Lost weekends and the Hedgerows Heaped with May

Weird old weekend, spent mainly in the past.  As anyone who knows me on Facebook will have realized, I finally got a scanner and indulged in a totally over-the-top nostalgia fest.  Pictures spanning a century (no, I’m not quite that old – I found some of my mother’s old photo albums too). 

Living in a box, living in a cardboard box.

It was bittersweet, the way looking at the past often is.  I compounded it by reading through old diaries.  And then, just to cap it all, I decided to tackle my box files and weeded through a decade of accounts and cuttings and clippings and other detritus.   Dear god, I was another person entirely – earning a packet (THAT much?  SHIT!) and spending a packet (mainly, has to be said, on doing up the derelict money pit otherwise known as the Rectory).  I didn’t have time to think – one year I think I wrote six books (quite apart from doing a shedload of journalism and TV and radio).  Funny old world, huh? 

Shoulda spent more on hairdressing, huh?  

Anyhow, the passed is past and I had a big bonfire (of my vanities) and there you go. 

Burn! 

And then lovely Zoe and her lovely husband came over to visit and I was going to be all Nigella-ish and make them pukka tea with scones and wotnot but they came early so the poor sods ended up taking me out to lunch (at lovely Woods, of course) and then I spent a bit of time dragging Zoe round the estate agents in town and pointing out the delights of Dulverton in the hope she would decide it really was time to ship out and come on down to Exmoor. 

And then, the post came.  A thick parcel from Aurum Press.  Huh?  I opened it up and there were two fat hardbacks sitting inside.  The Hedgerows Heaped with May.  Huh?  The Telegraph Book of the Countryside, edited by Stephen Moss. Huh?

And then I remembered.  That piece I’d written for the Telegraph, years back, about Liz Jones being such an arsey cow when she moved to Exmoor.  22 August 2009, to be precise.  Time flies, huh?  Based on that blog post. 

Anyhow, it was being included in a compilation of ‘the best writing’ on the countryside from the Telegraph.  Well, well.  Even better they were asking me to invoice – for fifty quid.  Not quite a fifteen grand royalty cheque but hey…every little helps right? 

The book is quite nice actually.  It’s got contributions from people like Clive James, James May (hey, how come he gets his name in the title??), Max Hastings (The Hedgerows Heaped with Hastings?), Joanna Trollope (umm, better not) and Boris Johnson. And, er...me.  

A public service announcement regarding my neo-Nazi bush

I made a promise to myself a fair while back that I would not write about my bush. As you may have gathered, I have very little shame but surely, I reasoned, there are some things which really should remain private – between a woman and her own body – and not be shared willy-nilly on the Internet which, as we all know, is not a fine and private place. However, after yesterday I feel honour-bound, nay, beholden to break that promise.  In the interests of sisterly caring, in the true spirit of altruism, by way of a public service announcement, I share my story so that you may learn by my mistake.

I may have mentioned before that I love the local beauty college – I first went cos a mate of mine had a daughter studying there and said students needed bodies and faces for practice. 

‘We’re broke and no way can we afford spa or salon prices, right?’ said Nicky. I nodded sadly.  Yes, I know it sounds like I get a helluva lot of pampering but, truly, it’s all just ligging.  I get to try out weird new things (which is, indeed, fabulous) but nobody pays for me to get my toenails painted or my eyelashes tinted or my legs waxed.  In all fairness, I’m not high maintenance; I’m really not.  In the past I simply reasoned that excess hair was one way of keeping warm and that mascara (applied to eyelashes and eyebrows) was quite acceptable.  ‘But Charlotte’s crew…’ Nicky continued [sorry, that was a very long aside].  ‘…will do the lot for next to nothing.’

And so they did.  And how wonderful it was.  So wonderful, in fact, that I suggested to the Daily Mail that I should do a feature on bargain basement beauty – ie how you can get a total makeover (facial, mani, pedi, waxing, tinting, massage) for the price of an eyebrow wax at a London salon. They loved the idea – so much in fact that they gave it to Liz Jones to do.  Nice huh?  But anyway. 

I’ve become a bit accustomed to this being groomed malarkey.  It feels nice.  Makes me feel a bit better about myself, sad creature I am.  So, yesterday I trolloped along quite merrily (on my own, Nicky was away) and walked into a morgue.

‘Where is everyone?’ I said.

‘Well, it’s the end of term,' said the tutor. 'And so half of them have called in sick and, of course, all the final year girls have gone.’

No, those aren't mine...

This should have rung warning bells (ie all the experienced lot have buggered off) but I was miles away, off floating somewhere, so I simply sat back and got my feet pampered.  I love this bit, I really do. If they could pour hot wax all over my body, I swear I'd purr.  

When it comes to nail varnish I always let the girls choose.  Hence I’ve had sparkly silver toes, neon orange toes and gothy purple toes, depending on the taste of the seventeen-year old wielding the polish. This time I ended up with what Beth called ‘Disco ball toenails’ – vivid pink with pink glitter atop. The tutor looked slightly askance. ‘Don’t you want something that will go with everything?’ she said.  ‘It will,’ I replied with a smile.  ‘I only wear black.’

Then I was handed over to Hatty for my waxing.  Now, let me be clear, I have a very high pain threshold. I am almost ridiculously stoical. I also think that students have to learn, right?  When I was at college I even let my flat-mate (who was a second-year dental student) practice her drilling on me (yup, this was a hand-held drill with no anaesthetic).  So waxing? No problemo. But when she started tugging at my underarms like she was wrenching up perennial weeds, I couldn’t help it. ‘Ouch!’

‘Did I hear an ouch?’ said the tutor, poking her nose round the curtain with clear and evident glee.

‘Er, yup,’ I said, while Hatty gave me a look that clearly said ‘Traitor bitch hag’. A teaching point was made (involving the firm pulling of skin and the correct speed of ripping).  Hatty didn’t seem to get the ripping bit. Once the tutor ducked out, she just went back to yanking… again and again. Sheesh kebab, the tears started springing into my eyes.  But eventually it was done. I couldn’t drop my arms but never mind.   

‘Right now...bikini area,’ she said brightly. ‘What do you want?’

Normally I leave Charlotte in charge of my bush. She is beautifully bossy, as only a gorgeous eighteen year old can be and when it comes to matters of beauty, I figure she knows far more than I so I let her do whatever she wants really – be it a neat trim or tortuous topiary.  Hatty didn’t look quite so confident so I decided to play safe.

‘Just neaten it up, huh? Just so I don’t scare anyone, okay?’

She looked doubtful.  Doubt is not good in these situations.  

And then the torture began. Oh dear mother of God what was she doing down there? It felt like she was karate chopping me; putting my bits in a blender and re-enacting the shower scene from Psycho all at once. By the time she’d finished I felt shell-shocked: in need of counseling, morphine and several stiff gins.  But I’m a trooper so I breathed deeply and tried to carry on a polite conversation with my torturer.

‘So, what do you want to do when you leave college?  Work in a salon? On the cruise ships?’

‘Heck no,’ she said. ‘I hate beauty. I wanna work with horses.’  

Ah.  As I walked out – bandy-legged - I felt like I’d done several rounds in a boxing ring.  I also felt…sticky. Weirdly sticky down below. Jesus, was I bleeding? I stuck my hand surreptitiously down my knickers and…couldn’t remove it.  What the..?  A swift tug (more ouch) and my hand came out with bits of what looked like Bostik attached to my fingers.  I drove home (fingers firmly stuck to the steering wheel) wondering what the hell had happened down there.  In the privacy of my own bedroom I stripped off and surveyed the damage. Holy crap! It was a war zone.  Chunks of sticky white goo (presumably the solidified wax) clung to clumps of hair. There were several bald patches, like I’d developed mange, and other bits remained perkily tufty. Shit, it looked like roadkill mixed with poorly plucked chicken.  Yeah, yeah, I know.  I should have checked it before I left but really, I just wanted to get out of there and lick my wounds in private (no, no, I don’t mean literally…that would be plain weird, right?)

Ah well, I soothed myself that at least I wasn’t off for a weekend of unbridled passion and repaired to the bathroom with a pair of scissors.  Yup, there was nothing for it but to cut it all off (bit like when a child gets chewing gum stuck in its hair or a dog’s arse gets monumentally matted with crap). So now I have the worst of all worlds – a sort of neo-Nazi cropped bush with bald bits roughly in the outline of Africa. Too much information?  Sorry.

Moral of the story?  Before you allow anyone near your bush, check their credentials.  Very thoroughly.  And always check your bush before you leave.   

Stories told in the body

It’s been a strange week.  A lot of sadness, a fair amount of anger, a few laughs, many tears, and a few moments that were totally madly surreal. 

I clocked up a few firsts this week, like doing push-ups and shuttle runs in church, having my arse appear in the media (twice on one page), sharing a bath with a photographer on a ladder  and giving Liz Jones feature ideas. 

But above all, one encounter stuck in my mind.  Yesterday I drove down to Minehead to the college.  The omens weren’t good.  Solitary magpies kept flying across my path and my head jumped into my mouth (interesting typo there) when a blackbird (male) suddenly flew right out and under the car, like he was hurling himself into oblivion.

I couldn’t really afford a makeover (even at the college’s crazy low prices) but I figured what the hell? I’m off to London for a week and I don’t want to scare the horses.  So I looked at Visa, raised my (unshapely shaggy) eyebrow and said ‘You up for it?’ And Visa winked.  So lovely Charlotte gave me a facial and a massage and then we howled with laughter as she rolled up her sleeves and attacked my bodily hair.

‘I’ve become obsessed with my right armpit,’ I told her. ‘I mean, look at it! The photographer yesterday said you’d have to trim it before you waxed it.’

‘Actually, I think I might,’ she said, with awe.  ‘That’s a first. Unless you want it plaited of course.’

‘With beads?’ I said with a grin. Then sighed. ‘Honestly, I don’t care. I’m in your hands – do with me as you wish!’  Her eyes gleamed. The little sadist.

But then, funny thing.  They had to switch people around and it transpired someone else was going to do my tinting and manicure.  And this ghost came in and started silently fixing my eyelashes. And my antennae went up; there was something there.  At first I thought it was typical teenage ‘can’t be arsedness’ but then I stopped thinking and started feeling – and the feeling was utter total desolation, way beyond sadness.

When we moved from the couch to a table for her to fix my manky hands, I got to look at her and she was the most beautiful girl ever. A pure pixie with a heart-shaped face, almond eyes and a short dark crop.  ‘I like your hair,’ I said softly, to break the silence. ‘I used to have mine like that when I was young.’ 

‘Well, it’s easy,’ she shrugged.   Oh, that sadness again.  Waves of it.  The ‘I don’t care about no nothing’ feeling. I resolved to ask Charlotte about her story when I saw her next – because there was a story, I just knew it.

But I didn’t need to.  ‘Do you think stress and sadness can cause physical illness?’ she said quietly after a while.  And slowly, so slowly, it came out.  Her father had died a few months ago.  And she was in the dark dark place.  The angry and sad and hurting place.  One I know all too well.  So I listened.  And listened.  And listened.

She said she didn’t talk about it.  Just tried not to think.  But that her body was shouting and screaming – in a million and one ways.  I didn’t tell her what to do – how could I?  But it seemed to me that she came to a fair few conclusions of her own during our hour together.  

No big farewell. No demonstrative hugs. Just a quick shy look. But she touched me. And, who knows, maybe I touched her.  

My Liz Jones fantasy...

Okay, so I had the next few posts all planned out (in my head) for the blog – taking you a bit further on my extraordinarily deep and meaningful journey into the further reaches of spirituality; meandering through labyrinths; breathing, meditating, fasting, thinking beautiful pure thoughts and so on.  But then…

I popped into town. To pick up some dog food.  And washing powder. And muesli, because seriously the sugary Alpen just makes your teeth whistle, no?  And I went into a shop and was burrowing in the muesli basket when someone came up to me and said.

‘I don’t suppose you read Liz Jones in the Mail, do you?’ 

Liz in her Exmoor hell-hole. 

And I said. ‘No, not usually.’ Because, frankly, I’m only really interested if she starts telling lies about Exmoor again and, praise be, she seems to have shut up on that one since her editors or someone advised her to stop ripping the countryside to shreds and instead start this malarkey about her alleged romance with the alleged ‘rock star’ (The One Nobody Has Ever Seen, No Not Even Her Immediate Neighbours). 

‘Oh God, you won’t believe it…’ said the woman. 

‘Trust me, I will,’ I responded. Because, let’s be honest, where Liz Jones is concerned, nothing is beyond belief.  ‘But go on…’

‘She was going to be in I’m a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here…’

‘Whaaaa….?????’  The bag of muesli fell to the floor.  Images flashed before my eyes in quick succession: of Liz Jones trying to vacuum the jungle; of Liz Jones plucking at her T-shirt and lamenting that it wasn’t Prada; of Liz Jones asking if the witchety-grubs were organic. Except, hang about, she’s ‘vegan’ isn’t she?  Apart from the wine and the egg on chips of course. And let’s conveniently forget about the leather shoes and handbags and all. 

That tongue needs a good scrape...

‘Can you imagine it?’ said the woman, her eyes half-shut in blissful reverie. ‘Can you just imagine her nose-down in insects?’ She looked rapt. I could see her point. We stood, in the middle of the shop, wordlessly, breathing, meditating even, on this one pure image. In the moment, in the Now. A heartbeat from nirvana.   

‘Oh yes…’ I breathed. ‘Oh yessss!’

A man walked in and quickly walked out again, possibly wondering if we were indulging in touchless orgasm (a neat skill that I may, or may not share with you further down the line). The SP howled balefully from outside. The moment was gone.  We shook our heads and looked at one another.

‘And?’ I said. ‘Was she?’    

She shook her head sadly. ‘Nah. She turned it down.’

Liz Jones. Allegedly.

Oh the disappointment.  But really, of course she did!  You have to wonder though. I checked the article and she said: ‘Not only would I not eat an insect. I would not put one under stress either – not for any amount of cash.’ And then she went on about Jains (you know, the ones who practise Jainism) and how they avoid harming anything and described them as 'my kind of people. Higher Beings.' No, really. She did. Liz Jones is a self-styled Higher Being. Anyone else and I'd have said they were being ironic... 

Anyhow, the Higher Being business aside, it's all very noble and, coming from someone who allegedly fed her stable rats on organic muesli (probably the same brand I had just sent skittering over the floor) you could just about buy it. And, let’s be very honest here, I wouldn’t eat bugs out of choice. But then if someone said to me, ‘Come on I’m a Celebrity..’ (which, of course, they wouldn’t cos I’m not a ‘celebrity’ thank feck)  it would take all of ten seconds for me to say, ‘Badger off, mate.’  

But it took her five months to realise that ingesting bugs was part of the package?  

Oh come on!  More likely the producers simply didn’t pick her out of the shortlisted three for ‘her slot’ because...well…do you really need me to list the reasons?

But really. Damnit. Just damnit.  Cos see, I don’t watch these circus freak shows that pass as TV entertainment nowadays.  But, in this case, I’d have made an exception. J

Wart charmers, warlocks and sex with entities

Sometimes life feels so predictable.  It’s like we’re those little wooden figures in schmaltzy cuckoo clocks that toddle out, bang one another over the head, and then wobble back in again, only to do it all over again the next hour, day, week, whatever. 

Friday. Zumba. Regular as clockwork. Yawn. Except not really cos it still gets me going.  The first ten minutes are a little like bad sex – you’re going through the motions with one eye on the clock and your mind pondering the relative merits of broad beans or peas in risotto.  But then something switches; the body goes on auto-pilot and the mind floats, blissfully off into the rhythm and far away out into the cosmos.  So, like good sex really. 

Anyway.  Afterwards I was quietly dripping sweat in the car park and chatting to my friend Caz whom I haven’t seen for aeons about how to deal with sleep paralysis (you know, that feeling of being pressed down into the bed and not being able to breathe). 
‘Heck, you need a banishing ritual,’ I said.  As you do.
‘Nah,’ she said. ‘I found another way.’ And she looked shifty, and a little smug.
‘What?’

‘I…ummm…’
‘You didn’t!’
‘I did…’ 
‘You had sex with it?’ 
She grinned.

‘You lucky cow!’

‘Don’t you dare tell anyone!’

'I wouldn’t dream of it…’

And we were laughing our heads off when out came Daisy, in the skimpiest dress going, pentacles dangling from her ears, followed by an enormous man wearing some kind of amulet round his neck. And it struck me, with total delight, that here we were – three witches and one very large warlock – in a car park in sleepy Brushford.  See, Liz Jones, you don’t know the half of what goes on in your village...

‘Nice,’ I said, pointing at his necklace.

'It’s Sir Gawain’s glyph,’ he replied. (occult footnote:  in the legend of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Gawain has a pentagram inscribed on his shield, symbolising the five knightly virtues of generosity, courtesy, chastity, chivalry and piety)
He pointed at my necklace.
‘Nice,’ he said.
‘It’s a Gate Opener,’ I replied and he nodded. 

If people are elements this guy was all Earth.  Really he should have been dressed in full-on Celtic warrior gear, all leather straps and a whacking great broadsword or an axe.  I was slightly lost in re-dressing him when I realised they were talking about warts.

‘He’s a wart charmer, you know,’ said Daisy.   

Caz was proffering her hand.  ‘I’m not sure if it’s a wart of not,’ she said.  Shameless hussy, first she’s shagging entities and now she’s offering up her warts to any old warlock. He grabbed her mitt and spat at it, rubbing in the spittle and holding it tight, gazing sharply at her. ‘Don’t look at ‘im…don’t you look at ‘im!’

‘I won’t..’ she said, shaking her head. Smart girl, you don’t argue with ten foot Celtic warlocks.

‘If ‘e be a wart, ‘e’ll be gone.  Give ‘im three weeks.’
‘I haven’t got any warts,’ I said, sadly.  ‘Just partying entities. Oh, and Lizzy says I’ve got a grabber on the stairs.’
Sir Gawain nodded seriously, as if I’d just said ‘I’ve got a new dishwasher’ or ‘awful weather we’re having’.
‘No,’ he said firmly.  ‘Don’t worry. ‘ee won’t hurt you.  Talk to ‘im. Tell ‘im to push off now; to move along.’
Hmm. That’s what Lizzy had said.

‘We should really get going,’ said Daisy, looking at the moon. 
‘Overdue for a ritual?’
‘Nah, we’ve got a table booked at the pub.’

Sir Gawain nodded and held out a hand the size of a small shovel. ‘It was nice to meet you,’ he said, perfectly polite and formal.  I took his hand and he gazed right into my eyes, like he was scanning my hard-drive.
‘You’re alright, you know,’ he said finally. ‘And it’s gone now.’  
I nodded.  As you do. We said our goodbyes and I drove home.

‘You’re late,’ said Adrian as I climbed up the (curiously quiet stairs). 'I thought you'd gone down the pub.'

'Nah. Met a wart charmer in the car park,’ I said.

‘Nice,’ he said.  ‘Fancy curried vegetable fritters?’

‘I prefer warlocks,’ I said. 
‘Charming,’ he replied.  And shook the frying pan.   

In praise of my (not Liz Jones') GP surgery

I made a solemn promise to myself that I would not, under any circumstances, blog about Liz Jones again.  And here I am breaking that promise.  Why?  Because once again it seems she is running down my home town – once again totally unfairly – and I’m fed up of it. 

This time it’s our GP surgery that gets it in the neck.  Apparently they didn’t jump and give her an instant appointment when she demanded jabs for her trip to Somalia.  Let’s just bear in mind she isn’t their patient: she has a GP, a private one in London (in Chelsea, just so we’re assured it really is a nice smart expensive one).  She also tells us (not quite sure why) that she has a private gynaecologist and two, yup, two therapists. Somewhere along the line I must have missed something because, last time I looked, she was moaning she was totally broke…but hey ho.  This is Liz Jones LaLa land, right?  Oh, and let’s also bear in mind that, given few Exmoor residents whizz off to Somalia at the drop of a hat, they very probably didn’t have the vaccine in stock. 

But anyhow - other people have tried to explain the general workings of the NHS to her.  I want to talk about this particular surgery.  Like most NHS practices, it's busy, hugely busy.  It covers a huge geographical swathe of Exmoor.  The phones ring pretty much non-stop yet the receptionists are unfailingly polite and helpful, as are all the staff.   These guys have looked after my family unstintingly since we moved to Exmoor 13 years ago. They have gently held my hand through bouts of depression (yup, I'm one of those ghastly people who are a total drain on society cos of my feeble-minded mental illness); they have helped my son  (oh, sorry, my "snotty kid") grow up fit and strong.  My husband is sickeningly healthy but, even so, they haul him in every so often and check him out to make sure he stays that way.  

I know these people and they are not just consummate professionals, they are good people.  All of them.  They work damn hard and they don’t deserve to be ridiculed, patronised and blamed by a spoiled brat of a journalist.  The receptionists are not "jobsworths" – far from it.  They have to make tough, informed judgment calls every moment of the day. They err on the side of caution too.  When I was bitten by my dog, I phoned up to check if I needed a jab at some point: the receptionist demanded I went in immediately to have it checked out. When my son woke up with Bell’s palsy, they saw him straight away and then packed him off to hospital for tests (turned out he had Lyme Disease). Yet..hmm.. they didn’t jump when Liz stamped her foot and demanded her travel jab?  I wonder why? 

I’m sick of it.  Pun intended.  Really sick to the stomach with it.  I know Liz Jones wants to get out of Brushford but her house is still on the market so she’s stuck with us and, more’s the pity, we’re stuck with her.  I could tell you stories about her which would make your toes curl but – you know what? – I can keep my mouth shut.  Unlike Liz Jones, I try to think about the effect my words have on other people.

While she’s prattling on about her “rock star” I leave well alone.  Though I would just say nobody round here has seen him – no, not even her next-door neighbours.  But, anyway, Liz, you just keep talking about “him” and your trips to Italy, festivals, whatever. Keep wittering on about your dogs  pissing all over the furniture. Keep prattling on about your face-lift and your designer clothes and your ‘issues’.  Just leave your slanted, prejudiced view of my home-town out of your warped life-view and shut the feck up about the decent hard-working people in my health centre.

Btw, on a lighter note, there’s a hilarious satire of Liz Jones on Twitter, raising money for Somalia – follow @LizJonesSomalia

Also,  while I'm here, please will someone, anyone, buy her house?  Look, I’ll even provide a link.  Actually it is stunningly lovely.  And no, btw, I’m not a stalker! I knew it before she moved in ...

It's okay, Liz, I don't need thanking for the free ad!  But, if anyone buys it through seeing it here, donate my 'finder's fee' to Somalia, eh?   

Thank you, Liz Jones

Back to school. Eventually the interminable summer holidays ended and James returned for his last year at primary school. Trousers too long and baggy, hair amazingly neat after the wild mop of summer. New bag, new pencil-case, new school shoes, new (well, new to him) blazer.
Of course the sun came out and laughed at us. It always does.
I’ll miss summer: the lie-ins, louche time-keeping followed by late nights to hit looming deadlines; sitting by the river watching the boys bodyboarding down the Barle while we sip Moscow Mules; dashing off to the beach at the faintest hint of sun. But I also love September, that crisp new start.
New Year doesn’t really do it for me but Autumn ticks all the boxes for a fresh beginning. And it does feel like that, this year, it really does.

As regular readers know, it’s been a tough year, following on ten tough years, if I’m honest. When mum died in December, I plunged into yet another depression and the world felt very bleak indeed. If I’m brutally honest, there were days when there just didn’t seem any point to anything and only the thought of my little family kept me going.

But now it feels as if I’m slowly, cautiously, emerging from the sludge. My detox has segued into healthy eating (rather than binge retoxing) and I’m planning to get back to aerobics, fitball and circuit training. I’ve been playing squash again and, while I’m hopelessly unfit, it’s huge fun. I’m going to get sociable and have friends round again (I’ve neglected them for far too long). Above all, I’m going to get everything in perspective and be grateful for everything I’ve got.

Two events really rammed the message home in the last week. Firstly a good friend told me she was going into hospital for what would be a life-saving operation. If she didn’t have it, she would be dead by the end of October. Now that really does concentrate the mind.
Secondly, and I barely like to put the two people on the same page, let alone paragraph, I recorded Woman’s Hour in a head-to-head with the Daily Mail writer Liz Jones. To cut a long and exceedingly boring story short, I had written about LJ in the Telegraph in response to her columns in which she kept running down Exmoor. Apparently we’re a bloodthirsty lot; our farmers are negligent; our men are toothless and decrepit; our teenagers are feral; our pubs are crap and the people who work in the local Co-op all have special needs. I suggested that maybe this wasn’t the most tactful way to ease oneself into rural life. Liz objected, implying she was singlehandedly supporting our local economy with her expensive lifestyle and we should be damn grateful. So we went on Radio 4 to debate how best to make the shift from city to country.

It was supposed to go out live but the producer said that, having spoken to Liz Jones the day before, they would have to pre-record as Jones was seemingly incapable of keeping calm and holding a rational conversation when it came to me.
Sure enough a large part of the recording was unusable as Liz just ranted and poor Jane Garvey could not stop her for love nor money. Most of it was just silly, such as asking why, if I cared about Exmoor, I didn’t employ twelve full-time builders (er, because I can’t afford to). But one point was really interesting.
‘I’m the best thing that’s happened to you in ten years, aren’t I Jane?’ she spat.
At the time I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t have replied, even had she given me the opportunity.
But it made me think. What IS the best thing that’s happened to me in the past ten years? My son, James, is the obvious first answer. Followed by moving to Dulverton. Followed by meeting and becoming friends with some fabulous people. Yes, I suppose I should include Asbo Jack and the mad, crazy, still half-finished Bonkers House. And the fact that I still love my husband to pieces and have a hugely happy marriage (even if he does bore for Britain on the joys of beer).

And, at that point, I felt sorry for Liz Jones, I really did. Poor little rich girl who says she has spent £400,000 on clothes, who has a drop-dead gorgeous farmhouse (albeit NOT on the moor where she claims it is) and feels the need to preface every household and item of clothing with a designer name. I suppose she thought that going on Woman’s Hour was the pinnacle of my career but, to be honest, I work to live rather than live to work. My career is certainly low-key nowadays but that’s the way I rather like it. I’ve done the newspapers and the glossy mags, I’ve sat at fashion shows and been flown first-class and interviewed rock stars. I’ve been on TV and radio. It was fun at the time, it was a hoot but it was just a job (albeit a very privileged one). Would I want to do it now? No, I wouldn’t, because it would mean being away from my home and my family.

She doesn’t have that. I know you will say it’s her own fault; that if she stopped writing about everyone she meets and didn’t dismiss everyone who isn’t gorgeous and rich and young and vegan, then she could probably find happiness (and even a man) relatively easily. But I still think it’s sad.

So, back at the Bonkers House, I’m counting my blessings on this lovely autumn day. Would I change my life for all Liz’s trappings of wealth? Would I want to see my face plastered over the dailies? No, not in a month of Sundays. Would I even want to be that thin (had to think about that one for a moment but, um, well, not if it meant cosmetic surgery and a vegan diet). She’s certainly not the best thing that’s happened to me but she has reminded me very forcefully of what the best things really are.

So, for that, thank you Liz.

Leave Dulverton alone, Liz Jones

‘We’ve had the most wonderful holiday ever,’ said the woman sitting next to me in the pub with the broadest of grins. I’d got talking to her and her husband a fortnight earlier when they’d just arrived and we’ve bumped into them here, there and everywhere in the interim. ‘We tried out all the places you recommended and we found a few more too,’ she said, making my mouth water as she detailed every fabulous supper, every cool glass of pinot. ‘You are so lucky to have such great places to eat and drink round here. And it’s so beautiful. And the people are so friendly.’
She’s right on all counts. We are. It is. They are.

Dulverton is a small town but it’s packed with good things. We are blessed with great small shops – both of the everyday useful variety (greengrocers, hardware, newsagent, chemist etc) and the totally non-essential but deeply delightful variety. You can buy everything from a saddle to a pair of f***-me heels, an antiquarian book to a fishing rod, a set of Sophie Conran cookware to a sack of dog biscuits.

Woods (as many of you know) is a fabulous bar/restaurant which serves seriously smart food (alongside a robust bar menu). The landlord, Paddy, is a connoisseur of wine and beer – and you can drink any of his vast selection of wines by the glass. It’s been feted in every paper and guide going and is always packed. The Bridge offers superior pub grub – home-made pizzas and pies, steaks and salads – and has to have one of the most gorgeous locations – right next to the river. We have a Thai restaurant which is excellent and slightly further afield are other excellent eateries (the Quarryman’s Rest in nearby Bampton is a favourite and my new best friends seriously rated the Tarr Farm restaurant, just up over the moor). OK, it's not London - you can't get a choice of organic vegan cafes or decide you fancy dim sum on a Sunday morning - but it truly isn't a culinary desert.

It’s a lively community too, a right old mix of ages and interests. And yes, people are friendly, very friendly. We all know that tourists are vital for our town’s wellbeing and they are made hugely welcome – not just for their credit cards but for the buzz they give the town. People work hard, darn hard to make Dulverton work and to keep it as a living breathing town. So I do get cross when I hear people running it down. This has been brewing for a long time and I have been sitting on my hands for months, nay two years, but it’s time to say to Liz Jones, enough already.

Liz Jones, for those who don’t read the Mail on Sunday, writes a weekly column in YOU magazine about her life. In the past this has revolved around her disastrous relationship but, ever since she moved near to Dulverton, her favourite gripe seems to be Exmoor itself.

Nothing is right. It seems we’re all uncouth yokels with hairy legs and armpits, downing our flagons of cider and doddering around, crashing into one another as we’re all so ancient and decrepit. Except, of course, when we toss aside our Zimmer frames on Sundays to hurtle out to blast pheasants from the sky. For pity’s sake, someone tell her nobody shoots pheasants on Sundays – they’re taking a pot at bits of clay. Apparently there’s nowhere decent to eat – all you can get in the ‘wine bars’ and ‘bistros’ are chicken in a basket and rum-babas. I wouldn’t mind if it were true but it isn’t. I wouldn’t even be so cross if it were funny or witty. But it’s all just so clichéd. So stereotypical. So lazy.

If Liz had come to Exmoor with an open mind and open heart, she would have been made hugely welcome. Exmoor loves mavericks and eccentrics and would have smiled, indulged and probably feted her (and she would have found a mass of material for her column). But all she has done is moan and gripe and poke fun at her neighbours and the surrounding area. Why, people wonder, did she come in the first place? A lot of the locals reckon she’s only here to get a good book out of the place. I am prepared to be more charitable. She clearly loves her animals (even if she does think that feeding rats on organic muesli is a good idea) and she probably fell for that age-old idea that things will be better in the country than in the big city. Well, they can be. But you have to make an effort. You have to meet people halfway, if not more. You have to introduce yourself to your neighbours (not turn them away because you’re ‘in the middle of a photo shoot’). You have to pitch up to things. You have to try things you would never normally do in the city. You have to recognise that country living is entirely different. In the city you tend to mix with your own narrow band of people – when I lived in London, it was all media, fashion, arty types. In the country you meet a much broader cross-section and that is its delight.
Above all, you have to adapt. You can’t expect the countryside to change itself for you. It’s not too late (not quite) and Liz, if I can offer just a few bits of advice…..

1. Ditch the BMW and get yourself a good old Suzuki or Subaru.
2. Stop feeding the rats – truly, people are laughing.
3. Try smiling as you come into the pub. Get chatting at the bar.
4. Accept that you won’t stop people shooting or fishing or hunting or farming out here. It just ain’t gonna happen. Live and let live.
5. Please stop calling hooves ‘paws’. Ditto to 2.
6. Learn how to reverse.
7. Stop going on about Prada, Laboutins and so on – not only is it vulgar but it’s pretty offensive to the hoards of people out here who are on minimum wage.
8. Stop winging about your dilapidated farmhouse. It’s gorgeous. Drop-dead gorgeous. Or it was.
9. Stop with the impression that you live right on the moor (now that really IS another country). Ditto the bits about seeing the sea (physically impossible).
10. Start doing your bit for Exmoor – you’re a journalist with a lot of power. Use it kindly and wisely.

The last is really important. The woman in the pub paused over her glass of wine. ‘You know the funny thing?’ she said. ‘We nearly didn’t come at all.’
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Well, I read Liz Jones in YOU magazine and she keeps going on about how ghastly the food is, and how barbaric Exmoor is, and it very nearly put me off. It was my husband who insisted we should give it a go, that surely it couldn’t be that bad.’

So, Liz, if you should ever happen to read this – please stop with the running down. It’s one thing to play fast and loose with your own relationships and friendships in print – but when you run the risk of taking away a small country town’s much-needed income for the sake of column inches, it simply isn’t fair or just.

Nice surprises and nasty shocks

I love surprises. I like to think I relish the unexpected. But as I grow older I am becoming aware of a growing tendency to try to keep things safe; under control. It’s something I intend to fight, tooth and nail. Partly because it is the first step towards acute anxiety and I can see all to clearly where that leads with my poor Size Zero Mother – who can barely move for neurosis; who can’t stand it if even the tiniest thing is out of place or if people don’t behave precisely the way she expects them to. It’s a slippery slope and I would hate to follow her into that particular madness. But also, and more importantly, it’s hard to enjoy life if you aren’t open to a little spontaneity, a little wildness, a little anarchy.

Nice surprises light me up like a child. I still wait, eagerly, for the postman – hoping that there will be something exciting amidst the relentless bills and press releases on pile treatments: some thrilling news; some soul-catching letter or image; something just plain nice. Like a copy of Susan Hill’s The Woman in Black maybe. A padded envelope with unfamiliar writing…open it up and there is a slim volume, with a chillingly spooky cover and tucked inside a note from Kitty. It's a ‘just because’ gift, a ‘what the heck’ gift…..how totally perfect and just before Hallowe’en too. Bless you, Kitty. I am reading it slowly, savouring it, only allowing myself to read it in the Oak Room in front of a big fire. Ghost stories should always be read thus – and this is a great one, in the fine tradition of M R James and Lovecraft. It makes me smile every time I go in and see it sitting waiting on the coffee table.

The garden is throwing up surprises too. As we peel away the layers of bramble and choking ivy, the carpet of thick weeds, we find odd things, forgotten things. A pathway, or is it the top of some old wall? Old bird boxes. A trainer (large, black, yuk). A woman’s shoe (small, red, old-fashioned, weird). Old plant labels. The remnants of a trug.

James continues to surprise me – as I suspect all children do. He has, all of a sudden, decided he doesn’t like football any more and has given his allegiance to rugby. So we have swapped Wednesday evening football training for Sunday morning rugby training. Gone is the shiny, slippery red nylon football kit and in comes solid black and white cotton rugby shirt. It’s a nice surprise, this one. Rugby seems a far more civilised game (despite its close proximity to warfare) – plus we’re greeted by the cheering sight of an open bar and by the scent of bacon sizzling on the grill.

He’s going deep too, my little Scorpio. I found a piece of work in his school bag – they were practicing questions.

Who will die first in my class?
Is the black hole real?
What will it be like in the year 6,000?
Will God ever die?
Who is the coolest person in the world?
Will England win the World Cup?

Crikey. But what really surprised me was that his teacher had made no comment – merely calmly corrected a few spellings and added a few capitals. Are all eight-year olds concerned about black holes and the demise of God?

Surprises are one thing but shocks are something else. Last night I went to aerobics and, before the class, I was chatting to my friend G who lives on a nearby farm. The music started up and we were just about to start marching on the spot when G said, ‘Oh, by the way, our new neighbour is going to be a journalist. Works for the Mail – I wondered if you knew her….’
No, surely not?
‘Liz Jones.’
Well, knock me down with a feather. It turns out she’s buying the absolutely gorgeous farmhouse next to G’s – where Adrian and I once went to a deeply strange dinner party in which the hostess (possibly the most painful snob I have ever met) fell asleep on the sofa in front of all her guests. But reading her latest column in You magazine I am beginning to get a bit worried about her (Liz Jones, not the snobby hostess). It appears (if you can believe a magazine column) that she wants to escape London and her miserable failed marriage and set up an animal sanctuary where her ‘fur babies’ (aka cats) can be ‘safe’ as there are ‘no roads or fast cars’. Hmm. I almost feel I ought to email her and warn her that Exmoor is pretty red in tooth and claw. She is moving into prime shooting country and one of her nearest neighbours is chairman of the local staghounds. Her fur babies will need to watch out for foxes and badgers (the very ones that stopped dairy farming on G’s farm after generations). Although her lane is small and narrow, we have boy racers here as well as anywhere and there are fatalities a-plenty. Most of all, she wants to do a Garbo and ‘be alone’ – should she be told that the whole of Exmoor will know her business within weeks, if not days or even hours?
‘She’ll write a book about her born-again farming experiences,’ I muttered to R as we sat drinking wine and eating almond brittle in the breakfast room (a fine post-aerobics tradition).
‘Or she’ll do a Madonna and start wearing tweed and take up shooting,’ said R with a shudder. Poor R. She has, in desperation, turned to Buddhist parenting in the hopes of taming the Mistress of All Evil (her nine-year old daughter).
Then again, who knows, Ms Jones might turn out to be a perfectly normal, decent ordinary person. Now that would be a nice surprise.


PS - I am so sorry I haven't been able to read many blogs of late - I will try to catch up ASAP.

PPS - anyone know how to get a black and white rugby shirt staying black and white (as opposed to black and brown?)