Words from a Bird

Oh happy day.... For the first time in eleven days, I don't have to cling film myself before taking a shower.  The trouble is that every time I've wrapped my arm pre ablutions, I have been stuck with the image of Mark Addy wrapping it around his ample girth in preparation for 'The Full Monty' with a Mars Bar in one hand and a fistful of broken dreams in the other.  It's also very hard to know when to stop rolling it on.  Is twice round enough, or do I just keep going until the parts of my arm on either side turn blue?  Either way, I'd managed to keep it relatively dry over the week, so I must have done something right. Getting to the hospital early yesterday, I got the last space in the car park.  Thinking that this was a good omen, I treated myself to a posh coffee and iced bun, and plonked myself in the waiting room assuming that there would be plenty of time to enjoy both before I was called.   I managed forty five seconds before the call came, and I

It looks like the psychological after effects of the dog bite will take longer than the physical.  Faced with two over exuberant retrievers in Somerset over the weekend, I did what every rational human being would do, and burst into tears.  This was the cue for another caravan site guest to clutch me to her heaving bosom whilst telling me all about her experiences of being bitten by various dogs over the years.  All I needed was a cup of tea and a hug from the husband, but as neither were accompanying me on the walk I suppose the 42DD's had to do.   Getting away from the scene of the crime did do me a bit of good though, and walking through woods and by rivers is by far the best of medicines.  The husband had booked a campsite close to a river which we have driven past a hundred times before.  As he reminded me on Friday, of those hundred drive bys I have said on at least seventy five occasions how much I would love to walk there.  Actually, I really wanted to kayak, but the c

I'm getting rather fed up of the leg of lamb hanging out of my right sleeve.  My arm has so much padding around it that long sleeves are a no-no, and I am wondering whether it is acceptable to wear a particular evening top I have which has bell sleeves.  Health and Safety would have a field day seeing me flapping about Binland (where were they on Saturday) like a elderly bat.  But it has to stay on till Tuesday when I have the stitches out. At that point, I am anticipating a much reduced right arm and I will be welcoming back the long sleeves.  Just as well it's not cold at the moment....ahem... Talking of the cold, I took a good long look at my face yesterday morning.  As you know, I spend much of my free time outside these four walls whether that be dog walking, gardening or at the allotment.  All this exposure to the elements leaves me with a lovely colour all year, and I always look really healthy.  If it's not the sun dappling my cheeks, it's a gale force 8. 

Lesson to self... When faced with two fighting dogs, do not under any circumstances put your hand between them to pull your dog out. But you all knew that already, I'm sure.  Even I knew that, but it didn't stop me from thrusting my hand towards Reg's collar to release him from the clutches of the other dog. The outcome of this idiotic bravery of mine is a rather nasty flesh wound, eight stitches, and a scar which I might possibly be able to pass off as the result of a shark attack in years to come.  Not only do I have the impressive scars, I also have a rather deep dip on my forearm where the surgeon cut out the teeth marks which would quite comfortably house a golf ball. There have been many to-ings and fro-ings to various hospitals over the last few days.  After the initial A&E visit on Saturday afternoon, I had been booked in at the plastic surgery unit to see what could be done with the damage.  Once the shock had worn off and I eventually stopped cryi

Yesterday was the first time in six months or so when I have wondered where the hell my gloves are.  There will be many early mornings like this over the next couple of weeks, until one of two things happen.  Either I'll remember where I packed them away back in April, or I'll buy another pair.  And then, sometime in February, I will find my original pair and decide that they are much warmer than the early Autumn ones I'd purchased.  I will then put the newly purchased ones away somewhere safe, and so it goes on. You'll be pleased to hear that the Binland dinner went well, with eight of my favourite colleagues turning up for stew and dumplings.  We did try to keep the conversation away from work topics, and succeeded to some extent, but eventually, we all ended up talking rubbish.  Something which I am spectacularly good at, according to the husband. As I cleared away the dinner party aftermath on Thursday night, I decided that the evening had been an unmitigat

Preparations are in full swing for a Binland extravaganza tonight.  As the husband is away at the moment (on a motorbike, up a mountain, somewhere in Europe is as much as I can tell you I'm afraid) I have put out an open invitation to my friends at work to come to mine for a spot of dinner.  Nothing very exciting, just something involving my slow cooker and a bottle of plonk, but it will be lovely to see each other outside of Binland, and talk about all the others who turned me down (just joking, they all had very good reasons for not coming). Since last week, several of them have been asking me what's on the menu for the night.  Well ladies, in full autumnal cooking mode, I've chosen a Beef and Guinness stew, dumplings and roasties, followed by apple and rhubarb crumble.  They all seem quite happy with that, and yesterday I started prepping for the stew.  Now I have never been very good at quantities.  Having a large family, I am used to catering above and beyond what

I thought you'd like to hear what Percy and Reg thought about Schnauzerfest on Saturday... The Outfits Percy: 'Dear God, Reg, old chap. Have you seen what the old girl is making us wear?' (This said in a Noel Coward tone.  Percy is a 1950's throwback, and ever so particular).  'It's an orange onesie for Heaven's sake.  Real men don't wear orange or onesies for that matter'. Reg: 'Well Perce, me old mucker,I fink it suits us luverley'.  (Reg likes to pretend he's from Essex, when he actually hails from Bath.  If he was human, he'd be in a correctional institution by now).  'At least me knackers are still on show.  Can't 'ave any of them other dogs finkin' I'm not a real man'. Percy raises one eyebrow a la Roger Moore. The Walk Percy: 'I remember this from last year Reg.  Do you know, I got rather close to a deep and meaningful relationship with a lovely chap called Hugo.  He was so h

I'm going all deep and meaningful on you this morning.  This is a tiny blip and normal fluffy nonsense will be resumed tomorrow, but for now, well here goes.. When I walk the woofers in the morning, I am generally singing whichever song happened to chance upon my ears before leaving the house. Yesterday, it was 'Just Another Day' by the Beatles.  As I was trilling along to myself, it suddenly dawned on me how awful it is to label a new twenty four hours as 'just another day'.  No day should be classed as that, as it assumes that no new friends will be made, no exciting things will be learned and nothing will surprise you.  Surely every day has the right to be a blank page rather than something which has been scribbled all over and used as a bookmark? Going on from these rather deep thoughts for a Monday morning, a similar topic was raised in Binland.  I'd been in the Transport Office looking for a lamp (yes, I'm still in the dark at work) and Mr W q

The weekend finale came to a juddering halt yesterday morning when I peeked through the curtains to see what the weather had on offer.  I'll be honest with you, looking out of the window wasn't really needed when you took the noise on the roof into consideration.  It sounded like the entire pigeon population were doing the conga across my roof tiles and I knew without looking that the weather was having a 'bad day'. If you remember, I was booked in with my best friend, Mrs S, to go to London yesterday.  Plans had been changed slightly with the Tate Modern being swapped for the Victoria and Albert (more befitting of a couple of ladies in their prime we felt) but Mrs S and I were both looking forward to a day out together which didn't involve dogs, children or husbands However, looking at the torrential rain, I bottled, and sent a particularly wimpy message to Mrs S asking for a rain check (no pun intended).  I suppose that going to London for the day is quite spe

Having been knocked flattish by a sore throat and all of its accompanying delights, I was quite anxious as to whether I'd be able to rally for Schnauzerfest yesterday.  I'd pulled out all the stops with cakes and dog biscuits, and was desperate to do my favourite good cause justice.   But oh happy day... I woke up yesterday feeling quite normal (stop laughing, you know what I mean) and I loaded the car and drove to Wittenham Clumps (yes, it's a real place!) Getting there early with Miss R and Mrs S we gave the dogs a quick walk before all the other walkers turned up.  The sky, which had been threatening an apocalypse, finally decided to show its good side, and the sun shone as we got ready for everyone else to turn up.  Now I have been doing some serious whistle training with my two for the past month or so.  This basically means blowing a whistle and shaking a bag of cheese cubes, and I was optimistic about finally letting my two off so that they could run free with th

I seem to have spent the last three weeks hurtling towards the weekends, and this one has been no different (except I'M POORLY this week). On Tuesday night, Mrs S (the Binland one) and I went off to the cinema to see the latest Marvel offering.  If I said that it contained Tom Hardy, a motorbike and a battered leather jacket, you'd understand completely why I went.  I had pretty low expectations as far as the film was concerned, but it was surprisingly good.   Even if you take away the fact that I genuinely believe that Mr Hardy and I could have been the perfect couple (just a shame I met the husband before Mr H was actually born) it was still a blooming good two hours of entertainment.  Thinking about this, I do sometimes have this irrational lust over famous gentlemen.  I have refused to leave my current mobile phone supplier just in case I happen to be the millionth customer to sign a contract with them, which will mean that the gentleman who voices their adverts (S

With Schnauzerfest getting closer and closer, I roped in the husband on Monday night to help me bag up sixty bags of dog biscuits, This was the last thing he did before finally succumbing to the cold which has been skirting around him for a few days.  I call it a cold, but the way he was going on you would be hard pushed to believe that it was anything lesser than Bubonic Plague.  He sat on the sofa in his dressing gown, snivelling and spluttering and generally answering every question with a grunt (it was a bit like having teenage boys again). What really hacks me off is that I had been very careful this week to avoid anything which might pass the germs over to me.  These have included: No smooching Relentless hand washing Having the car window open at all times when he's been in the vicinity Sleeping in the spare room (not that spare actually, as I share it with the two furballs) Holding my breath when he was in the same room Despite all of this, as yeste

I'll be honest with you.  I'm surprised I've made it to Monday morning after yesterday. The husband, who is off on a mini jolly for a few days had suggested that as it was his last weekend at home for a while (better check how long he's actually away for now I come to think of it) then it would be an idea to 'put the allotment to bed'.   This would be the allotment which has yielded very little this summer unless you allow for Donald Trumpkin and the thieving rabbits who have had to widen their burrow entrances  because they snaffled all my beetroots, parsnips, carrots and onions, so as you can imagine, I wasn't too enamoured about spending what was left of my weekend up to my neck in nettles. But go I did, and spent six hours doing a passable impersonation of a Kirby Grip as I was doubled over with my fork.  The husband, who has a sore neck at the moment, did some light tree pruning, followed by a smattering of strimming, and as I finished digg

Elvis was brilliant.  Apart from a touch of man-flu ('Excuse me while I blow my nose' was never one his more famous taglines as far as I remember) and the fact that he didn't sing If I Can Dream ( what was he thinking of?  Surely it's the law according to Elvis that this one should be sung by every tribute act) he was pretty darn good, and I even came home having received a kiss and a cheap scarf.  Mind you at my age, I would class that as a successful night out... I had a rude awakening yesterday morning with a hangover courtesy of the husband's measures of gin the night before, and this was rapidly followed by a fry up with the obligatory fried bread (once a year I need to resort to this, and yesterday was the day).  After all of that, I was ready for whatever Saturday wanted to hurl at me. As you all probably know by now, I support a great charity called Schnauzerfest, and each year, us owners get together in parks, woods and on beaches to walk and raise

There are many dilemmas in life concerning what to wear... But none as difficult as for a night with Elvis. It was a great friend's 65th party yesterday, and she had booked Ben Portsmouth ('Ultimate Elvis Tribute Act 2012') for the celebrations, and yesterday afternoon I stared into the abyss which is my wardrobe, and wondered what on earth to wear. Now as we all know, Elvis had many looks, reinventing himself every few years ( a bit like Madonna but without the pointy brassiere) and as usual, I was keen to throw myself wholeheartedly into the night.   Mentally, I went through all the best known faces of Mr P, starting with Blue Hawaii (one of my personal favourites).  OK.  Hawaiian shirt, string of plastic flowers and a pair of tighty whitey shorts. Surprisingly, I have all these in my wardrobe (although the shorts used to belong to daughter number two so could be tighter than hoped).  This idea was discarded.  It's bloody cold out there at night, and

All this to-ing and fro-ing between Binland and home, as I try to squeeze in a couple more hours' work each day is starting to take its toll.  At some point yesterday morning, I glanced across to Master P and told him that I needed to find a dark room for a while to just regroup (preferably with a family bar of Galaxy and a double G&T).  After much discussion, it was decided that the only place quiet enough for me to use was the metal container where we keep our spare bins... I was desperate, but not that desperate. It never ceases to amaze me though, how you can be so frantic at work, and then you can scoop up your dogs, drive to the nearest wood, and having walked them for a couple of hours, feel completely refreshed.  Not quite a new woman, but perhaps one who hasn't been around the block twice. Keeping to this theme, it was back to Pilates again on Wednesday straight from work.  Having had the issue a couple of weeks ago when the rest of the class didn'

I can't remember whether I've spoken about this before. Let's face it, at my age, faced with a key in the front door, I have to stop and think whether I'm going out or just arrived back home.  I don't think I have told you, so here goes (apologies if I am repeating myself, but if it's good enough for Only Fools and Horses, then I don't have a problem with a recap). So, the Wobble Box... It's all been rather quiet hasn't it?  The husband and I, having returned from our adventure in Cornwall, hung up the Wobble Box keys on the notice board and mourned the cosy evenings snuggled up with Radio 2, a pack of cards and a couple of ciders.  A week after our return, the husband approached me rather tentatively. 'Can I ask you something?'  This is a question which has been the precursor to some rather questionable topics over the years (zip wires, eyebrow grooming, shoe colour, rainbows and how a fax machine works ) so my 'of course yo

Despite snaffling one of my French Fancies on Monday, the Adonis-like electrician didn't make a repeat reappearance yesterday. I expect that it was the lascivious look in my left eye (the right one was focussed on the French Fancies) which scared him off, so I continue to work in the twilight zone.   As you know, my new computer was installed on Monday, and I was quite excited coming into Binland yesterday knowing that at last, my PC would be working at least as fast as I was, rather than lagging behind and moaning about a slow RAM (whatever that is).  Imagine my horror then, when I realised that not only were there new things on there, but the things I knew how to use had been removed altogether. Maybe, when I put my request in for a new PC I should have been more specific, asking for 'one exactly the same as the one I already have, but with a bit more oomph'.  Not asking for much is it? So the first three hours of my day were spent learning how to use my new

For the last couple of weeks, I have been doing some extra hours at Binland, and have been turning up at odd times throughout the day.  My colleagues, who are used to waving me 'Adieu' around 1.00, are completely bemused at seeing me there in the afternoon, and not a day goes by when one of them doesn't react with a, 'What are you doing here?  Stop messing with my head', or something similar.   Arriving back at work yesterday afternoon, I headed for the kitchen to make a cup of tea for myself and Master P.  I'd brought in a box of French Fancies to share with him, and thought that a cup of tea would accompany this culinary perfection quite nicely. Imagine my surprise to be faced with 6'4" of blonde beefcake tinkering with the fridge.  After a few draught-like manoeuvres as I tried to get the milk ('your move'....'my move'..) I had a thought. 'Are you an electrician?' I asked.  This was probably a daft question bearing