It was a wicked Winter day in a marquee, the sky heavy with snow.

Condensation dripped on our backs, chilling all, to the marrow.

There was one ancient bod that was aglow however...

Things about me, you probably don't want to know...

however...

(don't you just love that word?)

I'm going to tell you anyway!

I'm self-opinionated

and worse than that, from a know nowt

standpoint.

Having led a rich and varied life,

good, bad and doggone UGLY.

I've always got a story to tell.

You know the sort...

we've all got friends that have been there, done that...

Well folks, that's me!

My spelling has got increasing worserer.

I don't know when to use apostrophes,

so pepper them willy-nilly throughout my prose.

I write exactly as I speak, cliche is my middle name!

I try oh so hard, not to use the exclamation mark, because...

'It's just so common!'

I want to write, but am too frigging

lazy.  I started the other blog with just that in mind,

to chronicle my life. 

 To write about the pain, but feel it somehow

disloyal.  Slapstick and froth is my style of choice.

I've drifted through life on a haze of

cheerfulness, never applying myself for long to any one thing.

I've had so many exciting jobs, by just waffling my way through the interview;

in the days of course, when you could.

Hobbies & crafts I've tried by the barrow load.
Just too many to mention...
Jill of all trades.....

Self-sufficiency - five years in the Highlands -
the croft and the man bit the dust.
'When poverty knocks on the door, love flies out of the window'
How true!

 My father who was a gentleman, through and through,

often looked at me, his only child, with wonder.

No, no no, not the sort you're thinking of.

Fear and wonder, at how this fat bird appeared in our nest;

cuckoo-like I romped away.

Through men I've cut a swathe: leaving broken hearts in my wake,

those were the days!  Couldn't do it now,

wouldn't want to, I'm happy.

 Having seen the wonderful 
Michael Mosley's Horizon programme on fasting, 
two days a week we consume 600 calories.
It suits us, our BP is dropping, our waistbands are no longer taking the strain.
Things get done... i.e. the potager is looking pristine, 
the kitchen is being prepared for a make-over.
All due to me being hungry and needing to take my mind off my rumbling tum.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are 'the days'.
Because of my
'Trying not to think of Food' on Tuesday,
working in the garden, has resulted in my thumb throbbing.  So
 here I am sat at the laptop, fully intent on listing some things on ebay.
But Hey Ho... I am blooming blogging instead.

Where to next?
What cunning plan is afoot now LL?
Well seeing as you're asking...
I've signed up for a Starting to Write Poetry class.
Trouble is at this stage, group numbers aren't great,
so that might be another mad-cap scheme of mine that doesn't even get off the ground.
Brace yourselves if it does; you can see it all now... 
my blog will be plastered with poetry. 
  Up to now my prose has been only targeted each
Christmas at my grandchildren, Charlie and Hope;
who I'm sure read it with pretend interest and polite
amusement.

I'm off now to check on the items that I can bear to part with;
will I be able to bring myself to list the Slingsby trolley
I wonder?

It looks for all the world as if it has just stepped, or should say rolled
off the set of...
'Murder on the Orient Express'

If you are interested, please get in touch.
I ought to say, it weighs a ton and is truly a magnificient beast.

Starting at fifty quid.

Shall I be brave enough to include an ebay
link on my blog?
The family will then see how little I spend on their
pressies, not to mention my penchant
for size 20 big pink knickers

Toodle pip!

***

As I goose-stepped out of...

our local Arts Centre having been rebuffed,
for offering my services,
I don't mind admitting every pore in my bod smarted.

Waking up yesterday morning I felt sad and unloved.
(pathetic I know - cos I'm anything but!)

Friday is always an exciting Abel & Cole delivery day
and as we were having guests for luncheon, Ted kept
bobbing out to see if our order had been left in the 
little secret cupboard by the gate.

Mid morning it had, and I was summons to stash the goodies away.
On seeing him staggering in with more boxes than expected,
in my best Lady Bracknell voice,
my dulcet tones reverberated around the village.

'Stop!  Two of these boxes aren't for us!'

On closer inspection the address was right, the name was wrong.

My stout legs  with veins resembling
an O.S. map carried me at speed up the stairs
to phone the lovely Mr. Abel.

'Oh woe is me, we seem to have been delivered
someone else's order!'  AND 

worse than that it is a...
bottle of champagne and a
game pie.

I was quite overcome by the thought of...
a bottle of sparkles PLUS a pie... 
going to someone else.

I was game; however honesty,
much against my better judgement,
horribly came into play.

The cheery Ellie at Abel & Cole,
said she'd get on the case and report back.

I wouldn't mind, but I'd even offered to 
fridge it, Ted had even offered to deliver it!

If that isn't being magnanimous
I don't know what is!

I paced around waiting for a call back,
looking for all the world like a 
 cake-o-olick
looking for my next 
fix of Battenburg.

The phone rang...
'It's good news' said Ellie
'What it's been a horrible mistake and I can keep it?'
'No, better than that, it was ordered by Jean in Leeds
especially for you.  She wants you to have a lovely picnic in the garden
while the weather is nice and enjoy!

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

We have, and we raised a glass to Alan and Jean.

Can you tell which glass is Ted's?

***

It's that time again...

I can't wait to see what more lovelies

are on offer at...

'Always something there to remind you'

Vintage at its finest.

True crafts, none of this 'bought-in' old tat 

here, thank you very much.

Wonderful venue, buzzy exciting stalls,

fun folk, tea, coffee and homemade cakes.

What more could a bod ask for?

See you there!

***

Help!

now what LL?

I've come up with a cunning plan

and I need to see whether anyone

thinks it's a goer or not!

The plot thickens...

I have a new blog

see here for
further details.

Ideas on a postcard...

Doris says...

what now LL?

***

What to do next for...

badness?

August Bank Holiday Monday 

and

I'm bored.

Elizabeth Bott type bored.

Our timber-framed 300 year old cottage has seen some things over the years and often when I'm bored in a nice way, I try and imagine all the fun, laughter, 

tears, pain, births, parties, grief, wakes

death and dare I say it...bonking 

that the fabric of this ancient cottage has experienced.

August has been a busy entertaining month for us.

I just adore having folk to stay.

Saturday saw the last visitors until half-term.

Yesterday I reclaimed my studio.

Today I started sewing again on my family history wall-hanging.

I was keen to see how the old sorely hand coped with a little light stitching.

It held up better than I thought it would, although it is throbbing now.

Work still in progress

I just wish I could sink in the West;
talk to my soft toys,

trump at will, 
dunk biscuits in my bone china mug,
take my teeth out to tackle toffees,
say and do outrageous things,
talk in a stage whisper,
 about how awful the people are sat at the next table.
Not give a fig about whether Blair took us in to an illegal war,
care not whether he gets a knighthood.
Vote for Miss Whiplash as a backlash to how I feel about
the majority of our politicians.
Stop shaving my legs and bits; at least, in these tough economic
times I now don't have facials, waxing, pedicures and the like.
Well someone's got to show some restraint.

Pop socks are the way forward.

I know, I know...

you should never talk race, religion or politics

however

this is one couple

I hope will not take it upon themselves to 'grace' 

the opening ceremony on Wednesday.

***

Look... I do bubbles...

Okay!
However

 I AM a Leo...

so I also do - OTT!

And even if you don't believe a word of this star sign carry-on...

I do think  there is an element of something.....  in it!

- that's only the good news.

The full-on giving it with both barrels
Leo trait, even on occasions gets me down.
Added to which, having had a very rich and varied life; 
in any conversation I can come up with 'I've been there, done that' carry-on.
And we all know how annoying that can be!

I am coming from the standpoint of... 

those closest and dearest get the full force of my opinion...
whether they want it or not?
On balance...  Probably not!

Very often, after I've let my thoughts and feelings known
(with knobs on I might add)
Ted says two things...
'Do you think you should have taken a diplomacy tablet there Lin?'
Or the most recent one, I like even better...
'How long did you last in the Diplomatic Corps?'
My mouth open and closes like a bored goldfish in a naff round bowl
before I reply...
'Well I was on a day's trial and didn't last 'til coffee break!'
And there you have it.  Although in my defence I do try,
oh how hard I try... 
to put a sock in it.  
However, out it all spills.

***

Yesterday was my 65th birthday.
A milestone some might say.

The scales are finely balanced as to which way for me to go...
i.e. sensible and start acting my age or
the much more appealing one...
make an art form of eccentricity.
I sure as hell haven't got the genes to
do art in 
any other way!

So brace yourselves we're oft

Stop wearing knickers at all times,
even on formal occasions,
that way I won't smell of lavender and wee.

Say and do outrageous things
trouble with that... see above.

Throw the frigging deaf aids away
and demand an ear trumpet on a velvet tartan ribbon;
the end of which will peep provocatively from my
builders bum crack of a cleavage.

Don a psychedelic Crimplene catsuit in clashing colours.

Give the prickles on my chin full rein and audition for the
part of the bloke on the Player's Navy Cut fag packets.  They're bound to turn it into a musical one day.

Brighten up God's highlights (read grey) with a streak or two of purple.

Talk loudly - already do that, see above.

Try ever so hard not to feel guilty, when whiling away a month or two
reading and eating crackers and cheese.

Mug pimply youths of their benefits and tinnies of Special Brew.

Purchase a life membership to the 
Tim Wonnacott Appreciation Society.
The application of which will be fast tracked, due to my ability to master the 
finer points of a hand tied dicky!

Footnote...
WSD (Wicked Stepdaughter) thinks my sorely thumb might be 
RSI (Repetitive Strain Injury)
hearing this I visibly brightened...
sounds pretty upmarket, bit like letters after your name.
RSVP, VSOP, VIP, KISS, BA, MA, AA  and the like.
Trouble was she was gently hinting my injury had been bought about by
my tirelessly lifting full flutes of
sparkling water.

Blooming cheek... as if!?!

Cheers... Happy Days!

 

Look what I've just...

made...

And jolly proud of it I am too!

A week or two ago the lovely Viv

of hens teeth

offered a kit to make these lovely corsages.

Now those that know of my struggles with crafts will be aware

I pour scorn on the painting by numbers style of crafting.

However I decided to get the instructions and have a go.

Am I pleased I did.

After having sent for the full range of felt colours from
Annie the felt fairy...
what a lovely kaleidoscope of quality felt I've now got.
I've washed and shrunk some, which I've used for my first
(look away now if you don't want to hear this next word)
home-made Christmas present!


The instructions are clear and concise,
even for a sorely-thumbed crafter like wot I is.


I've got lots of ideas for mine, not only as a corsage
to wear.


Get ahead in these straitened times and for very little money 
amaze and delight your friends
with these delightful felt posies.

***

Are you ready for this...

a serious post from light-hearted Lindy Lou?

There's been a lot in the newspapers of late about 
dairy farmers being screwed for the price of their milk.


I want you to spare a thought for the work of our dairy farmers.  Every
cheap pint of milk sold in the supermarket is slowly (No not slowly -fastly)
putting another family out of business.


How do I know?  Not only from what I read in the papers
but from first hand experience.


I've had a rich and varied life, one of which was a fleeting marriage
(five years) to a dairy farmer.  The life isn't the bucolic idyll I had imagined.
Dancing through fields of wild flowers, picnics under blue skies,
barn dances, young virile farmers...
you get the picture!


And before you ask this isn't me!
This lass is far to glamorous.


The over-riding smell you get on a dairy farm is...
Yes, you've guessed it...
COW MUCK.


Twice a day on my little red Fergie tractor I scraped out 
the ankle deep shit, which is so much part of life on a dairy farm.



Every night you shower imagining that you are getting rid of the smell.
Trouble arises at social gatherings, usually laid on by
feed stuff merchants and the like, trying to flog you their wares.  The minute you get warm, your pores open the aroma of cows hangs about your person.  Luckily you are unaware of it, and sometimes on occasion, wonder why you have a completely uninterrupted view in front of you, on your oh so rare visits to the cinema.


Running a small dairy farm is truly a 24/7 occupation with NO days off.
The cows have to be milked twice a day, every day, Christmas day,
the days of funerals, family being in hospital, not feeling well days...
you get the picture?


For a long time now the price of milk paid to the farmer has been dropping.
It's the old story of the supermarkets screwing their suppliers, in order that
YOU get a cheap pint and they get a
HUGE profit.


If this is allowed to happen, all the small producers will be put out of business;
leaving the way open for EU farms where the animal welfare is at best questionable,
to supply us milk.  Is this what you really want to see?
Don't let's do to our farming industry, what has been done to coal mines,
steel and the once great British manufacturing industries.


***

Danny Boyle...

for PM!

Picture the scene...

a latter day Ma Larkin sitting in the shade of a 

magnolia tree, carefully shaped to resemble a Maharaja's 

palace.  Would you expect any less?

Legs akimbo, knicker less, sporting a Thai tie-dyed dress that has huge holes appearing where the acid has eaten into the material.  

Striding ahead down the alley she said to Pa

'Can you see my bare bum through the holes in my dress?  

Walking into a lamppost he failed to reply. 

Red paisley scarf completes the ensemble.

Before the ever loving, and I ought to say hugely understanding husband

sets off to swim, in imperious tones she requests a long cold drink.

No, no not a pint of brown and mild, but a juice drink watered down with naturally sparkling water.  Liver detox you understand, in readiness for the great Olympian occasion.  She's nothing if not totally committed to giving of her best. 

By her side she has an upturned 

James Day & Sons Ltd

Cranbrook Kent apple box; 

at exactly the right height in order not to cause too much strain
 on the expensively (£36.40) cuffed wrist.

Wind-up mobile phone, Kindle,

The Royal Horticultural Encyclopedia of Gardening

and Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable complete the picture.

Already today she has lightly dusted the den; ordered her next delivery

of Abel & Cole goodies and washed her many and various dusters.

Lettice's widdly bed, pulled out to air, competes with the strong smell of polish emanating from the dusters hanging disconsolately on the line.

Honeysuckle scent is hard pressed to make its presence felt.

The sound from the ancient hedge is deafening with the 
chirrup of newly fledged sparrows.  
Bumble bees are busy buzzing.  

Butterflies, flutter by.

Lettice endlessly stands and stares with tail gently wagging, at a snoozing hedgehog

slumbering unconcerned in the hedge bottom.

All is well in deepest Kent.


***