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Getting better all the time...

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The Man Flu and Chest Cold continue to run riot throughout the Bird house.  The poor husband took to his bed on Tuesday evening which told me he was really ill, as he's not one to succumb easily.  He's seems a tad perkier today so perhaps the corner has been turned.
Today, I thought some fresh air would help me, so I drove up to Wittenham Clumps (yes, this is a real place) to walk the woofers.  As I walked through the woods, I had a memory creep up on me.  The last time I was here was for Schnauzerfest, the annual fundraising walks for rescued schnauzers which I do each year.  It's almost a year ago when we did this last, and if I'm honest, I have just about recovered from the stress of that Saturday morning.
Reg (who at that time was pre-emasculation) spent the whole morning scrapping with everyone.  As well as the other twenty or so schnauzers this also included Miss R and Mrs S who were there for moral support.  I had to go on ahead you see, as I had to get back to th…

At the zoo...

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Despite both feeling like we'd been run over ( nothing common about our colds, I can tell you), the husband and I sallied forth to the Cotswolds in the Wobble Box for some much needed P&Q (peace and quiet, and not lessons in polite conversation).
The site was a mere hour's drive away, and once settled, the husband suggested a walk to the local pub for dinner.  'Thirty three minutes', he said studying his mobile phone.  'I'll bring my torch as it'll be dark when we walk back'.  Packing my £6 garage forecourt torch amidst much torch snobbery and derision, we headed out to the pub for a pre-booked table for 7.00.  
By 7.05, we were still in the middle of nowhere, and I was questioning the husband's orienteering skills.  And then finally, fifty seven minutes after we set off, there was the pub.  A great meal was had, and as we stepped out into the darkness, we both reached for our torches like a couple of cowboys.  Mine came on first.  The husband'…

Silence if golden...

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The last time we spoke, you'll remember that I was in full flat cleaning mode, getting ready to hand daughter number two's flat over to a new owner. This all went beautifully to plan, and I'm pleased to say that she and Arthur Daley are now nicely settled in their new abode.  When Friday opened its tired eyes, and stretched its bones, making some rather worrying noises (OK, I admit it, that was me) I said to the husband that I was really looking forward to a quieter weekend.  
We failed naturally.
On Friday night we drove over to Abingdon to spend the evening in our next door neighbour's cafe.  After dark, the cafe sheds its pinnies and carrot cake and turns into a den of inequity courtesy of some rather lovely wines and live music. We decided to eat there, so having had a rather large raspberry gin, I opted for the Chicken Pesto.  This was absolutely delicious, and I ate the lot, forgetting in my gin-fuddled state that pesto has Parmesan in it.
So that gave a beautiful r…

Sucker in a three piece...

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Why is it that you forget things as the season changes?
It was a misty Autumn morning walk with the woofers today, and for the first time in many weeks, I donned the wellies.  Tucking my trousers into my socks (cropped trousers have a habit of riding up) I stepped out into the long grass of the meadow and headed out for a walk.  
And then I remembered.
When you tuck your short trousers into your long socks, it is the cue for a battle, with whoever has the stronger grip being the outright winner.  Now you'd think that up against a cheap pair of old socks from the supermarket my trouser waistband would be the victor in this particular battle.  But what I hadn't considered is that since I have been avoiding the foods which give me migraines (almost five months now) I have lost almost two stone in weight.  Add into the mix that I have a self-inflicted embargo of no new clothes or shoes this year, and you'll understand where I'm going here.  
Halfway around the meadow, the trou…

Baby, you can drive my car...

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Well.  I survived.  I'm not saying it was easy, and I'm not saying isn't wasn't always pleasant, but it could have been better.  
NO INTERNET FOR FIVE DAYS....
There, rant over.  So ladies, since Thursday I've been in the middle of a field somewhere in Hampshire working as part of the clean up team for CarFest South.  I've done this before, so there was an element of the known, but this year, I was given a job which I hadn't done before.  On Friday morning, if you'd been one of the 20,000 or so campers who walked through the entry gate, it might have been me who thrust a couple of recycling bags into your hand with a cheery smile.  After four hours of this, I was verging on hysteria and have a vague recollection of holding up bin bags and offering one of my kidneys as an incentive to take them.
I was a broken woman by 11.00, and after a restorative pint of cider, I had to do what all ladies of a certain age have to do after some heavy exertion.  Yes ladies…

Substitute...

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The husband and I are on yet another jolly this weekend.  It's at times like this, when weekend after weekend is crammed with stuff, that I wish I was thirty years younger and less likely to yearn for a cup of tea and Friday Night is Music Night on Radio 2.  
But I mustn't grumble.  The moment the invites stop is the time to worry.
This weekend I'm off to CarFest South with the husband and Binland to make sure that the site is spick and span over the three days.  Strictly speaking, I am there in a work capacity, but as I had to take a day's holiday on Friday, I reckon at least twenty four of the the ninety six hours I'm there can be allocated to fun.  This will explain why there is a large bottle of Smirnoff by the front door, waiting to be squirrelled away in the Wobble Box once the husband has retrieved it from storage.
As the oldest female going, I have naturally put myself forward for feeding all and sundry on the Thursday night before the catering tent arrives.  …

Wild horses...

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As if the roulette tables of Las Vegas were not enough, the husband and I trollied off to Newbury to watch some horse racing on Saturday.  We'd gone with Miss R, The Mother and her partner Step Daddy Dick.  Also somewhere in the vicinity were Mrs Jangles and My cousin and her chap, and several other jolly friends.  To be honest, if I hadn't seen photographic proof that this other section of my family were there, I might have questioned that they were there at all, as over the span of nine races and eight hours, we didn't see them once.
Now the husband and I are very sensible gamblers, taking what we are prepared to lose and no more. Having won a fair chunk of money on the 'slots' in Vegas, I was pretty sure that Lady Luck had, along with a rather shabby Elvis, left the building.  Surely I couldn't be that lucky again.
There's something about taking money to the races with the expectation of coming back empty handed, and armed with a stiff drink, I studied the…