We are the Weasleys

Why do we live in such perpetual chaos? Sometimes I step back and see our house, our lives, through the eyes of other, normal, people and truly I wince.
It starts with the approach to the house – up slippery, windy stone steps (often with the odd frog or slow-worm lounging) and through the under(over)growth, batting aside brambles and ivy. Then you have to paddle through the, um, ‘water feature’ (overflowing drain) with attendant stench. I have lost track of how many builders we have asked to quote for fixing this – maybe they get lost in the spinney (aka enchanted forest, aka patch of brambles with the odd tree) as they leave?

Dodge, if you can, the crap. Despite Adrian’s best efforts (and he has become somewhat obsessive on this score) one or other of the dogs will have vetoed the ‘potty place’ (not my term, inherited from Puppies for Dummies) and made pretty patterns of poo down the path.

Come prepared (preferably armoured) as Asbo will launch himself (a stout black and white missile with festering teeth) at you with a volley of shrill barking. The SP will then skid into view, probably tugging a trainer twice his size. At this point you will realise that the entire lawn is littered with footwear as, once again, he has breached the barricades and made off with the trainer mountain we have climbing the stairs.
You might hope that calm would prevail inside the house but sadly not.

‘Honestly, what do people think?’ I wailed a few days ago, having deposited James at a friend’s pristine home. ‘And don’t even think about trying that ‘We’re Bohemians’ line. It’s old.’
‘No, I wasn’t going to say that,’ he replied, excavating a space on the kitchen table so he could put down his plate. ‘I was thinking more of the Weasleys’.’
‘The what??’
‘The Weasleys. Harry Potter.’

Actually he’s got a point. We’ve even got the broomsticks. And we’ve certainly got the cobwebs. Oh, if I could only hurl myself into the fireplace and emerge in another house – somewhere clean and ordered.
I just don’t understand. It’s hardly a small house and there are just three of us plus two dogs. So why is it such total mayhem? Partly I think it’s working from home but other people manage that too. Maybe I’m just a slattern when it comes to housework.

Or perhaps aybe the feng shui isn’t right. I’ve been worrying about this for a while now. My great ‘let’s open the house up, get the energy moving’ has clearly worked – but maybe it’s worked just too well. The energy isn’t just moving; it’s having an illegal rave and has invited half the county.
We don’t talk to one another, we yell. Not in a nasty way, just in a trying to make oneself heard over the radio/barking/telephone way. We don’t sit; we sprawl. The sofa is littered with dog toys and books and unsuspecting guests are likely to sit down and yelp as they discover the hoof the SP left under the throw.

In the middle of all this chaos I sit, trying to write. Ye gods, maybe I should turn my hand to farce.

PS - we finally got the last test results back and James did have Lyme's Disease.  No evident bite, no rash - so do be careful. He's on antibiotics so should make a total recovery.

PPS - a very nice man from The National Railway Museum sends me emails (and postcards, and rock - smart chap!) asking me (very politely) if I'd mention the Museum on my blog.  I can't for the life of me think of any smart way of writing a post about this - it's in York so unlikely we'll make our way up there.  But here it is - a mention of the National Railway Museum.  And, because I'm all heart - a link too!
And, because he sent rock (bribery with food always works!) here's a picture too.
Actually, it looks rather good - if you have train-mad children...there's a bit of a Hogwarts thing going on too.

And the DUPLO winner is......

Huge thanks to everyone who entered the LEGO DUPLO competition. I had cajoling and unseemly begging and some people (no names, you know who you are) even threatened to come down and wrestle the DUPLO off me.... Can I just say that this would never be a good idea as tough grown men have been known to weep and run when Asbo gets his teeth into the, er, tender zone.

Anyhow, after a few abortive attempts to get Asbo to pick the winners from a hat, we tried another tack. We coated the names in gravy (outside, I hasten to add) and watched which were eaten first (all names were coated in exactly the same amount of gravy before anyone shouts 'fix').

First into the JRT's gullet was:

Pipany (with unseemly haste)

He then licked a few but in the end went for Amy.

So huge congratulations to you both. I have sent your postal addresses to the nice people at Lego who will be sending out your DUPLO kits as soon as humanly possible. Commiserations to those who were unlucky this time - I am trying very hard to figure out how to track down your various requests for future giveaways - ie vodka, donkeys, spa trips, cars....

For more info on DUPLO..... http://legoduplo.dbmblogs.co.uk/

Normal service will be resumed soon on the blog.... Meanwhile, if anyone wants to offer my good readers more delightful giveaways, do get in touch!

You might also be interested in my new blog Never Knowingly Overwhelmed which will occasionally be reviewing carefully picked products, trips and treatments.

Packing Asbo (or Jack-in-a-box)

I’m freaking out big time here. All around me I can hear the rustle of paper, the rip of tape, the thump as another box joins the pile. When the first lorry came lumbering up the drive I had a total wobble and found tears in my eyes. It’s been so long coming that I had got to the point where I thought it was never going to happen. Of course the sun had to shine today and the dew had to twinkle on the grass and the rainbows had to dance across our bedroom and remind me of our old cat, Bear, who used to race around hurling herself at the walls, trying to catch them.
That’s the thing, isn’t it, about moving. You leave behind so many layers of memory. Adrian, being Welsh and so (he maintains) genetically inclined to gloom, laments that we will have to leave behind Monty and Bear (our ex-pets) and did actually ponder exhuming them to bring them with us. I didn’t tell the removal men this as I made the first cup of tea of the day.
They are horrified enough already – at the never-ending miles of books and general detritus. I had fully intended to clean out each and every drawer and cupboard BEFORE moving but somehow time has caught up with me and I had the humiliating experience of watching a drawer-full of elastic bands, old bottle tops, fuzz and dust being carefully placed in a box. The shame. Fortunately a friend had reminded me that it is always a Good Thing to pack one’s underwear and any other potentially embarrassing items oneself – so this was achieved last night.
The movers are a jolly bunch. They’re leaving the TV until last so they can watch Tim Henman (why?) but otherwise are dismantling our home with indecent haste. I’ve already had to rescue the coffee pot and poor Asbo’s lunch from a box.

‘Why on earth do you want to move from here? It’s gorgeous.’ One of them said. Not helpful.
‘Bet this was snapped up in a minute,’ said another. At which Adrian and I looked at each other and burst into laughter.
‘Only nearly three years,’ said Adrian.
They couldn’t believe it.

There are four removal men. There is the tall good-looking one who Acts Professional and is clearly In Charge. There is the aged gap-toothed retainer who (bless) put a hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Are you alright my love’ in that soft impenetrable Bridgwater accent (came out roughly as ‘yralrighmylurrrve’). There is the weaselish dodgy-looking one (who is loitering upstairs – I am SO glad I packed my own knickers) and the depressed downtrodden one who is doing the kitchen.
‘I always get to do the kitchen. It’s not fair.’
After three hours I can sort of see his point.
‘All the flipping glasses and crockery. I hate glasses and crockery.’
Who wouldn’t, given his job?
Not helped by the fact that whenever any of the others find anything remotely glass or crockery-ish they merrily trot it along to the kitchen to add to his pile.
‘You always do this. It’s not fair.’ The poor man will be packing china until midnight.

I should be working. I’ve got the changes through on the book and ought to crack on. But I really can’t concentrate. I’m all mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up. So I thought, what the heck, until they take away the table, I’ll do a blog. Adrian has just gone off to Tiverton to watch James play cricket. Finally, FINALLY, the boy has been picked to play for the team (someone was ill). He was so excited that the school let him call up to tell us as he wanted one of us to watch. Maybe our collective luck is changing…..

Thank you for all your comments and kind wishes. Yes, indeed, should I change the name of my blog? Am I no longer a ‘desperate’ woman? I’d like to think so. Adrian says that, when we move (and how often have I used that particular phrase) we will be calmer, more collected, more easygoing and jolly. We will laugh more, smile more, adapt a more laissez-faire attitude to the vicissitudes of life. Hmm. Can you really see that happening? So, what should it be? Diary of a ????? Woman? Or something different altogether? Answers below please.

PS - relax Camilla, the title is a joke....dear Asbo will come with us (I shall rue the day).....

Of oak trees, violets, dormice and children

It’s a whole different dynamic when Adrian’s away. Some people hate being alone but I love it (maybe because it doesn’t happen that often). I can do what I like when I like, without having to consider anyone’s feelings but my own. So today I had ‘lunch’ at 11.20am and then found myself at ‘lunchtime’ with no hunger yet a vague feeling I should mark the hour somehow. Now, I’m a great one for telling people to slow down, live in the moment, wake up and smell the roses and so on. But do I follow my own advice? Do I heck. I am horribly driven (presumably it’s the Capricorn in me) with an over-developed puritan work ethic – I feel guilty as sin if I sit down and do nothing for more than ten seconds.

But today I made myself sit outside and drink my tea. No good – I could see weeds – a whole chorus-line of them throwing up their skirts on the ‘raised patio’ (OK, the bit where the greenhouse used to be that was supposed to be an ‘outdoor eating area’ but never really happened). So I weeded until my tea got cold.

Then I thought, this is ridiculous. It’s a gorgeous day and I’ll go for a wander to say hello to the oak trees. The year after we moved here, when James was a small baby, we rescued three young oak saplings (from someone who was thinning out their woodland). It felt symbolic somehow – a tree each. Of course, as luck would have it, that year was supremely dry and we wore ourselves out carting up water from the river to keep them alive. But there they stand, getting on in size now, protecting our hill. For a fair few years I felt we had the placing of them all wrong. Although they are within sight of each other, two are definitely closer with one slightly on the outside. For a long time it bothered me and I would reason that the two close were James and I (mother and baby) with father standing watch (the other tree is slightly higher). But as I looked at them today I thought otherwise. James is the tree outside – for while Adrian and I are (presumably) stuck together for life, James will inevitably break free at some point and go his own sweet way. It is right and proper that it should be like that. We borrow children – they are not ours. Our job as parents is – I believe – to nurture them, support them, be totally there for them but (and such an important but) also to know when to let them go. There is nothing worse than a child who feels he or she cannot leave its parents.

It was warm, sunny yet with a brisk breeze and Jack and I followed an old sheep track. We have been leaving the upper part of the large field unmowed for the last few years to see what happened, and what has happened is a ton of wild flowers. I don’t know the names of half of them and must look them up. But today I kept noticing violets above all. Violets are fascinating in folklore terms. It is considered perfectly fine to pick bunches of violets and have a posy in your home, but you should never pick just one single one. It’s even worse luck to pick a violet with dew on its petals – it was said to augur the death of a loved one. Pick violets when the weather is fine and intense rain is supposed to follow (now there’s an idea). Yet on the plus side violets are supposed to be an antidote to evil and dark witchcraft – they were grown in medieval monastery gardens as a protection against Satan. All violets were supposedly white until Mary turned from watching Christ on the Cross at which point they became violet to echo her mourning (hence purple as an original colour of mourning). This however may hark back to earlier times still – in mythology, Cupid was said to love white violets and Venus/Aphrodite changed them to purple in what amounts to sheer spite basically – jealous old bint.
Of more interest to a lot of Exmoor folk is the old belief that wearing violets while hunting was supposed to ensure that you didn’t fall off your horse.
Talking of horses, I also noticed a tiny horse chestnut sapling – only about six inches tall. It’s a long way from our other horse chestnuts and I had to wonder if it had come from a conker dropped from one of James’s pockets. I’m not sure if it will survive as it’s in a slightly exposed spot and liable to be tramped on or nibbled – but it must take its chances. Though as I reached in my pocket I found an old conker and tossed it into a small hole on the bank – it’s probably too old and dried but you never know.

Jack and I sat down on the bank that marked the old hedge-line, by a tangled stand of beech and silver birch. Thoughts were still whirring round my head so I shut my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing. It’s amazing how something so simple slows you right down. Immediately I could notice the cool air on my nostrils, redolent with the faintest tang of gorse’s coconut and the pure distilled scent of ‘green’. The birdsong became a concerto of woodpigeon, woodpecker, rook, thrush, blackbird and pheasant. Inevitably of course the JTR from my nearest neighbours decided it deserved a solo – but a hand on Jack’s shoulder stopped him from making it a duet (he is still being remarkably nice after yesterday’s shocks).

A quick tour down by the river and I picked up a few hazel-nuts. I expect you know that you can always tell if you have dormice by the way nuts are eaten. Whereas a squirrel will splice the nut in half, a dormouse will delicately nibble a little round hole. We seem to still have a healthy population of these teeny tiny mice. Often they nest right by the backdoor and drive Jack potty by flitting across the patio while he is stuck inside watching.
The house martens don’t seem fazed by the unseasonably warm weather and lack of mud: their nests are looking very ship-shape.
I came back from my wander refreshed and recharged – and ready to tackle my dreary feature on allergies again (if anyone has been cured of an allergy do let me know and you can feature as a case study!).

By the way, thank-you so much to everyone who has read and commented on the prologue of my novel Walker between Worlds (see link on left hand side). I’ve posted Chapter One now and will put up the other chapters as and when I can (I’m trying to do some editing before putting them up). I’d really love you to continue reading and giving me your (honest) impressions and suggestions. And yes, would really welcome feedback from any of the target audience (12+). I’m relying on Frances to correct any howlers I make about US vocabulary and syntax!

Reading this back it's a bit 'worthy'. So the picture is of the infamous Woods - James insists that, regardless of Adrian not being here, we must fulfil our Friday early evening ritual of a ginger beer (or spritzer) and bags of Burts crips. So this is where we'll be come 6.30pm.... anyone fancy joining us?