Words from a Bird

And breathe... After almost a month of playing virtual ping-pong with the husband with various strains of The Lurgy, it is with relief that I am back at my desk with life slowly getting back to some level of normality. I have to say that this morning didn't get off to the best of starts though.  The husband had the small task of dropping a cheque into the bank last Thursday. This isn't a big ask, as he is currently working around seven yards from the bank, and I felt quietly optimistic that the neatly handwritten envelope containing cheque and payment slip would be handed in.   Getting home that night, he told me that the bank was closed on a Thursday, so he'd have another go on Friday.   Well that was OK, and it would have continued to be OK if he'd actually remembered to take the cheque to work with him (something I discovered much later in the day when there was nothing I could do to get the cheque paid in). So this morning, I made the decision to he

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

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 h

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 gav