Nearest I'll get to an OSCAR

Crikey, I’ve won an award. This is so rare that it makes me think back to the (very few) prizes I’ve achieved in my life. There was the pink rosette I ‘won’ at my one and only gymkhana (for taking part) which was, for years, my most prized object (pinned to a silver egg cup in the hopes that the short-sighted might imagine it a first prize – the red having faded perhaps? – for showjumping. Then there is Finland – its Land and People, an art prize awarded while on a school cruise with the SS Uganda. Impressive you might think but I feel forced to point out that mine was the only entry. The only other one I ever won was a prize for Effort and Achievement in the lower sixth at school – a really unpleasant version of the Complete Works of Shakespeare printed on loo paper in miniscule print. A bitter memory as it marks the tipping point of my academic career. There I was all, the archetypal Good Girl, diligently practicing my Latin verbs (and due to sit the Oxbridge exams for modern languages) before discovering, a few months later, that there was much more fun to be had with gin, poppers, fast cars and naughty boys. It was all downhill from there and I was a Sorry Disappointment to my teachers.
But I digress.
The lovely and highly talented Zoe (sorry, still no umlat) has awarded me the Arte y Pico award for this little old blog. It means a lot as Zoe has monumentally high standards and her own blog is a Thing of Beauty Unsurpassed (if your soul is harrowed it’s as refreshing as a week in a top-class spa) so this isn’t just some nice pat on the back from a mate. Now, of course, I have to do the really hard bit and pass it on. This always worries me because the danger lies in an award just doing the rounds with one’s nearest and dearest blogging friends. So I have tried to venture a little further afield in the sure and certain knowledge that all deserving souls will eventually be handed it.

Here are the 5 rules of the award (it’s all rather strict)

1. You have to pick five blogs that you consider ‘deserving of this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and which contribute to the blogging community, no matter what language they are in’.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his/her blog to be visited by everyone (though not sure how you can force everyone to visit, but hey ho, whatever).
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given him/her the award itself (once again, it’s a bit bossy but I suppose if you invent an award you can set whatever rules you like – whether you choose to follow them or not is entirely up to you).
4. The award winner and the one who has given the prize has to show the Arte y Pico blog so that everyone will know the origin of the award (aha, so we have a need for recognition here – methinks the poor soul that started this never even won a pink rosette or a grotty copy of Shakespeare).
5. To show these rules.

Oh I don’t like rules. At this point, I’m scratching my head and wondering if it is really fair to burden anyone with all this. But then again, it’s a rather pretty award and there are some blogs that I think deserve wider recognition so, here we go (in no particular order).

1. Milla at Country Lite for making me laugh out loud (and, as regular readers know, it takes a heck of a lot to make me even snigger) at her simply brilliant takes on the minutiae of everyday family life. You Must Read This (she will give it to Rot, so don’t need to do him).

2. Cait at Dear Diary for a multi-media blog that is inspiring and always makes me think (and sometimes makes me cry). She makes me read poetry (which I would never do of my own accord) and reminds me to count my blessings each and every day.

3. Casdok at Mother of Shrek for opening my eyes. Casdok is the single parent of C, a 19-year old non-verbal autistic young man about to venture on a new stage of his life. Her blog is constantly challenging, entertaining, thought-provoking and also very beautiful. You Must Read This too (sorry to be bossy but it has to be said).

4. Sorrow at Walking the Labyrinth of Life. A brand new blog to me (found via the wonderful Bollingerbyrd) but one that lures me back at the moment as there is so much to explore. Fascinating links and deep thoughts.

5. Diane at 60goingon16. I love this blog for its intelligence, humour and breadth of subject matter (I never know what I’m going to find – how lovely is that?). Great book and music links too. Another must read.

So, have fun….. Hope I’ve introduced you to a few new wordsmiths. There were loads of other blogs I could have nominated – you can catch more of my favourites on my (new) blogroll. This is still a work in progress so please don’t be hurt if you’re not there yet…..so many blogs, so little time….

Bruce and rhubarb bellinis - a dose of the high life

I’ve been a bit bling lately. Feel slightly ashamed to say it after my splurge on vulgarity, greed and over-the-top ostentation but, hey, at least I recognise it – and I do have the grace to be madly grateful for a small dose of the high life.
First it was Bruce Springsteen in concert at the Emirates Stadium. Was I down there getting hot and sweaty squashed up against thousands of smelly bodies? No sirree, I was sipping champagne and dunking Tiger prawns in chilli dip in a private box. Oh yes. The divine Gill from Victoria Health (my totally favourite on-line natural pharmacy – and no, I’m not just saying that because she gave me such a fabby evening out – would I be that shallow? Don’t answer that.) had invited me knowing that I’m a serious fan of The Boss’s live shows. Last time I went I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to Wembley by my friend the Luscious London Lawyer (L3). Bruce Springsteen wasn’t anywhere near cool enough in my book (God, I was a pretentious little twat in those days – all style, no substance). But within five minutes I was tapping my foot and after fifteen I was jigging around. By the end of the gig I was exhausted from two hours’ nonstop dancing. BS is simply The Best Live Act Ever (in my not so humble opinion).
This time round, surrounded by smart businesswomen, film directors and magazine editors, I was determined to keep a sense of decorum. A little gentle foot-tapping would do. Ah but the man hasn’t changed one iota. Maybe a few faint lines but he’s no Mick Jagger and not a hint of grey or the faintest tendency towards portliness). He launched into a blistering set without even a pause between numbers, broad grin on his face, pacing up and down the stage. My feet started tapping, my hips started swaying and, before I knew it, I was waving my arms over my head and all thoughts of decorum went out the window.
Fortunately the rest of the party shed their dignity and it was simply the best night ever.
Then, barely had I got over the excitement of that, than I went shooting off to Babington House the other side of Somerset for a wedding. Michele Knight (the psychic whose book I co-wrote) was getting spliced with her girlfriend Margi. My pal Sarah is Michele’s PA and I hitched a lift in her serious no-nonsense truck.
‘We have to get roses on the way,’ she said and so we hurtled into Morrisons and bought up every last bunch. ‘Not enough,’ sighed Sarah so a quick detour took us into Sainsbury’s where we snaffled another couple of armloads (to the bemusement of the other shoppers with their multi-packs of lager and two-for-the-price-of-one pizza).
We got lost, of course we did (no Satnav here, thank you very much) but eventually barrelled up and spent the next two hours in the hallway turning thirty bunches of roses into five huge bowls of petals. At which point Anne Robinson arrived (looking like a slightly malevolent pixie child), gave us the once over and decided we were definitely staff, hence beneath contempt and whisked by.
Exhausted after our petal plucking we found the bar and I found heaven via a rhubarb and vanilla bellini. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. So right in so many ways and, best of all, another use for rhubarb (a slight obsession you may have noticed – it’s the only thing I don’t kill in the vegetable garden).
It was always going to be a bit different – after all, few weddings have two brides (both in bustiers and flowing trains) or one bride wearing not one, but two tiaras (‘I liked them both, so why not?’). The pair of pagan priestesses was a nice touch as was the saying of vows under the trees.

As Michele and Margi sipped their first glasses of champagne as Mrs and Mrs Knight, Sarah and I watched as two hours’ worth of rose petals flew up into the air and tumbled to the floor in precisely ten seconds. It was tempting to think deep thoughts about the impermanence of life but the canapé tray was approaching so I dived for a tempura prawn instead and started chatting to a sickeningly glamorous woman in slinky gold lame and vertiginous seventies platforms. I thought she had to be in TV or fashion but it turned out she’s a sheep farmer from near Crediton. Just perfect.

In the end, it unfolded much like any other wedding: that curious mismatch of guests; people drinking too much alcohol too quickly and collapsing in small piles in corners; photogenic children scampering barefoot through the grass; the inevitable delays; the wails of women (and the odd man) whose heels have embedded themselves in six inches of soft grass; the obnoxious guest/s (in this case a gaggle of face-lifted women engaged in a bout of social one-upmanship which culminated in – ‘I used to spend a lot of time with the Queen Mother, of course.’ Well of course dear. Margi’s father made a very moving speech with huge dignity (bet there’s nothing in Debrett’s about what to say when your daughter’s second marriage is to another woman) and Sue Perkins made a speech that was so funny I wondered how come I’d never heard her before.

Sarah and I left as the disco started. The barman was waving his cocktail shaker at me with a knowing look and I knew discretion was the better part of valour. We roared off into the night, Bruce on the stereo, scattering a faint trail of rose petals behind us.

Nauseated and appalled

Warning: if you earn less than £200K a year you might find this blog upsetting, distressing or downright obscene.





I am revolted, sick, beyond queasy to the point of puking – all thanks to the Mail on Sunday. I don’t read papers during the week but on Sundays I love nothing better than lying in bed, vat of coffee at my elbow, flicking through You Magazine (and, yes, having a laugh at Liz Jones’ latest bizarre antics). But yesterday I nearly choked on my croissant over a feature on teenagers having hugely flashy birthday parties. Apparently it’s not uncommon for 16 and 18 year olds to have parties costing a cool £50K. Take birthday girl Jayde Fleming-Smith (seriously) who turned 16 last December with a masquerade themed ball. Money no object – she was given a Corsa VXR Sport (worth £16,995) and a holiday in the Canary Islands with three friends but was the poor little rich girl happy? No siree. Her ice sculpture didn’t turn up and she didn’t like the photographs (glammed up by professional make-up artist, stylist and photographer): ‘I shouted at my parents afterwards,’ she said, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world. ‘It should have been more about me. You only turn 16 once, after all. I wanted everyone in ‘I love Jayde’ t-shirts but we didn’t have time to produce them.’

Am I missing something here?

· She arrived in Jordan’s ex-wedding coach (OK, dubious taste but scores high on the ‘me’ factor): ‘My boyfriend was waiting inside with a diamond necklace. Everyone was shouting my name, which made me feel famous.’
· She instructed her 250 guests to wear white and silver so she could stand out in her blue frock.
· Male models policed the VIP area (I’m shaking my head in stunned shock at this point – she actually grades her friends into VIP and non-VIP?).
· She stuck up a billboard (with a huge photo of her) outside her school to advertise her bash.
· The invite stated: ‘No present, No entry’ and her friends duly obliged with Tiffany bracelets and Dolce & Gabbana watches. So, no chance of an iTunes voucher if you’re Jayde’s friend then?

Er, could it have been any more about her?

‘I love getting new things,’ trilled Jayde. ‘If I’m not bought something every day I’m not happy. I am very grateful for my party….but my parents will have to try harder next year.’
No doubt her parents smiled indulgently at this foot stamping from their little princess and are already planning to hire a few space shuttles for next year.
As if she weren’t revolting enough there were a further three like her and, by the time I’d finished reading, I felt quite bilious.
So I turned to the main paper, flipped onto the second page and realised that these girls are mere amateurs compared to the monumental greedfest that is Coleen McLoughlin.
£50K? A mere bagatelle – in fact, probably the cost of each party bag for the future Mrs Potato-Head. Her wedding, the paper estimates, will cost a cool £5 million. The figures just fade into meaningness - £250K for Wayne’s stag night; £50K for champagne breakfasts for the guests (see, girls, some serious catching up to do here); £24K for the security team and on and on and on.
Yes, it’s her wedding. Yes, everyone wants the nicest wedding they can have. But am I really being mealy-mouthed when I say that I just find this kind of excess quite utterly revolting? ‘It is excessive,’ says a source (oh, someone’s noticed?), ‘but so is Wayne’s wealth and he wants to share it.’
Yeah right. Poor old Rio Ferdinand, Steve Gerrard and Peter Crouch could do with a bit of wealth redistribution.
On the page opposite, with supreme irony, was a story that put it in sharp relief. ‘Emergency fuel voucher for 200,000 pensioners’ - ‘The vouchers come as households face fresh warnings over the economy,’ says the reporter. Oh yes, that’s right, we’re in a recession. Funny that. Don’t tell Coleen – might spoil the mood.

On avatars

Tricky, this avatar business. Gets you thinking. I mean, how do you represent yourself as an image? I know I’m making a meal out of it, but it worries me. Funnily enough I am far more careful about images than I am about words. Images are potent. Images, they say, speak directly to the subconscious. Sooo, one’s avatar is not only making a statement about who one is to the world, but it’s also making a statement about who one is to oneself. Given I post so much on fora, my avatar is going to pop up and look me in the eye many times a day. It’s going to worm its way into my subconscious and, heck, I could create my own reality from it. It’s the theory behind treasure maps, positive visualisation etc. Bombard the eye with images of a positive reality and the mind will try to make them manifest. So, conversely, you have to assume that if you bombard the eye with negative images, by heck, things could get very nasty.

So my idea of a depressed looking woman with a dog turd perched on her head is a deeply dangerous idea. To date, Asbo and the Phantom Pooper have at least left their offerings on ground level. Well there was, of course, Asbo’s balancing poo on the doorstep and the ones he sort of propels at bushes but they haven’t reached head level - yet.

I liked the images of women with glasses in their hands (and nappies on their heads – could be turned into a turd I suppose) but would that too be tempting Fate? I drink enough already without my subconscious deciding I’m not dressed without wielding a glass of red. Work having plummeted this year, due to Family Matters which May Not Be Discussed, I can’t afford to descend into alcoholism yet.

I love the idea of something spiritual – the maze, the labyrinth, the spiral, the mandala, the Cosmic Piglet – but truly, who am I kidding? At the moment I’m about as spiritual as beans on toast.
Dogs have been discussed but, as Milla pointed out yesterday as we drank Jumpy Monkey smoothies in Glastonbury, I got told off at the Arvon Foundation for my dog point-of-view obsession – so that’s out.

So, this morning I did what I should have done a long time ago – went out shopping for an avatar (classic avoidance technique of course – should have been coming up with ideas for work). I shouldn’t have been surprised (but I was) that there are positively bucketloads of sites filled with avatars. Military weapons are clearly popular as are those weird Japanese comic characters with huge eyes and no jaws.

There’s plenty of whimsy and cute and some that are truly odd. Such as…..
· Terry Wogan in a yellow bunny suit
· A man having his face pulled apart by paperclips
· Evil Tinky-Winky, the Teletubby
· An X-ray showing a skeleton with a bottle, er…jammed somewhere.
· A woman sunbathing in an alien mask
· Dogs lying nose to tail in a perfect circle

I often feel like the woman with an axe buried in her face but, for obvious reasons, not sure I want to attract that reality. Nor the girl from The Exorcist (though wouldn’t remotely surprise me if my head started spinning round while I projectile vomited the way I’m feeling lately). I could give you all a laugh by choosing Jordan’s improbably ex-breasts or Cate Blanchett’s Galadriel elf ears. Or I could be mysterious with any of of 78 pictures of eyes.

The more I look at images, the more I think it’s impossible. There is nothing that sums me up in total. It’s an impossible quest. So I plucked several images out because, for no particular reason, they appealed. See what you think and let me know. Or, if you have any better ideas......

Now this, in case you were wondering, is what I really look like!

Country bling

I’m sick of moaning about myself so, for a change, I’ll have a moan about other people. You know what’s really getting my goat at the moment? Conspicuous consumption. Greed. Bling. Oh, the hell with it, sheer vulgarity. It started off with this house not that far off. Lovely Georgian job, small pile set in the nearest thing to parkland round here. Not too big, not too pretentious, just a drop-dead gorgeous peach of a country house. Two lodges guarded the approach, one to the north, one to the south. Nothing swanky, just honest pretty little cottages, presumably for the gamekeeper/gardener/whatever. The main entrance was low-key too – stone worn soft by the years and the weather.
A few years back it was bought by people from the South-East. Now I can’t talk – I’m a Surrey girl myself – but you just know what’s coming, don’t you? Over the years, it’s been Surreyfied. Gone is the bushy, scrubby, bit of everything native hedge and in comes neat uniform conifers and plastic thingummybobs with reflective strips on them so we don’t (heaven forfend) squeeze up on the verge if a tractor or bus comes by. Down came many trees – maybe necessary, who knows? Up came the wild patches of bramble – and is it just my imagination or is there less birdsong along that lane now? Just before Christmas there was a flurry of activity and huge monumental plinths were installed with the house name carved self-importantly either side. Smaller plinths to either side of those.
‘You watch,’ I said, as we drove (slowly, mouths open) past. ‘There will be huge wrought-iron gates with gold bits up there next.’
‘Noo,’ said Adrian. ‘Nobody could be that vulgar. Not round here.’
Really? He ate his hat a few weeks later as, verily, up went the gates, worthy of Buckingham Palace.
‘YUK,’ we chorused.
Maybe the owners thought, ‘yuk’ too because the next day they had vanished and a few weeks later were replaced by something marginally less bling. But still so pompous, so self-important, so loud. It reminds me of those suburban houses with vast eagles or overbearing pineapples tottering either side of the garage gates. Out of place. Plain wrong.

Poor house. I could imagine it wincing, all its years of quiet well-mannered breeding torn asunder in a flurry of monumental egotism. I lament that old entrance, I really do. It hinted at the gorgeousness beyond, rather than bragging loud and clear: ‘We’re stinking rich and look we live in a girt big house.’ They’ll have a tradesman’s entrance next. In fact, to my total horror, one of the gatehouses has now been demolished. If I’m kind, I’ll conjecture that it was unsound – though it looked right as rain to me. Now we wait, with all the horrified slack-jawed wide-eyed fascination of a car-crash to see what will rise in its place. ‘A folly,’ opined Adrian. ‘A Grecian temple maybe.’
Or maybe they just didn’t want neighbours and plan to leave it open-plan. A couple of Leylandii maybe?

Talking about vulgar and conspicuous consumption, I have bitten my lip over Liz Jones, I really have. I haven’t said a word about how she goes on about living in the middle of Exmoor when really she lives outside the park. Not a peep about how she would need a tower like the Chrysler building in order to be able to see the sea. Not a whisper about how it would be impossible to ride out ‘onto the moor’ from her house. But it does really hurt to hear her bang on about her ‘dilapidated’ farmhouse. I know that house – I’ve collapsed in front of the gorgeous old fireplace and chatted in the cavernous country kitchen. It is stunning, another fabulous old country house that is comfortable in its skin, doing what it has done for centuries, keeping farm folk dry and warm(ish). I just can’t help wincing at the idea of it being turned into a kind of London lookalike, having its heart ripped out for the latest fashion. But that’s it. I won’t say anymore. Not another word.

I suppose, at heart, this is a lament for Somerset as it was when I was a child. A bit down-at-heel, a bit dilapidated, a bit the worse for wear but all the better for it. As a child I loved the wild places, the falling-down barns, the empty houses with boarded-up windows that were surely the homes of mad witches or warlocks. The wildlife loved them too. The countryside was a working place, a ‘real’ place with integrity and purpose. Now it seems to be becoming a playground for the rich. The old barns are all brand-new gleaming homes now. The barn owls have been chucked out. The woodland is torn down for a new development, a new suburbia.
Having grown up in suburbia it hurts.

Am I being selfish? Am I wanting the countryside held in aspic, a romantic ruin for my own delectation? I don’t think so. I love a working countryside. I don’t mind smells and mud and cows meandering across the road or sheep holding me up for half an hour. I can cope with the ugliness of modern farm buildings (while lamenting the old ones that had to be sold off for housing). I totally see the need for new housing (affordable housing) so that as the local teenagers grow up they aren’t forced away. But the housing isn’t affordable, and instead of filling in the gaps, using the brownfield sites (of which they are plenty) it’s always swathes of farmland that are eaten up for the new projects.

It makes me laugh (bitterly). There is a new housing development in the small town not far from the Bling House, not that far from Liz Jones. We couldn’t believe how many houses they squashed into the site. I couldn’t help thinking of the song, ‘Little boxes on the hillside….and they’re all made out of ticky-tacky…and they’re all made out of ticky-tacky and they all look just the same.
They were all snapped up in a second – not by first-time buyers or locals, but by the people who love neat, perky conservatories and plastic gothic arches. I’m sure a fair few are South-Eastern refugees, running away from the suburban sprawl. How ironic.

Benighted blog

Have you ever had the feeling that life really isn’t playing the game? Here I sit, looking out the window and what do I see? A large rusty radiator propped against the wall; a magnolia blighted by frost after a mere two days of glory; a camellia ditto and a large plump rat jauntily munching on the bird nuts. My feet are freezing cold, my fingers can barely type and the electric fan heater is giving off a strong smell of cat pee. As if that weren’t bad enough, I did the most stupid thing ever this morning. Glutton for punishment, I got on the scales. For months I’ve been comforted by the fact that I had absolutely no idea how much I weighed, as the only scales we have measure in kilos and I have never been arsed to get my head around metric. Then things started getting tight, very tight. The jeans that had always been a bit baggy around the thigh suddenly started hugging in far too intimate a manner. My bra – for Pete’s sake – started pinching and if I’m oozing out of an H cup, what hope is there? So, feeling extremely brave, I borrowed a pair of real scales, in stones and pounds and lumbered on. I mean, how much weight can one put on in a mere four months? Oh. My. God. How did that happen? I knew I was getting porky but I had no idea I had put on a stone since I last looked. I am nearly as large as I was when I was pregnant – only now the rampaging wrinkles will stop anyone making of asking ‘When’s it due’.

Nothing else for it. Went to the kitchen and baked up a batch of triple choc chip cookies and ate about six in one sitting. Although the prospect of summer seems unlikely, if it ever does come I shall be the sad woman in the vast kaftan. Or, better still, a burqa. I think I have just given up. I can’t even be bothered to paint my nails. My toenails are so long they’re starting to snag on my socks (Tights? Stockings? Don’t be daft – wearing skirts takes FAR too much effort). There isn’t a sharp razorblade in the house (maybe Adrian has taken to hiding them out of concern for my mood) so I have a thick shagpile of hair in all the places women are supposed to keep smooth and nude. In fact, if I ever do get around to doing something about it, I reckon I’ll have to go to a dog groomer and get myself stripped.

If my body is no longer a temple, my house is a tip. When the dust gets to a full inch thick, there really is nothing much you can do, other than stick your finger in and prod gloomy pictures of hollow-eyed people in it. I am deeply embarrassed to say my house is, let’s not mince words, a pit of filth. Yes, I KNOW we have builders in and missing floorboards and dangling electrics and free-standing plumbing (including half the radiators in the garden providing a gym for the rats – who, I notice bitterly, are in much better shape than I am). But really there is no excuse. I have become a slattern and a slob.

So slatternly, in fact, that I haven’t ever got around to doing my 7 weird facts. So, better late than never, here they are. Who knows, this burst of activity might spur me into doing something else. Like bake up a rhubarb polenta cake maybe.

7 things you might not know about me.

1. I used to make jewellery – beaded bracelets and wild earrings.
2. I was once arrested in Richmond Park on three counts of reckless riding (but got off!).
3. I have taken courses in past life regression and SHEN therapy, but have never practiced.
4. I’ve done the Ouija Board and scared myself witless when somebody WAS there!
5. I have always wanted a pet mongoose.
6. My favourite scents are amber, neroli and jasmine.
7. I have never been a bridesmaid (and, to be honest, never thought I’d be a bride).

I’m a lousy tagger and tagee so shall leave this to float in the ether….think everyone has done it anyhow…. Now, after this little burst of activity, think I’ll go and stare out the window a bit. Or think up a cunning plan to avoid the mother who’s coming to pick up James actually seeing how bad the house is. Perhaps we’ll sit, nonchalantly on the steps, pretending to be cloud-spotting or, hell, anything really that doesn’t require too much effort.

Acropropblog

my new kitchen - lovely, isn't it?




I’m beginning really to irritate myself. For those endless two years when we were trying to sell the house I had this mantra that everything would be hunky-dory, ‘when the house sells….’ Everything would be wonderful if we could only get our dream house and move into town, back to civilisation. Well, the house sold, we’re here, where we always wanted to be and am I happy? Am I heck. Admittedly 2008 has been possibly the nastiest year on record since 1970 – and we’re still only four months into the damn thing.
Part of the frustration is not being able to write about it all in lurid detail. Writing has always been my means of working things out of my system and blogging has been the most powerful form of therapy I’ve ever encountered. I think a lot of my black dog blues have been created by the effective gagging order on my writing – that and a deep grinding sadness that my motives were so misunderstood. I’m also flipping furious with myself for being so naïve. Heaven only knows, I’ve had enough warning shots that a Blog is for the World to Read. I guess I have never really really thought that anyone much would be bothered to read my ramblings. But people Google themselves (seemingly with monotonous egocentric regularity) and bingo up pops my darn blog. You know, it had never really occurred to me before to Google myself. Yet bung me into the search box and what do you find? Yup, there I am, splattered all over the Internet, like diarrhoea.

Anyhow, enough already. Let’s talk about something else. Like the Bonkers House. Lately I’ve taken to singing a tuneless little ditty that goes like this…..

Ten green acroprops holding up my wall…..
Ten green acroprops holding up my wall…
And if one green acroprop should accidentally fall…..

We laugh nervously at this little joke but I fear there could be a nasty ring of truth to it (just like Ring a Ring O’Roses viz the Plague). Work continues slowly, so slowly. After the first flurry of excitement, the heady joy of Something Being Done, we seem to have hit one of those endless bogs you encounter in dreams – no matter how hard you trudge, you never seem to arrive anywhere. The firemen are working solidly, doggedly, but the poor house is even more decrepit than we or they imagined – timbers are rotten and need replacing so the whole house looks like one of those stilt huts, held up by slender rods and our collective willpower.
We’re more or less living in one room – tripping over dust sheets, getting on one another’s nerves. The phone is out in the (freezing cold) hallway and yesterday my teeth were literally chattering so hard the person on the other end of the phone had to ask me to repeat myself. Given family issues over the last few months I have barely been able to work so money, inevitably, drags heavy on my soul. I have visions of the cash/credit running out and the whole place gently teetering onto its side and collapsing with a sigh.

We now have scaffolding all along the road side of the house, effectively creating a bottle-neck on the way out of town. Which means, of course, that we’re now living in a doll’s house – open to the world, or at least to the firemen.
‘Five minutes to ETA,’ bellows Adrian at 8.10am and an undignified scramble for the loo ensues. Our loo window is so high up that there have never been curtains or blinds in it – only the pigeons could see in. Not any more. You could easily find yourself, happily ensconced flipping through Homes & Gardens and find a cheery face waving at you. So now I tend to cross my legs or plunge down into the subterranean depths of the Loo of Doom. The seat is sub-zero and the walls ooze damp but at least it’s private.

However today the sun is shining fit to burst. There’s a magnolia (stellata, not my favourite but never mind) flowering its heart out and, even shrouded in dust, the house is putting on a tentative smile. It would be churlish not to smile back, wouldn’t it?