Monday, 30 July 2012
Instant Gardening
With a family event looming, I decided last week to respond to compliments regarding the luxuriant growth of thistles in our garden. This year we are growing them in a number of ways: swathes through a patch of recently seeded lawn; odd specimen thistles in random spots about the drive and garden; lanky yellow seed pods nod through the collapsed gladioli
Monday, 23 July 2012
Broody bantams
The broody bantams are entrenched. It seems that the warmer the weather the hotter they intend to keep themselves. Four are currently vying for position in the two nesting boxes, not helped by the fact that one of the boxes is clearly preferred to the other. Woe betide the chicken who plays chicken and rises for a drink or the odd bite to eat; the remaining three fluff their feathers self-importantly and assume an air of propriety over their small space.
It fell to me to much out the chicken coop and move the whole shabang to new quarters over the weekend, (there is a loose rota for such things, but it appears that 'mother's' turn crops up with increasingly regularity, perhaps this too comes under D for drainage - see earlier post). Trying to rouse the broodies from their feathered beds is not an easy task.
It fell to me to much out the chicken coop and move the whole shabang to new quarters over the weekend, (there is a loose rota for such things, but it appears that 'mother's' turn crops up with increasingly regularity, perhaps this too comes under D for drainage - see earlier post). Trying to rouse the broodies from their feathered beds is not an easy task.
Wednesday, 18 July 2012
Ninety degree angle
Normal service will be resumed! Circumnavigation of the British Isles has been reduced to the South-West of the country this week and we currently look forward to decreasing concentric circles focused very much on our local area from next.
It is clearly time for investment in a modern do-it-all gadget that would enable me to upload new posts on a whim. A calming 3.5 hours was spent yesterday afternoon contemplating the showroom of a local garage whilst they fulfilled a 'stop and wait' appointment to try and cure the small car of its tendency to halt the windscreen wipers at half-mast. Forewarned, I took a notebook, the day's newspaper, a book to begin and a list of texts to send. In spite of the time taken for them to be unable to cure the car, I was offered cold drinks and hot, the television in the corner played constant news on a depressing loop and I was enquired after solicitously on numerous occasions. I decided that perhaps I should book a regular slot at said garage each week for calming purposes. I found an old postcard, wrote it and then drummed my fingers. I could have blogged, if only for a gadget.
The car is still under warranty; a fact that I knew, and they had forgotten. The engine was stripped, new parts were sought, the car lifted up, and back down again and suitable amounts of tutting and procrastination. When I reminded them that I'd like to take the car home with me as child #1 needs to practice reversing manouevres, teeth were sucked apropos time and effort taken to put the car back together (still windscreen wiper problems) and reminders given re costs. I waved the warranty, they blanched, muttered some more, provided more tea; some poor soul sweated away to re-make the car and I drove off, the wipers resolutely saluting the technicians at their 90 degree angle. If we push gently the wipers will resume a position of recline. When it rains they insist on stopping half-way, unless engaged at full pelt. So, if you see a car with wipers going nineteen to the dozen when you've only just noticed the first spot of precipitation, you'll know why!
The car is re-booked for next week. I'm selecting my reading material already!
It is clearly time for investment in a modern do-it-all gadget that would enable me to upload new posts on a whim. A calming 3.5 hours was spent yesterday afternoon contemplating the showroom of a local garage whilst they fulfilled a 'stop and wait' appointment to try and cure the small car of its tendency to halt the windscreen wipers at half-mast. Forewarned, I took a notebook, the day's newspaper, a book to begin and a list of texts to send. In spite of the time taken for them to be unable to cure the car, I was offered cold drinks and hot, the television in the corner played constant news on a depressing loop and I was enquired after solicitously on numerous occasions. I decided that perhaps I should book a regular slot at said garage each week for calming purposes. I found an old postcard, wrote it and then drummed my fingers. I could have blogged, if only for a gadget.
The car is still under warranty; a fact that I knew, and they had forgotten. The engine was stripped, new parts were sought, the car lifted up, and back down again and suitable amounts of tutting and procrastination. When I reminded them that I'd like to take the car home with me as child #1 needs to practice reversing manouevres, teeth were sucked apropos time and effort taken to put the car back together (still windscreen wiper problems) and reminders given re costs. I waved the warranty, they blanched, muttered some more, provided more tea; some poor soul sweated away to re-make the car and I drove off, the wipers resolutely saluting the technicians at their 90 degree angle. If we push gently the wipers will resume a position of recline. When it rains they insist on stopping half-way, unless engaged at full pelt. So, if you see a car with wipers going nineteen to the dozen when you've only just noticed the first spot of precipitation, you'll know why!
The car is re-booked for next week. I'm selecting my reading material already!
Friday, 6 July 2012
Armies have marched
The armies marched under cover of darkness.
Or rather, the first platoon left yesterday morning and the second in the briefest of hours last night when one isn't quite sure whether it's still light from the evening before, or whether the new dawn beckons.
Readying members of the family for holiday departure is akin to preparing for military manouevres; a little less convoluted this time as there are those of us who remain to steady the fort against water-borne assault. Nonetheless, male representatives of this family are happy to talk the talk with regard to holiday preparations and there has been much discussion in recent months over dates, times, equipment needed, validity of health insurance, food supplies - perhaps I should re-order this list as the latter should clearly be in prime position - and the volume thereof, bedding, clothing...
As a caring mother and wife I have nodded words of encouragement, paid instalments to educational establishments in the case of the first platoon, occasionally asked whether anything was needed of the second. Assurances were given that all was under control, and although I've 'been there, done that' too many times to be taken in, I was.
We undertook a speed tour of the local city in the early evening two days before departure. Watersports holidays require an inordinate quantity of spare clothing it would seem and the internet shopping delilvery man gave up checking whether this was the house he thought it might be (we've been missing a house sign for a few years now) and has learned not to fear the mock-dobermans that roam the yard.
Platoon No 2 very much took the, 'if we don't ask for help, we won't need it' approach - otherwise known as burying one's head in the small gritty stuff found on most beaches. Thus the car required for the journey across La Manche was still in the garage yesterday with only one or two minor things still to work on, (as this particular reccy is all about a certain classic car rally, it was relatively necessary). Panic buying of supplies took place two days ago; I ignored complaints about the size of the family tent and refused to invest in a smaller version to better fit in the car as we have had both tent and car for some years, there has been time to work out if one will cram into the other. Cries of 'Where are the picnic blankets...the cool-box...have you seen the spanner, you know the one that?' have been neatly deflected, but I confess to feelings of relief in the knowledge that the first child must now be near the end of his journey and the second contingent are probably rocking their way across the waters right now (I did hear the car return to the house once five minutes after departure, perhaps they did remember passports, tickets and money before it was too late).
It was only last night that I realised I have no idea where Platoon No 1 has actually gone, the land of baguettes yes, but where exactly? Who knows?!
Or rather, the first platoon left yesterday morning and the second in the briefest of hours last night when one isn't quite sure whether it's still light from the evening before, or whether the new dawn beckons.
Readying members of the family for holiday departure is akin to preparing for military manouevres; a little less convoluted this time as there are those of us who remain to steady the fort against water-borne assault. Nonetheless, male representatives of this family are happy to talk the talk with regard to holiday preparations and there has been much discussion in recent months over dates, times, equipment needed, validity of health insurance, food supplies - perhaps I should re-order this list as the latter should clearly be in prime position - and the volume thereof, bedding, clothing...
As a caring mother and wife I have nodded words of encouragement, paid instalments to educational establishments in the case of the first platoon, occasionally asked whether anything was needed of the second. Assurances were given that all was under control, and although I've 'been there, done that' too many times to be taken in, I was.
We undertook a speed tour of the local city in the early evening two days before departure. Watersports holidays require an inordinate quantity of spare clothing it would seem and the internet shopping delilvery man gave up checking whether this was the house he thought it might be (we've been missing a house sign for a few years now) and has learned not to fear the mock-dobermans that roam the yard.
Platoon No 2 very much took the, 'if we don't ask for help, we won't need it' approach - otherwise known as burying one's head in the small gritty stuff found on most beaches. Thus the car required for the journey across La Manche was still in the garage yesterday with only one or two minor things still to work on, (as this particular reccy is all about a certain classic car rally, it was relatively necessary). Panic buying of supplies took place two days ago; I ignored complaints about the size of the family tent and refused to invest in a smaller version to better fit in the car as we have had both tent and car for some years, there has been time to work out if one will cram into the other. Cries of 'Where are the picnic blankets...the cool-box...have you seen the spanner, you know the one that?' have been neatly deflected, but I confess to feelings of relief in the knowledge that the first child must now be near the end of his journey and the second contingent are probably rocking their way across the waters right now (I did hear the car return to the house once five minutes after departure, perhaps they did remember passports, tickets and money before it was too late).
It was only last night that I realised I have no idea where Platoon No 1 has actually gone, the land of baguettes yes, but where exactly? Who knows?!
Thursday, 5 July 2012
Wimbledon's centre court cover
The iron ring has been hammered in on the top floor; the chickens have scraped the weeds from the 1metre squared sandpit; towels have been washed and draped around the house to dry; a large supermarket shop is in, and stored upstairs, and the inflatable crocodile arrived express delivery yesterday. We are ready now for the worst this summer can throw at us.
Rather than buying in sand bags or asking the local council to take pity, the chickens (led by bored bantams) have made a sterling job of clearing the sandpit and children can now be press-ganged in to filling old sacks. These will be our first line of defence. Towels (those not taken on holiday by male members of the family, all of whom are conveniently away for the comings days), can be shoved against doors, or walls, wherever the water decides to creep in first.
Should the road outside prove to be impassable (water has crept from the river on to the tarmac for two of the last three days), we can sit smugly inside, with tins of pineapple, tuna and sweetcorn to stave off the hunger pangs
The iron ring provides a mooring point at which the inflatable crocodile and pastel-coloured swimming support can be tied, in event of the need for the family to set sail. Alas, I failed to persuade a strapping teen departing on a school watersports trip, that the ancient arm-bands would do as a prop for the planned inflatables-race on said trip; and, instead, had to forfeit the blow-up aeroplane in the interest of not losing cool (his, not mine!). Thus, we have our getaway craft, although I'm wondering whether the paddling pool and its lung-busting pillowed sides might also be pressed into service. Whilst not terribly aqua-dynamic, it would double as floating storage when we throw caution to the wind (or swamp) and launch ourselves from the top floor.
I no longer look at the forecast, the celestial swamp outside tells me all I need to know - and the long-suffering septic tank confirms the worst. Wimbledon finals this weekend, I shall look with envy at the gliding roof cover; do you suppose they make them to order?
Rather than buying in sand bags or asking the local council to take pity, the chickens (led by bored bantams) have made a sterling job of clearing the sandpit and children can now be press-ganged in to filling old sacks. These will be our first line of defence. Towels (those not taken on holiday by male members of the family, all of whom are conveniently away for the comings days), can be shoved against doors, or walls, wherever the water decides to creep in first.
Should the road outside prove to be impassable (water has crept from the river on to the tarmac for two of the last three days), we can sit smugly inside, with tins of pineapple, tuna and sweetcorn to stave off the hunger pangs
The iron ring provides a mooring point at which the inflatable crocodile and pastel-coloured swimming support can be tied, in event of the need for the family to set sail. Alas, I failed to persuade a strapping teen departing on a school watersports trip, that the ancient arm-bands would do as a prop for the planned inflatables-race on said trip; and, instead, had to forfeit the blow-up aeroplane in the interest of not losing cool (his, not mine!). Thus, we have our getaway craft, although I'm wondering whether the paddling pool and its lung-busting pillowed sides might also be pressed into service. Whilst not terribly aqua-dynamic, it would double as floating storage when we throw caution to the wind (or swamp) and launch ourselves from the top floor.
I no longer look at the forecast, the celestial swamp outside tells me all I need to know - and the long-suffering septic tank confirms the worst. Wimbledon finals this weekend, I shall look with envy at the gliding roof cover; do you suppose they make them to order?
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