So near and yet so far...(when opening your mouth without engaging your brain can lose you what you really want)

As a year comes rapidly to an end I start to reminisce, tonight I thought about the first time I saw this place; the first time I met Roger.
I love Roger – I think I did from the very beginning. When I picked up Charlie that evening, that golden summer evening you know the type; heavy and hazy and just full. Everything golden from grass to leaves to crops in the fields – OK so it was June but the fields were golden - full of OSR and my husband full of hay fever!
Welcome to the country! I picked him up from the train station and just drove him to the house; I couldn’t contain my excitement and we cruised past backwards and forwards.
We couldn’t wait to get a better look. P brought the details and there she was - pink. Very, very pink. With a red roof. Lots and lots of Georgian windows and large pottery Gloucester pig placed jauntily in front of an elegant wrought iron garden bench. All this framed by verdant foliage and an emerald green lawn – freshly cut.
But that’s where it stopped – where were the best bits? Where were the internal shots of the beautiful drawing rooms and large farmhouse kitchen; the dining room? In fact any room?

Just a bald statement:

The productive Residential and Arable Farm known as … with substantial 16th Century Farmhouse (Listed Grade II); Modern and Traditional Farm Buildings and 248 acres of Fertile Arable Land being of the Hanslope (411d), Ashley (572q) and Ragdale 1 (712g) Associations (MAFF Grades 2 AND 3).
For sale by private treaty as a whole or in 4 lots

Lot 1 was the farmhouse and 3.93 acres … “in need of some updating and modernisation”.
Dear Charlie wished me luck the next morning as he left to catch the train to London – I had a viewing and would tell him all about it when he got home that evening and say whether I thought it was worth him coming along the next time.
I don’t remember much about that viewing except meeting Roger. Before we knew it the agent and I were taken down the garden going through a seriously overgrown rose arch with more brambles than rose and down to the moat through the tallest nettles on the planet.
I trotted doggedly after Roger as he strode forth in shorts and open toed sandals, totally oblivious of the chin high nettles and brambles that made up the back paddock, through the encroaching trees to the moat where he bade us turn round to look at the house. All the time he chattered, smiling thorough his grisly grey beard, his bushy eyebrows dancing with ill concealed delight every time I flinched, jumped, and stumbled after being stung, scratched or being tripped up. The agent fared no better – I swear that Roger did it deliberately and, knowing him as I do now, I’m sure he did. He took us through the dirtiest, smelliest and most tangled way round that garden that he possibly could. I was in three quarter lengths and backless sandals, while the poor agent was in his very best suit and brand new loafers. Needless to say we were wrecked and we hadn’t even set foot indoors.
The next memory I have is of being in the spare room upstairs looking out over the moat and into the wood on the opposite side. The sun shining on the water and casting dimples of light all around the room I was in and I go and open my big mouth and do exactly what P had begged me not to – I asked how much and the agent replied and I so naively said that’s great we can go to X - a good £30,000 more than was being suggested. As soon as I did this I knew I was in trouble. I tried to backtrack but I could see the gleam in the agent’s eye – he knew it and I knew it; I was hooked and I was the very first person he had taken round – how many others would do the same?
Foolish girl.
I can’t explain how wonderful it felt to know this was the one and how terrible to know that we could lose it just because I couldn’t keep my trap shut. I couldn’t keep my enthusiasm under control. I couldn’t be cool.
It would not be long before Dear Charlie and I were told that the property would be sold via sealed bids…

Review: Falling For A Fly Called Mooch

There are children’s movies and then there are children’s movies, not all of them any good. But there again I’m an adult and what do I know? However, I have the opportunity to review DVD releases on a sporadic basis courtesy of Disney. Some releases that I have had the privilege to review have been great such as Bolt – a modern classic.

Others I’d rather not have to suffer a repeat performance; there again I’m not into Fairies and I’m afraid they aren’t my Boys thing either - though at one stage it was  touch and go with The Boy who announced proudly he wanted to grow up to be a Princess. He’s moved on from there and is taking inspiration from the likes of Spiderman, Merlin and Harry Potter.

And now, dare I say it, G-Force. G-Force isn’t anything to do with Action Man or some other Marvel comic book hero it’s the latest Disney Blue Ray/DVD and it’s all about Guinea Pigs. Oh was I relieved that we’d moved on from Fairies but Guinea Pigs just before Christmas – come on guys. Why do you do it to us parents?!!!

I was all set for something out of Alvin and the Chipmunks all cutesy and fluffy and enough to set my teeth on edge when we got to the opening sequence and I fell for a fly called Mooch.

I couldn’t say that I would ever think of flies as quite cool but this fly was and as for the cockroaches – inspired. Though I’m afraid if I saw them in my Kitchen or indeed anywhere else in the house I’d still kill them and ask questions later.

Back to the movie: it’s a kid’s movie with a bit of edge, some amazing if somewhat manic action sequences and of course cute flies. It’s live action along the lines of Babe – but boy has have special effects moved on since then - and is basically about the latest evolution of a covert government program to train animals to work in espionage – this time it’s an elite team of highly trained guinea pigs.

Armed with the latest high-tech spy equipment, these kick ass rodents discover that the fate of the world is in their paws but before they can do anything about it their programme is shut down. However, with the help of their human compatriots they escape determined to regroup and save the planet but first they need to escape from the local pet store.

It crossed my mind that I’d seen the movie before and I had, but not done with small rodents. But that’s cool, it’s comfortable and surprisingly entertaining on a wet Saturday afternoon you know what’s coming and you can knowingly smile at the nods to film classics that have gone before. It’s a tried and tested formula – a safe bet. And there’s nothing wrong with that. The Boys loved every minute and have now watched it three times. Luckily however, they don’t seem to be begging me for a Guinea Pig for Christmas and I won’t be prompting them either.

My rating for the film: 6 out of 10

Previous ratings, so you know where I’m coming from: Bolt 8 out of 10, Toy Story I and II: 9.5 out of 10, Shrek I and II: 9.5 out of 10

Stars in their Eyes

God bless the Little Children, each and every one but let’s face it not all of them are born for the stage.
It was the school Nativity Play this afternoon and King No 1 was outstanding, but then again I would say that wouldn’t I? The Boy was there in all his splendour balanced precariously on a gym bench belting out Christmas songs until he forgot the words, got bored and started to pick his nose. I promise he wasn’t the only one.
There was the little echo in the wings who repeated the whole play word for word just a line behind; the Captain of the Guards whose delivery was so fast and staccato, that he had the whole audience in stunned silence as we tried to work out what it was he had just said; the bashful narrators who held up their books so high no one could see their faces, the star who refused to dance and had to be cajoled off the stage so she wouldn’t be in the way of the rest of them, the exasperated Angel Gabriel whose younger brother refused to stand in the right place and say the right words causing said Arch Angel to bash him one to get him to concentrate.
Some you could see loathed the whole rigmarole and clearly felt they were far too old and sophisticated to deign to join in, yawning and fidgeting and then suddenly realising it was their line and having to be prompted.
Others were busy waving and making faces at their parents and younger siblings; although it must be said the parents and siblings were equally bad waving and blowing kisses to their little darlings at the moment jus.
Some voices were loud and strong, others barely above a whisper. Lines were delivered by rote and the relief on little faces as they were said without mishap was palatable.
And then there were the ones clearly born to perform. King Herod stomping in all his majestic fury demanding to know who this upstart baby Jesus was as he was King round here. Thrusting aside other bit players perhaps a tad to strongly as he swept off the stage. There was tiny little Joseph being equally imperious when Mary on her Donkey had the temerity to walk ahead of him, and of course Dear Little Mary herself imploring incredulously the immortal line: “How can I have a baby? I’m not even married yet?”
I swear these Nativity Plays get funnier and funnier every year but I wouldn’t miss them for the entire world!

Sheep and sheepish behaviour

I have been likened to a sheep. I don’t mind sheep, in fact they are quite tasty with mint sauce. But being likened to one, I think is an insult. Not so much my looks I hasten to add but by my perceived behaviour. I obviously have a herd like tendency - at least to observers.

Personally I think I am far more dangerous and quite possibly subversive but that would just be boasting and it is not the done thing at all.

Minding my own business in an ovine way in the playground while waiting for my little lamb to join me I was accosted.

“I hear you are looking at another school.”

I paused before answering for I have learned that one should tread carefully when confronted with a loaded question even if it has been rattled off as a statement. Perhaps the pause was misinterpreted as an invitation to wade in and my interrogator continued:

“I hope it’s not because of Mrs M, I know you are friends with her.”

I just stared at her, a rictus smile across my face. My brain went into overdrive.

I think I have just been insulted. How dare she insult me? How dare she think that my decision to look at other schools has anything to do with Mrs M leaving? Does she think I have no mind at all? Does she really think so poorly of me?

Me: “Yes I have been looking, you know that. The Boy has found the leap form Year 1 to Year 2 difficult and I am not sure he'll make the leap from Year 2 to Year 3....”

My interrogator continued barely paying attention to the point that I had already told her that we were looking elsewhere. Perhaps when I mentioned it a few weeks ago, at the same time I might add when she too was musing about moving school, she just thought I was saying it as a reflection of her own thoughts.

Her: “We’re staying.” She paused as if expecting me to immediately agree that we were staying too. When it was obvious that I was not going to acquiesce immediately. I was given a verbal prod.

Her: “You know the School is getting in more special needs teachers…”

I had heard, in fact I had heard a lot and been privy to many proposals, some of which I had suggested when I was interviewed by the strategist who had come into the school to get it back on course after a particularly difficult year.

I was suddenly very tired and I do like my interrogator on most normal occasions. Kind and generous to a fault she is, but our relationship is odd. I find that it is so much easier to just agree with her, to cajole and help her with her self-esteem. It’s no skin off my nose and maybe that’s the problem. With her I am a yes man, almost always agreeing, if she did but look I am temperate with what I say and mostly when I disagree I am ambiguous at best. I support where it is needed and I suppose I feel for her and her unenviable position. There is no need to upset people unduly and the county is small. Maybe that’s why she was so incredulous for she thinks I am a sheep therefore I should be herded easily back to the fold. Sheep are not meant to be stubborn.

I weighed up my options, go straight for the jugular and have a very messy playground, win some admiration and go down in legend at the same time alienating people I care for or let her think I am a sheep. I chose the latter of course and condemned myself forever in her low esteem. I will not be removing my sheep’s clothing just yet. I prefer to keep my decisions to myself for I have not quite made up my mind, my own mind I hasten to add. So somewhat sheepishly I said: “Well, we’ll see.”

Baaa, baaa….

The case of the Missing Prawns (or the wickedest whippet in the world strikes again...)

Arrghhh!
I thought I was being so clever this evening but she’s gone and done it again. My pesky whippet puppy has eaten all my prawns – and I hope she gets a very poorly tummy. Though saying that, if she does she will probably land up regurgitating the whole lot on my bed knowing my luck!
Oohhh!
I had been very indulgent and had bought - dare I say it? - a ready-made Chinese meal the other day. Beef and Black bean sauce, egg fried rice and crispy prawns with sweet chilli sauce courtesy of those goodly people at Waitrose. I was so looking forward to it, wrong we were both SO looking forward to it.
This evening I had it all sorted. Dear Charlie was soaking in a bath trying to warm up – poor chap is feeling a bit crook and awful cold. I was going to surprise him with a real treat, which we could eat in front of X Factor.
Everything was done for once and I was ahead of myself. The children were fed and in bed, chickens were all shut up for the night, laundry was done, table already laid for breakfast, washing up done. All I had to do was slam the dinner into the oven for 25 minutes and Bob’s your proverbial Uncle.
However, the prawns did not take as long as the sauce to cook. The idea being that you place the sauce in first then half way through place the prawns on a baking tray separately so they don’t go soggy.
So what to do with the prawns for the seven minutes before you place them in the oven? Of course, put them on a separate baking tray and leave them on the kitchen counter high enough, you think, to be out of reach of the dogs.
I hadn’t counted on EBJ’s tenacity had I? Nor on her ability to problem solve. In fact I keep forgetting she has a brain. I must admit it is not one of her most attractive qualities. The other whippets are blissfully brainless – that or they have better manners and/or are not quite so greedy.
However, I leave the kitchen for a few moments to check on Dear Charlie and tell him supper will only be ten minutes, and when I return everything seems fine. Nothing has moved, there are no tell tale marks to indicate anything is wrong. The baking tray is where I have left it but because I don’t go right up to it I fail to notice that there is nothing there until it is time to place the prawns in the oven and they are gone, not a crumb has been left. For a few moments I am bewildered. I question my actions and run through exactly what I did and come up with the conclusion that I must have put the prawns in the fridge. But they are not there. I am genuinely puzzled because there seems to be no way the dog could possibly have half inched those prawns without making an awful lot of fuss or else flying and I had heard nada, nothing, not a dicky bird. I only left the kitchen for two minutes - if that.
But as the Great Sherlock Holmes stated “when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”.
All I can say is, I have no idea how she could have done it. She is not a cat and to have leapt up 90cms to land on top of the counter which is only 30cms in depth without breaking anything or pushing anything off is incredible.
By a process of elimination I can hazard a guess as to how she might have achieved it but the complexity of the solution seems a bit beyond a ten-month-old whippet.
However this is what I think she did: she walked away from the counter top to the other side of the table where there was a chair slightly pushed out. She climbed on the chair and jumped onto the tabletop. She then walked along the table and jumped about half a metre onto the counter the other side of the oven from where the prawns were sitting. She then walked back along the counter, jumped over the hob without knocking over any of the pans upon it and ate the prawns on the baking tray. Then she retraced her steps. And quietly curled up in her basket.
If it wasn’t for the fact that she happened to have a few tell tale crumbs round her muzzle and for once looked particularly guilty when I glared at her, I swear I would never have known.
I am afraid I reprimanded her for all of two seconds. She seemed so abjectly sorry and it is so out of character for her to show any remorse at all that she was swiftly forgiven.
Dear Charlie mutters that the dog is a serious weasel and is not to be trusted ever and that this is just another ruse to add to her repertoire. Needless to say I suspect he is right. But she’s so cute…

One almighty strop....

 

I love my boys very much and like most parents I would do anything for them but sometimes there is nothing I can do; they just have to work it out for themselves.

Downstairs now, Bog Boy is lying on the floor in one almighty strop punishing me for some transgression I have yet to work out that I did or said or in his case not did or not said – I don’t know which.

Being a parent can be very confusing…nay exhausting, emotionally as well as physically. And it feels like I blunder about it in all the wrong ways.

I mean where do you stand on discipline? How far do you take a threat? What about treats? And do you think you can ever praise enough? Can you priase too much or does it devalue your intent? The same goes for punishment - if you do it too much does it just become tsoemthing that Mum does?

And why oh why is it always me?

I shall potter downstairs now and give Bog Boy a cuddle and our tiff will be forgotten and forgiven just like that - would that the nagging doubts could be cleared aways so easily...

Dark doings down on the Farm...

Tonight is the night. Tonight my husband is away. Tonight I will pluck up my courage and do the thing I have been meaning to do for ages – I will kill my surplus cockerels.
It seems pathetic that I cannot kill my own chickens. I will go to great lengths to avoid it – my usual excuse being that we never meant to have any chickens in the first place. However, they came with the house.
I remember first seeing this place. Dear Charlie’s best mate P had returned to Suffolk a year earlier and was looking for a suitable home for us while we were in London and then in June just after we had moved into rented accommodation he loomed large at the door while I was de-fleaing one of the cats at the kitchen table.
Him: “You pregnant yet?” (back then P was very keen that we had children as quickly as possible perhaps because he needed Dear Charlie to join him as a new dad to bemoan the sleepless night that he was clearly suffering).
Me: “You found me a house yet?”
He had just heard that this place was coming onto the market begged me not to get excited and: “For god’s sake don’t say how much money you can spend!”
Both bits of advice went in one ear and out the other and I dived headlong for the car leaving P to handle an extremely explosive cat still in its towel vice.
Although I couldn’t actually look at the house; I could drive past it, which I did several times – we’d been looking for so long it seemed and nothing we had viewed was ever quite right. Could this be it?
Then I saw the most extraordinary sight. Just after the turning for the house and before the 90 degree bend in the road, a massive great lorry had ground to a halt; it sat there a-huffing and a-puffing and not doing very much. I stopped the car – what was going on?
Then I noticed that just in front of the juggernaught a chick was quite unconcernedly was pecking away in the middle of the road at some fallen grain; then I looked again, there was whole group of them plus a very harassed motherhen,who had quite literally taken on the lorry. Her wings were aggressively spread, her neck all ruffled up. The HGV didn’t stand a chance. Minutes later all the chicks were across the road and into the corn field then the hen swivelling on short bright yellow legs, dark chestnut and black feathers immaculately in place, strutted after them. My first encounter with the Rookyard brood; how I would grow to love them and to curse them over the next eight years!
As far as looking at the house was concerned I could hardly see a thing just a glimpse of Suffolk Pink up a dirty concrete drive massively overgrown with jungle like vegetation – I just knew it would be ours and drove off in a hurry to tell Dear Charlie that I had found our "Forever" house.
I don’t know why I feel I need to tell you about how we got this place and what it meant but if I don’t, then it will all be forgotten. I need to bring you up to speed so you’ll know what I’m going on about – it’s not really a blog. But if you don’t know the story of the hens, the house, the children, the dogs etc you won’t know me…
That hen with her chicks was what I wanted to be – a mum.
Now as a responsible chicken owner I need to protect my brood and too many cockerels is not a good thing. I will grab next-door neighbour Roger and we will do the deed tonight!