Our hens are a moveable feast. We move their coop, and a large stretch of electric fencing around the garden for a change of scenery every week or so.
Smokey - #1 in the pecking order - has, in recent months, shown utter disdain for the power of electricity. She lays her eggs at about 11 am most days and her preferred nest is anywhere other than the straw-lined nesting boxes provided. Thus the strutting and noises of disgust from 9 am onwards. She began by flying up on to the perch provided outside the hutch and then squawking in awkward flight over the fence. Clipped wings didn't prevent similar attempts, but did increase the abuse she dished out to anyone who happened to pass. Undeterred, she decided to walk on through the fencing, which basically involves treading it down and then hopping over. Her feathered comrades find the mild electric current off-putting. Not Smokey. She is after all, No.1, and one of the Sisters of Doom (a frightening partnership, of which more another time).
Nesting places have included the lavender bushes, underneath the rosemary/honeysuckle confusion, right in the middle of the sweet-pea teepee, in the dogs' shed (behind some wooden planks). Several different hideouts have been found in amongst the weeds - plenty to choose from - eggs have nestled right beside the road under the protection of an over enthusiastic elder and in the comfort of some grass clippings. The large bin in which the hen food is kept has been found to shelter in its lee a number of her eggs. The secret, we thought, was once we found the latest nesting place, to leave at least one egg; if this is done she returns, if not, she knows she's been rumbled and moves on.
Enter the dog. Never acclaimed for her wisdom, the elderly labrador is none-the-less an expert mouser and will happily spend many hours sitting by a mouse-hole anticipating the moment the small rodent might emerge. She meets with some degree of success in this method. She has also been watching us watching Smokey. The hen crows with delight at having laid an egg, a member of the family rushes out to spot the nesting place (but the hen isn't stupid, she wanders away from the site before letting rip), and retrieves an egg. Clearly, this stomach on legs that is our dog decided she wanted a piece of the action. She lies on the grass and observes, is up and off and searching before Smokey has so much as squeaked, and finds the egg before any human is aware that one has been laid. Scolding has no effect whatsoever, nothing can come between a dog and her morning snack. So, I'm about to continue with editing, with windows and door wide open (have to be careful there as Smokey will happily wander in and help herself to the small dog's food), with half an eye flitting to the window in case a yellow coloured hunter should pass by.
Tuesday, 19 June 2012
Monday, 18 June 2012
Hirsute heros score!
I am neither given to admiring too much facial hair on a man, nor to worshipping at the altar of the game that is referred to as the beautiful one.
The other-half has experimented once or twice with working on the whiskers and, at the time, I found it perfectly acceptable (you can sense the enthusiasm); the notion growing on me with each week, so to speak. It's the in-between part that I'm less keen on, the designer stubble so beloved of ageing film or pop-stars and some footballers - often those with thinner locks on top.
Football, I can take or leave. Boring for 90% of the time, spectators hang on in there in case the predictably good striker hammers one home, or the unbelievably awful mid-fielder - you see I do know the odd term - trundles up from behind the half-way line to pop one in the goal whilst the goalie's attention is elsewhere. Every time one of these tournaments comes round - which they seem to do with astonishing regularity - my heart sinks. The over-paid and over-there ones are followed by hordes of paparazzi, their every move and those of their loved-ones souped up and served up for our delectation on air, screen and paper.
However, I do enjoy watching members of the family play and can be hear to embarrass them with yells from the sideline (or is it touchline?); words of encouragement and suggestions as to movements - well it can't be that different from school-days hockey, can it? And when these regular global, or impoverished-monetary-unit zone, competitions feature I can, on occasion be found passing through a room with a screen showing a match. Answers to any questions in these circumstances will not be forthcoming from any male member of the family and I've found that passing notes under their noses doesn't work either. Half-time is devoted to a quick comfort stop, or re-stocking of liquid refreshment and, "Got any crisps or something, Mum?" In the face of such competition I find it best either to vacate the premises or to give in, feign interest and sit and watch. Gives me the perfect excuse to hold up my hands in question when asked, at the end of the match and commentary, "What are we eating?" I, too, have been watching animatedly; how can I know?
I digress: Hirsute men. Whilst watching half a match between our nation and a certain bearer of blue and yellow, I couldn't help but notice a bearded, viking-type on the pitch - though luckily less barrel-chested than traditional images of his marauding ancestors. His presence was dismissed by family members, yet I had clearly chosen well; he scored two goals and now I find that I may have to watch another match to see how he gets on. I shall advise him, (sure he'll be pleased to know) not to rid himself of the beard. Another Nordic hero of mine played Aragon in Lord of the Rings; magnificent with long-hair and beard, the actor has sadly disappointed in subsequent smooth-cheeked roles. If Mehlberg wishes to succeed, he needs to keep the facial hair.
The other-half has experimented once or twice with working on the whiskers and, at the time, I found it perfectly acceptable (you can sense the enthusiasm); the notion growing on me with each week, so to speak. It's the in-between part that I'm less keen on, the designer stubble so beloved of ageing film or pop-stars and some footballers - often those with thinner locks on top.
Football, I can take or leave. Boring for 90% of the time, spectators hang on in there in case the predictably good striker hammers one home, or the unbelievably awful mid-fielder - you see I do know the odd term - trundles up from behind the half-way line to pop one in the goal whilst the goalie's attention is elsewhere. Every time one of these tournaments comes round - which they seem to do with astonishing regularity - my heart sinks. The over-paid and over-there ones are followed by hordes of paparazzi, their every move and those of their loved-ones souped up and served up for our delectation on air, screen and paper.
However, I do enjoy watching members of the family play and can be hear to embarrass them with yells from the sideline (or is it touchline?); words of encouragement and suggestions as to movements - well it can't be that different from school-days hockey, can it? And when these regular global, or impoverished-monetary-unit zone, competitions feature I can, on occasion be found passing through a room with a screen showing a match. Answers to any questions in these circumstances will not be forthcoming from any male member of the family and I've found that passing notes under their noses doesn't work either. Half-time is devoted to a quick comfort stop, or re-stocking of liquid refreshment and, "Got any crisps or something, Mum?" In the face of such competition I find it best either to vacate the premises or to give in, feign interest and sit and watch. Gives me the perfect excuse to hold up my hands in question when asked, at the end of the match and commentary, "What are we eating?" I, too, have been watching animatedly; how can I know?
I digress: Hirsute men. Whilst watching half a match between our nation and a certain bearer of blue and yellow, I couldn't help but notice a bearded, viking-type on the pitch - though luckily less barrel-chested than traditional images of his marauding ancestors. His presence was dismissed by family members, yet I had clearly chosen well; he scored two goals and now I find that I may have to watch another match to see how he gets on. I shall advise him, (sure he'll be pleased to know) not to rid himself of the beard. Another Nordic hero of mine played Aragon in Lord of the Rings; magnificent with long-hair and beard, the actor has sadly disappointed in subsequent smooth-cheeked roles. If Mehlberg wishes to succeed, he needs to keep the facial hair.
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Sock Dating Agency
Fed up feeling like the odd one out? Do you lean to the left, or the right? Black, white, coloured? We offer to match you with a partner with similar interests. Scroll down the available styles below and then simply fill in your details:
A. Black: Sizes from childrens 6 to Adult 13
1. Sports style (ie thicker and more padded than the norm, which sums up the owners)
i. with appropriate logo above the ankle
ii. with fetching stripes to the side - to give the impression of speed
2. Trainer-style, which to most of us means, those teeny-weeny pretensions to be socks that cannot be seen above the shoe. Not for the exhibitionist sock-lover. Usually in plain block-black, also seen with mock-leopard-print pink (for the closet fast-dresser.)
3. Work socks - whether office or classroom. Thinner cotton. Adult sizes only. Block colouring at heels and toes, some with stripes at both ends, others with barely discernible black lettering (subtle, but a little too much so for we match-makers).
B. White: Sizes from childrens 9 to Adult 13
1. Sports style - as above. Rarely seen in original colour, can be provided with varying shades of grey, orange, brown, green or pink soles.
i. if for cricket, logos not seen underneath white, so exact match not essential
ii. fetching stripes simply look like mud-stains, do you really want these?
2. Trainer style. Limited numbers available, too little of original colour remaining to classify as white.
3. Work socks - no one in their right minds...
C. Multi-coloured: Sizes from childrens 3 to Adult 6
1. Long - fun socks available in the months prior to Christmas for novelty stocking-fillers. Available with a variety of Jolly Snowmen, Nordic knit-print, and Festive reds. Again, probably worn under trousers and therefore matching non-essential.
2. Short - from short-short, trainer-style to ankle, to mid-calf, due to age-induced shrinking.
Any interest, apply within. All single socks available for immediate pairing.
Please - no donations expected, wanted or asked for.
A. Black: Sizes from childrens 6 to Adult 13
1. Sports style (ie thicker and more padded than the norm, which sums up the owners)
i. with appropriate logo above the ankle
ii. with fetching stripes to the side - to give the impression of speed
2. Trainer-style, which to most of us means, those teeny-weeny pretensions to be socks that cannot be seen above the shoe. Not for the exhibitionist sock-lover. Usually in plain block-black, also seen with mock-leopard-print pink (for the closet fast-dresser.)
3. Work socks - whether office or classroom. Thinner cotton. Adult sizes only. Block colouring at heels and toes, some with stripes at both ends, others with barely discernible black lettering (subtle, but a little too much so for we match-makers).
B. White: Sizes from childrens 9 to Adult 13
1. Sports style - as above. Rarely seen in original colour, can be provided with varying shades of grey, orange, brown, green or pink soles.
i. if for cricket, logos not seen underneath white, so exact match not essential
ii. fetching stripes simply look like mud-stains, do you really want these?
2. Trainer style. Limited numbers available, too little of original colour remaining to classify as white.
3. Work socks - no one in their right minds...
C. Multi-coloured: Sizes from childrens 3 to Adult 6
1. Long - fun socks available in the months prior to Christmas for novelty stocking-fillers. Available with a variety of Jolly Snowmen, Nordic knit-print, and Festive reds. Again, probably worn under trousers and therefore matching non-essential.
2. Short - from short-short, trainer-style to ankle, to mid-calf, due to age-induced shrinking.
Any interest, apply within. All single socks available for immediate pairing.
Please - no donations expected, wanted or asked for.
Monday, 11 June 2012
Why am I here?
I opened the fridge to get the washing out yesterday. It's not the first time, I did once put the iron in the fridge, shut the door and turn away before I realised what I'd done.
We all have those infuriating moments when, having climbed the stairs and gone into the bed/bath room, we've had to go back to the ground level to try and trigger the initial prompt. 'Why am I here?' is a common refrain heard in this household, and sadly it's not a philisophical poser.
I've left my purse on top of the car, driven off, reached the shop, and 'ping', like some cartoon bubble the picture of the afore-mentioned appeared before me. Luckily, that time, I retraced my path and found the purse in the middle of the A38, some contents scattered across the road. A busy road, and one that parents admonish their children for walking too close to. This time, I just held the traffic up with an assurance I didn't feel (my hand and many nods and mouthed thanks), ran into the road and scooped up the bits and pieces. My loyalty card for a well known chemists still has a sharp crease down its length and I've given up trying to explain why.
I left the elderly dog, in her youth, at a friend's house and had absolutely no idea that I'd done so until a 'phone call some time later. Perhaps I was subconsciously enjoying the 'one less thing to do' ease of dealing only with the off-spring when I returned. The friend concerned had wondered when I might turn back on my journey home, or whether the penny would drop once I had got everyone out of the car. Not a clue.
At least it wasn't a child. Having dropped the eldest children at school one morning, I left the premises talking to two other parents and suddenly realised that not all was well. Keys were in my hand, fine on that front. Then, "Oh, no, I've forgotten ...(toddler)..." A quick glance to the road to check, back behind me. No, nobody around. There was silence from my companions. As I turned to begin my run back into the playground, one cleared her throat and said, "You're holding her hand, she's here!"
I have researched and produced conferences and seminars for handfuls of people and thousands; understood relatively complicated technological advances and strategies for dealing with their implementation, can metamorphose hundreds of 'phone calls and hours of reading into one salient point; but I can't find my child at the end of my arm - I am clearly beyond the half-way point in life's journey!
We all have those infuriating moments when, having climbed the stairs and gone into the bed/bath room, we've had to go back to the ground level to try and trigger the initial prompt. 'Why am I here?' is a common refrain heard in this household, and sadly it's not a philisophical poser.
I've left my purse on top of the car, driven off, reached the shop, and 'ping', like some cartoon bubble the picture of the afore-mentioned appeared before me. Luckily, that time, I retraced my path and found the purse in the middle of the A38, some contents scattered across the road. A busy road, and one that parents admonish their children for walking too close to. This time, I just held the traffic up with an assurance I didn't feel (my hand and many nods and mouthed thanks), ran into the road and scooped up the bits and pieces. My loyalty card for a well known chemists still has a sharp crease down its length and I've given up trying to explain why.
I left the elderly dog, in her youth, at a friend's house and had absolutely no idea that I'd done so until a 'phone call some time later. Perhaps I was subconsciously enjoying the 'one less thing to do' ease of dealing only with the off-spring when I returned. The friend concerned had wondered when I might turn back on my journey home, or whether the penny would drop once I had got everyone out of the car. Not a clue.
At least it wasn't a child. Having dropped the eldest children at school one morning, I left the premises talking to two other parents and suddenly realised that not all was well. Keys were in my hand, fine on that front. Then, "Oh, no, I've forgotten ...(toddler)..." A quick glance to the road to check, back behind me. No, nobody around. There was silence from my companions. As I turned to begin my run back into the playground, one cleared her throat and said, "You're holding her hand, she's here!"
I have researched and produced conferences and seminars for handfuls of people and thousands; understood relatively complicated technological advances and strategies for dealing with their implementation, can metamorphose hundreds of 'phone calls and hours of reading into one salient point; but I can't find my child at the end of my arm - I am clearly beyond the half-way point in life's journey!
Summer Wedding
Now here's a hot business tip for the entrepreneurs out there, summer thermals. Ideally, these should be a little lighter in their make-up than the thick-set woolly numbers that traditionally surfice during winter months, yet still have the ability to warm chilled torsos, and let the body breathe should there happen to be a ten minute burst of summer.
Fortunate enough to attend a wedding in the west country last Saturday, my choice of outfit (see earlier post re forsaking the Greeks in favour of trying to 'divert' weight gain), was ultimately decided by the on-going drought conditions. I have two dresses that are hauled from the back of the cupboard for weddings, generally alternated depending on how many friends/relatives saw it last time and will be attending the current event. This time the chill factor held sway and I sallied forth in the blue for the simple reason that my most light-weight thermal would fit under it. With legs a 'holiday-moisturising-tan' streaked colour, I felt that I had given a nod to the season of summer, whilst preventing the on-set of hypothermia.
The church is one we know well, it is small and the congregation large in number. Arriving in what I felt was good time (fifteen minutes before the bride), it was a case of standing-room only. We had the best view in the house and I offered up a prayer of thanks to the inventor of wedge heels, it was their inventiveness that meant I was still able to walk an hour later. But, a small, full church, bathed in a few watery rays, soon heats up. The jacket came off, but it's a little harder (and undoubtedly inadvisable) to remove thermals during a wedding ceremony. When the vicar asked us to leave in an orderly manner I'm not sure he'd realised the need for open windows and a quick 'one-two' frog-march out of the door.
For the rest of the day my 'ski-smart,light-weight' warmer worked a treat and instead I spent time wondering when it might be acceptable to swap my open-toed shoes for the socks and trainers option (or wellies), waiting in the car.
Fortunate enough to attend a wedding in the west country last Saturday, my choice of outfit (see earlier post re forsaking the Greeks in favour of trying to 'divert' weight gain), was ultimately decided by the on-going drought conditions. I have two dresses that are hauled from the back of the cupboard for weddings, generally alternated depending on how many friends/relatives saw it last time and will be attending the current event. This time the chill factor held sway and I sallied forth in the blue for the simple reason that my most light-weight thermal would fit under it. With legs a 'holiday-moisturising-tan' streaked colour, I felt that I had given a nod to the season of summer, whilst preventing the on-set of hypothermia.
The church is one we know well, it is small and the congregation large in number. Arriving in what I felt was good time (fifteen minutes before the bride), it was a case of standing-room only. We had the best view in the house and I offered up a prayer of thanks to the inventor of wedge heels, it was their inventiveness that meant I was still able to walk an hour later. But, a small, full church, bathed in a few watery rays, soon heats up. The jacket came off, but it's a little harder (and undoubtedly inadvisable) to remove thermals during a wedding ceremony. When the vicar asked us to leave in an orderly manner I'm not sure he'd realised the need for open windows and a quick 'one-two' frog-march out of the door.
For the rest of the day my 'ski-smart,light-weight' warmer worked a treat and instead I spent time wondering when it might be acceptable to swap my open-toed shoes for the socks and trainers option (or wellies), waiting in the car.
Saturday, 2 June 2012
W for Wife
Whilst I have no doubt that my choice of life-partner was one of my better decisions, I was clearly far too naive to think of writing a pre-nup, (in my defence I'm not sure they existed back in the day). Thus D for drainage comes under W for wife - this also covers P for plumbing.
Living in a city for a number of years the only plumbing required was dealing with the far end of young children. Things changed when we moved to the Celestial Swamp. Our predecessors were kind enough to leave us with lengths of detachable drainage rods, complete with a variety of 'ends', the like of which probably formed the basis for many a medieval torture chamber. Perhaps a warning light should have come on when we first noticed these stashed neatly at the back of the tool shed.
On this fine Jubilee weekend many are baking fairy cakes, chilling beer and firing up the BBQ; I have spent the afternoon up to my elbows in a variety of substances that, singly, are enough to frighten potential burglars; combined, and I'm amazed anyone has dared to cross the threshold in recent days. The assistance of the small dog, whose insistence on digging grit, chasing imaginary mice and chewing on wood had undoubtedly contributed to the problem in the first place did not help. On a muggy day and covered from head to foot to prevent said substances covering me, having a small terrier climbing up ones back, yapping and then treading in the offending backed-up drainage pool, didn't help! My only consolation was that at least it was above 0 degress celsius, wasn't raining and neither was it hours before a party, all of which has happened before - the latter during a memorable Christmas.
Job done, I have subsequently scrubbed my hands and arms several times in antiseptic, anti-gardening, anti-pong soaps, (I know there is no point in rubber gloves, yet insist on wearing them each time, only for the offending blockage to be so deep as to flow over and into the gloves). I've 'aired' my arms, left them a while and washed again and they are now covered in thick cream in an attempt to disguise the scent. The large dog, meanwhile, is busy sniffing round the garden for flicked up samples from the blocked drains, no accounting for taste!
Living in a city for a number of years the only plumbing required was dealing with the far end of young children. Things changed when we moved to the Celestial Swamp. Our predecessors were kind enough to leave us with lengths of detachable drainage rods, complete with a variety of 'ends', the like of which probably formed the basis for many a medieval torture chamber. Perhaps a warning light should have come on when we first noticed these stashed neatly at the back of the tool shed.
On this fine Jubilee weekend many are baking fairy cakes, chilling beer and firing up the BBQ; I have spent the afternoon up to my elbows in a variety of substances that, singly, are enough to frighten potential burglars; combined, and I'm amazed anyone has dared to cross the threshold in recent days. The assistance of the small dog, whose insistence on digging grit, chasing imaginary mice and chewing on wood had undoubtedly contributed to the problem in the first place did not help. On a muggy day and covered from head to foot to prevent said substances covering me, having a small terrier climbing up ones back, yapping and then treading in the offending backed-up drainage pool, didn't help! My only consolation was that at least it was above 0 degress celsius, wasn't raining and neither was it hours before a party, all of which has happened before - the latter during a memorable Christmas.
Job done, I have subsequently scrubbed my hands and arms several times in antiseptic, anti-gardening, anti-pong soaps, (I know there is no point in rubber gloves, yet insist on wearing them each time, only for the offending blockage to be so deep as to flow over and into the gloves). I've 'aired' my arms, left them a while and washed again and they are now covered in thick cream in an attempt to disguise the scent. The large dog, meanwhile, is busy sniffing round the garden for flicked up samples from the blocked drains, no accounting for taste!
Friday, 1 June 2012
Tripping the line fantastic
On a quick errand earlier, I passed a herd of Jersey cows. They were ranged along the length of the low stone wall; eyes the size of saucers looking with amusement, not at me, but at the farmer standing close by.
Hundreds of metres of bunting has been fluttering along this particular stretch of road - proclaiming the farmer's support for our monarch, and welcomng all to the village concerned - for some days now.
Today, the farmer stood with a length of bunting looped in one hand, his other stretched to the side with a further extension. For a moment it looked as though he was about to try his hand at rodeo lassoo, static-jubilee fashion. Too good to miss, I slowed down to watch.
The cows stayed still and continued to observe the lone figure getting closer to them. The bunting had blown in the breeze and the farmer was about to engage in a complex line dance in order to sort himself out. So, with a,'you, Flo', move to the right a little,' and 'Daisy, back a bit, will you' he began to untangle the regal tribute. I am pleased to report that the bunting is tied again in its rightful place and the herd concerned are grazing unconcerningly once more, albeit a little more hoof-co-ordinated than they might have been a few hours ago. Only in Somerset!
Hundreds of metres of bunting has been fluttering along this particular stretch of road - proclaiming the farmer's support for our monarch, and welcomng all to the village concerned - for some days now.
Today, the farmer stood with a length of bunting looped in one hand, his other stretched to the side with a further extension. For a moment it looked as though he was about to try his hand at rodeo lassoo, static-jubilee fashion. Too good to miss, I slowed down to watch.
The cows stayed still and continued to observe the lone figure getting closer to them. The bunting had blown in the breeze and the farmer was about to engage in a complex line dance in order to sort himself out. So, with a,'you, Flo', move to the right a little,' and 'Daisy, back a bit, will you' he began to untangle the regal tribute. I am pleased to report that the bunting is tied again in its rightful place and the herd concerned are grazing unconcerningly once more, albeit a little more hoof-co-ordinated than they might have been a few hours ago. Only in Somerset!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)