When I was younger, child free and lived in London I never noticed children per se - a bit like in movies they just weren’t seen, let alone heard. That is, unless they became the focus of attention.
In London this would be brought painfully to my attention especially if I was late for work. I would find myself caught up in the school run trapped between dark blue Volvos and sleek grey Mercedes as they cruised shark like for the elusive parking spot closest to the school gates slewing from either side of the road as I cycled furiously so as not to be squashed into the kerb.
At other times I would find myslef having to brake and veer wildly as the Mummies opened their car doors oblivious to other road users while they businy hauled out a well scrubbed and matching pair of blonde bobbed juniors to plonk them with a sigh of relief at their corresponding educational establishments.
On other occasions it would be the screaming child at Peter Jones in the glassware department near the spiral staircase right next to the front entrance or horrors in the middle of Sainsbury’s at Nine Elms. How I stared, how I tutted and shook my head or else averted my gaze so as not to embarrass the poor lone mother already heavily weighed down with a paraphernalia of parcels, plastic bags and for good measure another mewling infant on the verge of eruption.
The poor mother would have to cope in ever growing isolation and you’d hear pleadings, sobs, and bribery all in a desperately hushed whisper. Occasionally mother would explode startling children and shoppers alike but it had the desired affect. To be honest I have no idea what is the best policy in those situations. I think in myself satisfied single life - as it was then – I believed that of course I would do it better. Today I was well and truly hoisted by my own petard.
It all started off so well, we found a space to park, we got a trolley, we got into the store and we even started to get shopping but from then on in it was an unmitigated disaster.
The Boy: I’m hungry!
Me: You’ll have to wait darling…
The Boy: I want a banana
Me: I said you’ll have to wait - it won’t be long
The Boy: Look Mummy a pineapple – I want a pineapple!
Me: No love we don’t need one of those
The Boy: Why not?
Me: They’re not ripe yet (and they’re too expensive.)
The Boy: Look Mum! Strawberries!
What strawberries in January? English??!!! Oh from Peru
Me: How lovely Darling but we’re not having those…
The Boy: Why not?
Me: They have come too far love we need to get food that is grown in season
The Boy: But if they’re here they’ve grown haven’t they? So they’re in season…
Can’t fault the logic can you?
It carried on like this wanting things, whining about things because he could not have them until at last frustrated by the fact that for some unknown reason there was no milk I told him to be quiet or there would be no Gingerbread Man treat for him.
OH FOOLISH, FOOLISH WOMAN!!!
The Boy stood there and dissolved into the most heart-rending picture of an angel being told it would never get to heaven. The sobs tore at your very soul right there in the dairy aisle slap bang in the middle of Waitrose on a busy Wednesday afternoon.
I was dumbfounded, out paced and totally out of my depth. I began to wonder if I had been a little too harsh - perhaps I was a little rough when I said the big N.O.
I put my arms around him only for the sobs to get worse and turn to wailing nay keening. The Littlest stared at his brother in awe and catching my eye silently held out his arms for a cuddle pleading for reassurance as the wails got more and more wild and his brother’s shoulders started to quake – it was all getting rather out of hand and the crowd was getting uncomfortably large. I was furious, the little bugger was making a total show I longed to give him a short sharp slap across his behind and everyone was starting to stare and mutter I glared at them all and then back at the source of it all who was now beginning to hiccough uncontrollably. So I started to clap and holler: “Oh well done lovely, marvellous darling – the show’s over now and we’ll collect your Oscar at the checkout!”
I don’t think The Boy quite expected that and I have no idea where it came from but snatching an opportune moment I grabbed his arm and stormed off past the cheese and round the corner into the frozen aisles where it was a little less crowded. Hissing at him I warned him that if he ever tried that on again… but faltered what would I do? Luckily he had been taken by surprise and had gone very quiet. We were given a wide berth, which annoyed me even more.
I marched purposefully around doing the last bits of the shopping trailing a quietly crying child overhearing the occasional snuffle and mutter from him. The Littlest was silent taking it all in clutching his Jelly Cat in one hand and my sleeve with the other.
Dignity just about intact I made it to the cashiers’ desk and out of shop – oh the relief!!!
We were all very quiet on the journey home.
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
Monday, 31 December 2007
Reality bites
I have done something wild and reckless, spontaneous even – I have changed the batteries in the torch before they actually went dead on me.
As I approach the end of the year - the terminus of my hopes and dreams for 2007, I hold up my hands and say: “It has not been quite what I expected”.
For starters I’m no thinner than I was at the beginning, nor richer nor more famous - though why I wanted that heaven only knows, I think I just got carried away with all my wishes last year.
What has happened though possibly not unexpectedly is that financially we are worse off than we were this time last year, I’d like to blame it on the Chancellor, the Credit Crunch, a whole manner of events and circumstance but the truth is it is profligacy…Or owning a Damoclesian house - you know the sword is going to fall you just don’t know when or where.
Despite raising our mortgage to stratospheric heights this year we seem no further on and now every time I walk through the back door I have to search blindly for the kitchen door before I can shed light on where I have been - quite literally, as we have no electrics in the East Wing any longer. In fact we don’t have any plumbing either nor any plaster on the walls nor paint or carpets - nothing really though my ever optimistic helpmeet just hugs me when he looks at it all on his return home and smilingly says: “Isn't it wonderful!”
I’m not quite sure what he is on but BOY do I wish he’d give some to me. He points out all the beautiful oak and I nod dumbly all the while screaming inside my head: “Yep mate, and I know the cost of every square inch of it: a whopping £10,000! Or to put it nicely one fully fitted and functioning bathroom, 10 radiators – working - and all the light I could possibly want with crystal knobs on!”
Dear Charlie hugs me tighter and sighs contentedly surveying the skeleton of the house in all its architectural glory while I make a mental note to call the Bursar as soon as School opens next week to discuss a more flexible way of meeting my obligations.
For before Christmas I waved good bye to the cleaners, dropped the child minder by a day and would have dropped the Gardener too but luckily he owes us some £500 and since we see him so rarely we will manage to spin out his working for us by a few more months through threats and if necessary the small claims court.
By hook or by crook I’ll hold on to Theresa for life will have to be very bad before I do my own ironing. Admittedly there will be less going to her, though Dear Charlie won’t notice. I’ll keep his shirts in the pile but perhaps the boys and I will have to wear our clothes in a more crumpled style not that they mind. Sheets and pillow cases - well having those done was always a luxury, as were dusters and the like. Luckily it’s winter and I’m in polo necks most of the time and maybe by the summer things will have turned.
In a way I’m looking forward to the challenge of a more austere 2008, it is said to be very fashionable at the moment to be careful, prudent and the like. Not that I follow fashion in any way but one must always look on the bright side!
As I approach the end of the year - the terminus of my hopes and dreams for 2007, I hold up my hands and say: “It has not been quite what I expected”.
For starters I’m no thinner than I was at the beginning, nor richer nor more famous - though why I wanted that heaven only knows, I think I just got carried away with all my wishes last year.
What has happened though possibly not unexpectedly is that financially we are worse off than we were this time last year, I’d like to blame it on the Chancellor, the Credit Crunch, a whole manner of events and circumstance but the truth is it is profligacy…Or owning a Damoclesian house - you know the sword is going to fall you just don’t know when or where.
Despite raising our mortgage to stratospheric heights this year we seem no further on and now every time I walk through the back door I have to search blindly for the kitchen door before I can shed light on where I have been - quite literally, as we have no electrics in the East Wing any longer. In fact we don’t have any plumbing either nor any plaster on the walls nor paint or carpets - nothing really though my ever optimistic helpmeet just hugs me when he looks at it all on his return home and smilingly says: “Isn't it wonderful!”
I’m not quite sure what he is on but BOY do I wish he’d give some to me. He points out all the beautiful oak and I nod dumbly all the while screaming inside my head: “Yep mate, and I know the cost of every square inch of it: a whopping £10,000! Or to put it nicely one fully fitted and functioning bathroom, 10 radiators – working - and all the light I could possibly want with crystal knobs on!”
Dear Charlie hugs me tighter and sighs contentedly surveying the skeleton of the house in all its architectural glory while I make a mental note to call the Bursar as soon as School opens next week to discuss a more flexible way of meeting my obligations.
For before Christmas I waved good bye to the cleaners, dropped the child minder by a day and would have dropped the Gardener too but luckily he owes us some £500 and since we see him so rarely we will manage to spin out his working for us by a few more months through threats and if necessary the small claims court.
By hook or by crook I’ll hold on to Theresa for life will have to be very bad before I do my own ironing. Admittedly there will be less going to her, though Dear Charlie won’t notice. I’ll keep his shirts in the pile but perhaps the boys and I will have to wear our clothes in a more crumpled style not that they mind. Sheets and pillow cases - well having those done was always a luxury, as were dusters and the like. Luckily it’s winter and I’m in polo necks most of the time and maybe by the summer things will have turned.
In a way I’m looking forward to the challenge of a more austere 2008, it is said to be very fashionable at the moment to be careful, prudent and the like. Not that I follow fashion in any way but one must always look on the bright side!
Wednesday, 19 December 2007
A romantic gesture….
Romance after years of living together is a bit like the once dizzying wallpaper you’ve become so used to it you wouldn’t notice if it bit you on the bum.
I forgot this important fact until this weekend when I suddenly realised that my father is possibly one of the most romantic men I have ever known. I don’t think Mum would actually agree on this one as the litany of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and other such important occasions compounded by the purchase of inappropriate gifts stretches back some forty odd years - each forgotten tribute to be cherished in the annals of family folklore.
It was Sunday and Mum had trotted out to the outhouse to rummage in the depths of the freezer for something suitable for lunch before we wended our way to the pantomime at the Georgian Theatre Royal in Richmond.
I was warming myself nicely on the Aga, the Boy was playing being a witch in the other room and Dad was reading the Sunday papers and for the first time that weekend there was peace - oh for at least five minutes!
It was broken by a heartrending shriek from outside and Mum shot into the house screaming: “Oh! It’s terrible, terrible! There’s a rat outside. I can’t stand rats! They’re horrid things, oooohhhh!”
Of course, instead of comforting Mum as she collapsed onto a chair, we all - from the warmth and relative safety of indoors - peered out the windows to see if we could spot the terror of the outhouse. There was nothing to see.
“Honestly, you lot! It’s gone in between the outhouses among all those tiles you won’t find it now; I hate rats nasty, horrid, dirty things…” she went on for some time along this train of thought and as I listened with half an ear I was taken back in time to a trip we did while based in Brunei.
It was the ascension of Mount Kinabalu in Sabah – you know the thing you do as a happy family holiday at Easter time or as Dad would say a bit of team bonding, a character building pastime for all the family to enjoy.
From this you might be able to surmise that over the years I have a developed somewhat cynical view of my parents’ best efforts to engender the spirit of adventure into me, their eldest daughter.
We set off on a bright warm morning from the tourist camp to climb the last few thousand feet to the top. An exercise that Dad said would take about a day to the summit camp. Once there we would have supper and overnight it before the big push to the top at 5 o’clock in the morning returning for breakfast and our descent.
The hut at the summit camp was fairly basic – but luxurious compared to some of the places we had and were to visit with Dad on our travels. It was a bit like a long low bungalow and had slatted windows, which you could open when it got hot. There were lots of bunks and a rudimentary kitchen. Mum was on cooking duty and we, I think were helping ,I can’t remember exactly. But at some point there was a commotion from the kitchen area. I believe - but will no doubt be put right – that Mum had a problem with pests of the whiskered variety who quite literally sat in a row watching her every culinary move. I can understand that this might be quite unnerving as Mum had not even had the advantage of watching the acclaimed Disney movie Ratatouille, which in itself was not even a sparkle in the producer’s eye – in fact perhaps the producer was not even a sparkle in his own father’s eye – I digress.
Having been subjected to such scrutiny Mum was totally unhinged and such was her fear that she actually pushed me from the top bunk in order to sleep as far away from her tormentors as possible.
I lay in the bottom bunk too close to the floor for comfort and zippered up to my chin in an ex-army sleeping bag. I kept as still as I could in the moonlight in order to listen for the soft pitter patter of claws and the swish of long scaly tail on the floor. But it was not from the floor that they came but from outside, up the drainpipe and along the ridge to the bottom of the window at the foot of the bunks, I saw several of the little blighters scramble up the cantilevered window pains to the top where they were able to push their noses in and slither through to jump the short distance to the foot of the top bunk. Then they scrambled down the bed, dropt softly onto the floor and headed off towards the kitchen in search of food and other edible commodities.
It gave me a feeling of great satisfaction that despite my mother’s best efforts she still had rats crawling all over her that night. I, at the then tender age of 16, felt that I should have been on the top bunk and that her maternal feelings should have outweighed her baser instinct of self-preservation.
A movement in the flowerbeds near the bird feeder caught my eye.
“Dad, it’s there!” I whispered.
“Where?” he said craning his head over mine to get a closer look.
“There in the flower bed going towards the feeder…
The young brown rat lifted its nose and quested with its whiskers. It tensed, listening, then relaxed and started to skitter and jump about which I thought quite cute until I realised it was getting rid of the birds so it could eat the scattered corn on the ground. It looked sort of innocent and almost cuddly and I motioned to Mum to look at it. I could feel her shuddering disgust behind my back. I turned towards Dad but he had vanished.
When I looked for the rat again it was gone as well and I decided to get Mum a coffee to help calm her nerves. She continued to shudder for some time.
BLAM
A deep-throated retort and we all stopped, frozen, trying to work out what was going on. The Boy rushed in from the other room. “That gave me a fright,” he announced. “But I’m not scared,” he continued as he hugged me round my hips and pressed his head into my body.
I passed him to Mum, who looked a bit bewildered, and started to make my way towards the Hall from where I would be able to go upstairs from whence the noise had emanated.
As I reached the foot of the stairs, Dad swooped down them shotgun in hand. He gave me a triumphant look. “There,” he said grinning, “That’s what you get from sniper training!”
And with that cryptic remark he stalked off outside to retrieve his prize from the flowerbed and lay it at his mistress’ feet. Needless to say she was not amused. And from the foot of the stairs, listening to Mum scolding my father to take that revolting thing away and out of her sight, I realised that he had done a most romantic thing.
His Lady had fled in terror from a monster and he without wasting a moment and with no thought of his own comfort had slain it.
I forgot this important fact until this weekend when I suddenly realised that my father is possibly one of the most romantic men I have ever known. I don’t think Mum would actually agree on this one as the litany of forgotten birthdays, anniversaries and other such important occasions compounded by the purchase of inappropriate gifts stretches back some forty odd years - each forgotten tribute to be cherished in the annals of family folklore.
It was Sunday and Mum had trotted out to the outhouse to rummage in the depths of the freezer for something suitable for lunch before we wended our way to the pantomime at the Georgian Theatre Royal in Richmond.
I was warming myself nicely on the Aga, the Boy was playing being a witch in the other room and Dad was reading the Sunday papers and for the first time that weekend there was peace - oh for at least five minutes!
It was broken by a heartrending shriek from outside and Mum shot into the house screaming: “Oh! It’s terrible, terrible! There’s a rat outside. I can’t stand rats! They’re horrid things, oooohhhh!”
Of course, instead of comforting Mum as she collapsed onto a chair, we all - from the warmth and relative safety of indoors - peered out the windows to see if we could spot the terror of the outhouse. There was nothing to see.
“Honestly, you lot! It’s gone in between the outhouses among all those tiles you won’t find it now; I hate rats nasty, horrid, dirty things…” she went on for some time along this train of thought and as I listened with half an ear I was taken back in time to a trip we did while based in Brunei.
It was the ascension of Mount Kinabalu in Sabah – you know the thing you do as a happy family holiday at Easter time or as Dad would say a bit of team bonding, a character building pastime for all the family to enjoy.
From this you might be able to surmise that over the years I have a developed somewhat cynical view of my parents’ best efforts to engender the spirit of adventure into me, their eldest daughter.
We set off on a bright warm morning from the tourist camp to climb the last few thousand feet to the top. An exercise that Dad said would take about a day to the summit camp. Once there we would have supper and overnight it before the big push to the top at 5 o’clock in the morning returning for breakfast and our descent.
The hut at the summit camp was fairly basic – but luxurious compared to some of the places we had and were to visit with Dad on our travels. It was a bit like a long low bungalow and had slatted windows, which you could open when it got hot. There were lots of bunks and a rudimentary kitchen. Mum was on cooking duty and we, I think were helping ,I can’t remember exactly. But at some point there was a commotion from the kitchen area. I believe - but will no doubt be put right – that Mum had a problem with pests of the whiskered variety who quite literally sat in a row watching her every culinary move. I can understand that this might be quite unnerving as Mum had not even had the advantage of watching the acclaimed Disney movie Ratatouille, which in itself was not even a sparkle in the producer’s eye – in fact perhaps the producer was not even a sparkle in his own father’s eye – I digress.
Having been subjected to such scrutiny Mum was totally unhinged and such was her fear that she actually pushed me from the top bunk in order to sleep as far away from her tormentors as possible.
I lay in the bottom bunk too close to the floor for comfort and zippered up to my chin in an ex-army sleeping bag. I kept as still as I could in the moonlight in order to listen for the soft pitter patter of claws and the swish of long scaly tail on the floor. But it was not from the floor that they came but from outside, up the drainpipe and along the ridge to the bottom of the window at the foot of the bunks, I saw several of the little blighters scramble up the cantilevered window pains to the top where they were able to push their noses in and slither through to jump the short distance to the foot of the top bunk. Then they scrambled down the bed, dropt softly onto the floor and headed off towards the kitchen in search of food and other edible commodities.
It gave me a feeling of great satisfaction that despite my mother’s best efforts she still had rats crawling all over her that night. I, at the then tender age of 16, felt that I should have been on the top bunk and that her maternal feelings should have outweighed her baser instinct of self-preservation.
A movement in the flowerbeds near the bird feeder caught my eye.
“Dad, it’s there!” I whispered.
“Where?” he said craning his head over mine to get a closer look.
“There in the flower bed going towards the feeder…
The young brown rat lifted its nose and quested with its whiskers. It tensed, listening, then relaxed and started to skitter and jump about which I thought quite cute until I realised it was getting rid of the birds so it could eat the scattered corn on the ground. It looked sort of innocent and almost cuddly and I motioned to Mum to look at it. I could feel her shuddering disgust behind my back. I turned towards Dad but he had vanished.
When I looked for the rat again it was gone as well and I decided to get Mum a coffee to help calm her nerves. She continued to shudder for some time.
BLAM
A deep-throated retort and we all stopped, frozen, trying to work out what was going on. The Boy rushed in from the other room. “That gave me a fright,” he announced. “But I’m not scared,” he continued as he hugged me round my hips and pressed his head into my body.
I passed him to Mum, who looked a bit bewildered, and started to make my way towards the Hall from where I would be able to go upstairs from whence the noise had emanated.
As I reached the foot of the stairs, Dad swooped down them shotgun in hand. He gave me a triumphant look. “There,” he said grinning, “That’s what you get from sniper training!”
And with that cryptic remark he stalked off outside to retrieve his prize from the flowerbed and lay it at his mistress’ feet. Needless to say she was not amused. And from the foot of the stairs, listening to Mum scolding my father to take that revolting thing away and out of her sight, I realised that he had done a most romantic thing.
His Lady had fled in terror from a monster and he without wasting a moment and with no thought of his own comfort had slain it.
Monday, 10 December 2007
This is a recorded message….
“As of 12 noon this day Monday 10th of December the requirement for you to house your birds has been lifted….”
I have rushed down the stairs, shot out of the door and run over to Stalag 57 and flung open the gate and told them they are free. And guess what – they stood stock-still and just blinked at me. Then they started to get all startled and there was much clucking and squawking and a flurry of feathers until I realised that in my excitement I hadn’t shut the front door properly and the dogs had followed me outside.
It could have been a tragedy! So within moments of saying: “You’re free!” I bolted the gate and removed the dogs indoors.
Slightly more calmly I re-opened the gate and there they all were at the back of the run in one great big huddle. I could see they were not impressed and to be honest I got the feeling that they were unsure whether or not to believe me.
To show my good intentions I scooped out some corn and started to call them outside. It took some doing I can tell you but it was Stupid who finally plucked up enough courage – it was ever thus with her food will always beat good sense. You could see the others watching but as soon as she started to eat and no one pounced on her the rest quickly followed.
There was such a lot of noise – I had missed it but hadn’t realised. Usually when I let them out in the mornings they are a noisy, cackling bunch shouting about being left behind or that someone is in their way or just chatting to each other as they scrabble around for breakfast.
And while they were incarcerated they had been quiet apart from the occasional chuckle or crow – it was quite a cacophony a few minutes ago and now I am upstairs telling you this and they are running about and jumping up and down and spreading their wings and Ollie is taking some down to the Orchard and Mr Tickle is squabbling with the Burnt brothers as to who is boss, Stupid is looking to go in the barn and see what the builder’s are up to and Stan is among the flower beds and Oh! It is good to see them out!
I have rushed down the stairs, shot out of the door and run over to Stalag 57 and flung open the gate and told them they are free. And guess what – they stood stock-still and just blinked at me. Then they started to get all startled and there was much clucking and squawking and a flurry of feathers until I realised that in my excitement I hadn’t shut the front door properly and the dogs had followed me outside.
It could have been a tragedy! So within moments of saying: “You’re free!” I bolted the gate and removed the dogs indoors.
Slightly more calmly I re-opened the gate and there they all were at the back of the run in one great big huddle. I could see they were not impressed and to be honest I got the feeling that they were unsure whether or not to believe me.
To show my good intentions I scooped out some corn and started to call them outside. It took some doing I can tell you but it was Stupid who finally plucked up enough courage – it was ever thus with her food will always beat good sense. You could see the others watching but as soon as she started to eat and no one pounced on her the rest quickly followed.
There was such a lot of noise – I had missed it but hadn’t realised. Usually when I let them out in the mornings they are a noisy, cackling bunch shouting about being left behind or that someone is in their way or just chatting to each other as they scrabble around for breakfast.
And while they were incarcerated they had been quiet apart from the occasional chuckle or crow – it was quite a cacophony a few minutes ago and now I am upstairs telling you this and they are running about and jumping up and down and spreading their wings and Ollie is taking some down to the Orchard and Mr Tickle is squabbling with the Burnt brothers as to who is boss, Stupid is looking to go in the barn and see what the builder’s are up to and Stan is among the flower beds and Oh! It is good to see them out!
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
There comes a time…
Sometimes a relationship can become too familiar; the boundaries, which we manufacture for our self-preservation, are broken and everything thereafter is unbalanced and nothing we can do will ever make it the same as it once was – I have come to such a pass.
The dog has ‘wuffed’ at me.
My dog has NEVER ‘wuffed’ at me before and our relationship is undergoing a huge modification and all is not well in the household or at least in my bedroom.
Tattie, a silver brindle whippet with a grey velvet nose very similar to a Womble's, only ever “wuffs” at those who are sitting or sleeping where she would like to sit or sleep and until now she has constrained her ‘wuffing’ to the other four-legged ones who share her world.
A ‘wuff’ is preceded by her staring ever so slightly myopically at the cause of her concern. She usually sits very upright for this with her ears laid back and one paw raised. The ‘wuff’ starts quite quietly and builds up from her lungs up her neck and explodes in a short sharp crescendo. This will then continue until the cause gives in and lets her take over whichever space or area she wishes to occupy.
The tension in her body and quivering (not shaking) that frequently accompanies it is I feel merely to show the cause that she is restraining herself admirably and that the cause should be grateful that she is behaving so nicely rather than giving into her baser self which, I imagine, would be explosive. She usually gets what she wants.
But she has never ‘wuffed’ at a human before. I am not quite sure what has got into her but we are now undergoing a psychological battle of wills, which I fear I am losing.
I always thought of myself as top dog in this pack so this event is quite shocking. Where has she got the idea from that I am not in charge? Is it because I am slavishly pandering to my builders’ every whim and serving them tea or coffee up to five times daily to prevent them from disappearing before the job is completed? Is it because I find myself tidying up before the cleaners come so that they won’t sack me for being too messy to clean for – I kid you not they sacked a friend of mine recently. Is it because I am still getting up in the middle of the night to ‘play’ with The Littlest in an effort to placate him before he wakes the rest of the family?
Whatever the reason I was ‘wuffed’ while taking an afternoon siesta in an effort to catch up on the sleep I had missed the night before because The Littlest had been feeling a trifle playful.
A one off you think? Well, no – we have progressed. Now she doesn’t even have to ‘wuff’ I can feel her staring at me even in my sleep. And she gets what she wants … and I have to share my bed with a whippet. Although she does not snore as Dear Charlie does, she has a very nasty habit of lying rigid-legged so that her claws dig into me and I am gently and persisently pushed off the bed. Life is becoming very uncomfortable...not the least cold!
The dog has ‘wuffed’ at me.
My dog has NEVER ‘wuffed’ at me before and our relationship is undergoing a huge modification and all is not well in the household or at least in my bedroom.
Tattie, a silver brindle whippet with a grey velvet nose very similar to a Womble's, only ever “wuffs” at those who are sitting or sleeping where she would like to sit or sleep and until now she has constrained her ‘wuffing’ to the other four-legged ones who share her world.
A ‘wuff’ is preceded by her staring ever so slightly myopically at the cause of her concern. She usually sits very upright for this with her ears laid back and one paw raised. The ‘wuff’ starts quite quietly and builds up from her lungs up her neck and explodes in a short sharp crescendo. This will then continue until the cause gives in and lets her take over whichever space or area she wishes to occupy.
The tension in her body and quivering (not shaking) that frequently accompanies it is I feel merely to show the cause that she is restraining herself admirably and that the cause should be grateful that she is behaving so nicely rather than giving into her baser self which, I imagine, would be explosive. She usually gets what she wants.
But she has never ‘wuffed’ at a human before. I am not quite sure what has got into her but we are now undergoing a psychological battle of wills, which I fear I am losing.
I always thought of myself as top dog in this pack so this event is quite shocking. Where has she got the idea from that I am not in charge? Is it because I am slavishly pandering to my builders’ every whim and serving them tea or coffee up to five times daily to prevent them from disappearing before the job is completed? Is it because I find myself tidying up before the cleaners come so that they won’t sack me for being too messy to clean for – I kid you not they sacked a friend of mine recently. Is it because I am still getting up in the middle of the night to ‘play’ with The Littlest in an effort to placate him before he wakes the rest of the family?
Whatever the reason I was ‘wuffed’ while taking an afternoon siesta in an effort to catch up on the sleep I had missed the night before because The Littlest had been feeling a trifle playful.
A one off you think? Well, no – we have progressed. Now she doesn’t even have to ‘wuff’ I can feel her staring at me even in my sleep. And she gets what she wants … and I have to share my bed with a whippet. Although she does not snore as Dear Charlie does, she has a very nasty habit of lying rigid-legged so that her claws dig into me and I am gently and persisently pushed off the bed. Life is becoming very uncomfortable...not the least cold!
Monday, 26 November 2007
Planning the concert party at Stalag 57
It is indeed quiet - almost too quiet I would say...every time I go past they either scramble to the net and follow me round the perimeter the whole group of them keeping pace as I pace step for step and when I stop so do they or they stand there and just follow me with their eyes. It can be most disconcerting.
When they did that the other morning I tried running round the pen to see if they would fall over as they hurriedly twisted their necks to keep up but just as I got to the critical point Dear Charlie bellowed out from the upstairs window: “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing? There’s no time for playing silly buggers with chickens! It’s nearly quarter to nine, you’re still in your nightie, you’re wearing my boots, and I’m going to be late for tennis.”
I wouldn’t have minded the telling off but just at that moment Roger our 65-year old next door neighbour appeared and gave me a rather too appreciative grin remarking that it was mighty chilly now!
I gave him as quelling a look as I could and I gathered my dressing gown close about me but since my husband’s wellies are about five sizes larger than mine I was unable to make a bolt for it and had to retreat at a more dignified pace to the sound of my neighbour chuckling and none to quietly either!
One thing I have noted about the chickens is that sometimes if I stop and take the opportunity to look at them too closely they get all skittery and start running around making it impossible to count to them.
I swear there is something going on inside but the only odd thing I have found on opening the hut to check just what IS going on is seeing one of the Burnt Brothers (I still haven't gotten round to doing the dirty and sending them off for the pot) sitting in one of the broody boxes inside rather than using the perch. In general the cockerels always perch rather than nest.
I think I’ll have a closer inspection of that particular broody box tomorrow….
But seriously I am agreeably surprised how in general they seem to be bearing up well and the good news is that as long as we don’t have another outbreak they could all be allowed to roam free in two weeks time!
When they did that the other morning I tried running round the pen to see if they would fall over as they hurriedly twisted their necks to keep up but just as I got to the critical point Dear Charlie bellowed out from the upstairs window: “What the bloody hell do you think you are doing? There’s no time for playing silly buggers with chickens! It’s nearly quarter to nine, you’re still in your nightie, you’re wearing my boots, and I’m going to be late for tennis.”
I wouldn’t have minded the telling off but just at that moment Roger our 65-year old next door neighbour appeared and gave me a rather too appreciative grin remarking that it was mighty chilly now!
I gave him as quelling a look as I could and I gathered my dressing gown close about me but since my husband’s wellies are about five sizes larger than mine I was unable to make a bolt for it and had to retreat at a more dignified pace to the sound of my neighbour chuckling and none to quietly either!
One thing I have noted about the chickens is that sometimes if I stop and take the opportunity to look at them too closely they get all skittery and start running around making it impossible to count to them.
I swear there is something going on inside but the only odd thing I have found on opening the hut to check just what IS going on is seeing one of the Burnt Brothers (I still haven't gotten round to doing the dirty and sending them off for the pot) sitting in one of the broody boxes inside rather than using the perch. In general the cockerels always perch rather than nest.
I think I’ll have a closer inspection of that particular broody box tomorrow….
But seriously I am agreeably surprised how in general they seem to be bearing up well and the good news is that as long as we don’t have another outbreak they could all be allowed to roam free in two weeks time!
Monday, 19 November 2007
Stalag 57
They’ve dug their way out, they’ve ram raided their way out and now they are ganging up on me in a surge for freedom…my chickens don’t like being caged.
However as a voluntary registered poultry keeper I have done my bit and my chickens are interned for the duration.
The bio-secure cage took two days to build and during that time I fed and watered the flock indoors – this was quite a tricky job as the hen hut is not exactly commodious and nor does it have a solid floor.
After tripping up and spilling the water all over me and then slipping on it rather painfully across the slatted floor into a heap of outraged feathers I decided it would be appropriate to wear Wellingtons and overalls rather than nightwear and slippers for such a job.
The cage is such that no wild birds can enter and nor can the rats. It is supposed to prevent the chickens from escaping as well – we’ve had to make a few modifications…
There is an outer fence about five and a half feet high and spanning that a roof leading to a mid point about six and a half feet high which in turn leads up to the apex of the hen hut at about eight foot. The fence is chicken wire covered with a plastic fruit cage covering being light enough to create a roof without me having to do major works, which I would have neither the money nor time to complete. A new gate is heavy enough to swing shut when I enter and if I say so myself looks OK.
It was such a relief for all when I could at last let them out. They shot through the door, slithered down the ramp and came to a rather stunned stop. I had tried to disguise the fact that they could not wander around as much as before (30 ft square versus 4 acres) by bringing in a load of windfall apples and putting up roosts and a huge pile of chippings to play in but freedom is after all freedom and however many things you are given to play with just doesn’t match up.
It has been pathetic to see them all hunched and miserable, the cockerels’ tails drooping but it seems they do not give up hope. Within two hours the chicks and several of the bantams had escaped by scratching a hole underneath the gate and it wasn’t until I saw Ollie, (my rather large white cockerel) struggling to squeeze himself rather unsuccessfully underneath that I realised we had had a break out.
It seemed pointless running round the farm trying to catch the escapees and so I let them all out in the hope of feeding them all back in later in the day. In the meantime I amused myself by digging the earth out round the door and struggling to lay a large piece of stone at its base. Mission accomplished and it was time to get them back in three hours later and in the dark I gave up.
Strangely enough the following day I was able to feed all the stragglers back in which goes to prove that either chickens have short memories or that their stomachs are bigger than their brains.
There were no escapees until the afternoon when Ollie and Stanley (Ollie’s glamorous half brother) managed to throw themselves at the gate until it popped open. I repeated the previous day’s performance but gave up much more quickly and surveyed them rather dolefully from my office window as they pranced around in the sunshine in the orchard, scratching vigorously at the earth and chasing each other round the apple trees or else walking sedately behind the proud cockerels. My heart was very heavy watching them. Their last day of freedom…AGAIN.
Now the gate is tied with baler twine and so far no escapees… I deliver scraps from the kitchen and windfall apples and they lay eggs and are resigned: I think…but you never know quite what they will do next….
However as a voluntary registered poultry keeper I have done my bit and my chickens are interned for the duration.
The bio-secure cage took two days to build and during that time I fed and watered the flock indoors – this was quite a tricky job as the hen hut is not exactly commodious and nor does it have a solid floor.
After tripping up and spilling the water all over me and then slipping on it rather painfully across the slatted floor into a heap of outraged feathers I decided it would be appropriate to wear Wellingtons and overalls rather than nightwear and slippers for such a job.
The cage is such that no wild birds can enter and nor can the rats. It is supposed to prevent the chickens from escaping as well – we’ve had to make a few modifications…
There is an outer fence about five and a half feet high and spanning that a roof leading to a mid point about six and a half feet high which in turn leads up to the apex of the hen hut at about eight foot. The fence is chicken wire covered with a plastic fruit cage covering being light enough to create a roof without me having to do major works, which I would have neither the money nor time to complete. A new gate is heavy enough to swing shut when I enter and if I say so myself looks OK.
It was such a relief for all when I could at last let them out. They shot through the door, slithered down the ramp and came to a rather stunned stop. I had tried to disguise the fact that they could not wander around as much as before (30 ft square versus 4 acres) by bringing in a load of windfall apples and putting up roosts and a huge pile of chippings to play in but freedom is after all freedom and however many things you are given to play with just doesn’t match up.
It has been pathetic to see them all hunched and miserable, the cockerels’ tails drooping but it seems they do not give up hope. Within two hours the chicks and several of the bantams had escaped by scratching a hole underneath the gate and it wasn’t until I saw Ollie, (my rather large white cockerel) struggling to squeeze himself rather unsuccessfully underneath that I realised we had had a break out.
It seemed pointless running round the farm trying to catch the escapees and so I let them all out in the hope of feeding them all back in later in the day. In the meantime I amused myself by digging the earth out round the door and struggling to lay a large piece of stone at its base. Mission accomplished and it was time to get them back in three hours later and in the dark I gave up.
Strangely enough the following day I was able to feed all the stragglers back in which goes to prove that either chickens have short memories or that their stomachs are bigger than their brains.
There were no escapees until the afternoon when Ollie and Stanley (Ollie’s glamorous half brother) managed to throw themselves at the gate until it popped open. I repeated the previous day’s performance but gave up much more quickly and surveyed them rather dolefully from my office window as they pranced around in the sunshine in the orchard, scratching vigorously at the earth and chasing each other round the apple trees or else walking sedately behind the proud cockerels. My heart was very heavy watching them. Their last day of freedom…AGAIN.
Now the gate is tied with baler twine and so far no escapees… I deliver scraps from the kitchen and windfall apples and they lay eggs and are resigned: I think…but you never know quite what they will do next….
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
H5 N1 - it continues
Thank you everyone for your support I have been blubbing, which is silly, as I don't earn my living from them, but they are basically pets and I know them and all their little foibles...
I have been on the phone to DEFRA and getting very het up with them. They hardly tell you anything and it all seems such a shambles and totally ludicrous... I have a flock of about 40 but it fluctuates to over 50 in the summer and reduces somewhat in the winter - natural wastage I call it. If you have more than 50 birds then you have to register so I registered voluntarily to secure my holding number.
I am in the restricted zone, which covers most of Norfolk and all of Suffolk, and it is advised to bring birds indoors. On my way to school today I saw two commercial flocks out and several privately owned flocks out and about.
There doesn't seem to be any consensus on what people should do and if they don't do it there seems to be no fines etc I am not sure if not bringing in your flock is illegal.
So to be on the safe side the flock are under lock and key and this morning I have been trying to construct bio secure havens for the hens that still allow them outside but restrict wild bird contamination. To be honest its laughable. Technically every poultry owner in the whole of Suffolk and most of Norfolk should be keeping their flocks indoors...right like everyone has been notified! No official warning in the papers, no e-mails to registered owners (they do have them - in fact I got a letter today from DEFRA asking if they could use the information they have on me elsewhere all part of data protection/sharing), no TV or Radio announcements etc without that it's a total farce!!!
The news is contradictory (and I think I am ranting).... I start culling the cockerels tonight - a job I usually put off until the Spring so not too difficult. I feel so much for those who make a living from their poultry - so it would be useful if DEFRA could start getting its act together and ACT!
I'm livid!
I have been on the phone to DEFRA and getting very het up with them. They hardly tell you anything and it all seems such a shambles and totally ludicrous... I have a flock of about 40 but it fluctuates to over 50 in the summer and reduces somewhat in the winter - natural wastage I call it. If you have more than 50 birds then you have to register so I registered voluntarily to secure my holding number.
I am in the restricted zone, which covers most of Norfolk and all of Suffolk, and it is advised to bring birds indoors. On my way to school today I saw two commercial flocks out and several privately owned flocks out and about.
There doesn't seem to be any consensus on what people should do and if they don't do it there seems to be no fines etc I am not sure if not bringing in your flock is illegal.
So to be on the safe side the flock are under lock and key and this morning I have been trying to construct bio secure havens for the hens that still allow them outside but restrict wild bird contamination. To be honest its laughable. Technically every poultry owner in the whole of Suffolk and most of Norfolk should be keeping their flocks indoors...right like everyone has been notified! No official warning in the papers, no e-mails to registered owners (they do have them - in fact I got a letter today from DEFRA asking if they could use the information they have on me elsewhere all part of data protection/sharing), no TV or Radio announcements etc without that it's a total farce!!!
The news is contradictory (and I think I am ranting).... I start culling the cockerels tonight - a job I usually put off until the Spring so not too difficult. I feel so much for those who make a living from their poultry - so it would be useful if DEFRA could start getting its act together and ACT!
I'm livid!
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
H5N1 - the start of all that....
We are less than 10 miles from Redgrave where the H5N1 strain of Avian Flu has been confirmed and now my chickens are under threat.
I am starting to think the unthinkable and am preparing for a rough couple of weeks.
Although I only have 40 or so birds it is impossible for me to restrict their movements and keep them from contamination by wild birds. My home is surrounded by two moats and we have no way of preventing wild duck from landing here. My hens are free range.
Even getting them inside will not help as wrens, blue tits and sparrows abound here. Although I have laughed about bio-security I have taken it very seriously and created an area where the hens can come indoors – the problem is for how long and do I really want to keep my beautiful birds indoors? They have never been restricted – I almost feel it would be too cruel.
Tomorrow we will keep them in the hut and round up the more feral of the group. We will cull all the surplus cockerels keeping just Goat Shed Boy, Ollie, Stanley and Mr Tickle. We‘ll get the other to areas safe and start to move the birds in….I will call DEFRA and see what advice they give … I am not hopeful.
I am starting to think the unthinkable and am preparing for a rough couple of weeks.
Although I only have 40 or so birds it is impossible for me to restrict their movements and keep them from contamination by wild birds. My home is surrounded by two moats and we have no way of preventing wild duck from landing here. My hens are free range.
Even getting them inside will not help as wrens, blue tits and sparrows abound here. Although I have laughed about bio-security I have taken it very seriously and created an area where the hens can come indoors – the problem is for how long and do I really want to keep my beautiful birds indoors? They have never been restricted – I almost feel it would be too cruel.
Tomorrow we will keep them in the hut and round up the more feral of the group. We will cull all the surplus cockerels keeping just Goat Shed Boy, Ollie, Stanley and Mr Tickle. We‘ll get the other to areas safe and start to move the birds in….I will call DEFRA and see what advice they give … I am not hopeful.
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Lest we forget
11.11.07
Eighty nine years ago the family of this house were blessed: all four sons that went away returned – would that had been the case throughout the land….
Eighty nine years ago the family of this house were blessed: all four sons that went away returned – would that had been the case throughout the land….
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