Of House Sales and Filthy Shoppers

They all said it.  Not over until the fat lady sings. Don't count your chickens.  Don't get overexcited.  Many a slip 'twixt cup and lip. 

But to be completely frank, when you have two people sending e mails with wittering platitudes such as "we are 100% committed to the purchase of your house" and extolling its virtues (damn right lady.  It is a BEAUTIFUL house) you might just allow your guard to come down a bit, might just let yourself start to dream a little.  Just maybe?

Searches done - tick.  Survey done - tick.  Nothing untoward found - tick.  Buyers brought a builder around to yak loudly about all the marvellous things they were going to do to the house - tick.  At a moment's notice?  tick.  Us bending over backwards? tick.

So what happened?

Well, the fact is they were filthy shoppers.  The very worst kind of filthy shoppers.  The filthiest kind of filthy shoppers. 

So while they were waxing lyrical about how lovely our house is, what they wanted to do to it, how perfect it was for them, how close it was to their children's school, how much they appreciated us waiting while they sorted out their mortgage problems (they were refused their first mortgage.  Should have seen the signs but we are far too nice for our own good) and while they were measuring up for furniture, the WHOLE time they were eyeballs out for a better score.

Pretty shabby, I think you'll agree. 

Now don't get me wrong.  I know this kind of thing happens all the time.  I'm fully aware.  But their simpering protestations of "oh we love your house we can't wait to be in it" rather encouraged us to drop our guard. 

So off they have gone into the sunset, off to buy a much more expensive house (oh yes.  That's the best bit.  Apparently their broker didn't know how to work a calculator and they can borrow much more money than they thought).  Let's just hope they're not as comprehensively dicked around as they dicked us around.

But then as they say.......karma's a bitch.

We do

And we did. 

Of Reincarnated Spiders and Sighs of Relief

Now, Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is one of my favourite films - the one with Kenneth Branagh striding sweatily (and more than a little sexily) around his filthy laboratory, plunging corpses into amniotic fluid and using electric eels to bring them to life.  Who could forget the famous scene when, straddling the copper bath containing a grossly deformed Robert de Niro, Branagh looked to the heavens, screaming "it's alive!  IT'S ALI-I-I-I-VE!!!"

Well, I felt a bit like that last Monday morning.  Albeit, I was not straddling an amniotic fluid filled copper bath with Robert de Niro inside.  And I was not topless.  Or sweaty.

You see, last weekend was rather a maelstrom of emotions - actually for both Wonderful Man and me.  Although possibly at different ends of the spectrum.  On Saturday morning, early, Wonderful Man came into the kitchen assuming the expression one might wear at the sickbed of a dear friend.

"Dills, I think we've lost Rosie."

WHAAAAAT?  I streaked (no, don't get excited, I refer to speed not attire; I was still in my onesie) through to the bathroom and there she was, curled unnaturally at the base of her log, half on her side, left legs crushed underneath her and her right legs flailing pathetically in the air.  Looking very very sorry for herself.  Cue tears and upset, frantic googling to find out what on earth was going on, and Wonderful Man being very sympathetic and lovely but at the same time, I am sure, nurturing a hope that the blasted tarantula had gone to meet its maker and now finally perhaps we could get a NORMAL pet like a guinea pig.  Or a small rabbit.  

But it was not to be.  Having scoured Google we left Rosie to her own devices, having been reliably informed from @TarantulaDude and @SpiderFreak that she was not in fact about to shuffle off her mortal coil; far from it, she was only about to shuffle off her mortal carapace (skin, in layman's terms).  

"Nah, don't worry man, she's just shedding, give it twelve hours and she'll be right"

Okay.  Twenty-four hours later and Rosie was still half-in, half-out of her shell, rocking slowly back and forth and looking for all the world like she was stuck fast.  "Dilly, leave her!  She'll be fine!" admonished Wonderful Man when he saw me looking furtive with a pair of tweezers.  

And you know what?  He was right.  

On Monday morning, very early, I scampered into the bathroom, desperate to see how my little Rosie Posie was faring.  Had she managed to free herself from the carapace?  Was she still half-in, half-out and in need of tweezering?  Or was she - gulp - curled up and dead, her eight eyes sightless?

Well, no, in a word.  My gorgeous pinky-orange coloured Rosie was now a glossy black (except for her fangs which were a delicious tangerine orange) and busily exploring her surroundings with her brand new skin.  A little smaller, a little more petite but (given her show of bad temper when I reached into her aquarium to change her water) most definitely ROSIE.  

Welcome back, my girl.  

Of Odd Dreams and Wedding Dresses

Well, let's be fair.  Every single bride-to-be (yes!  That's me!  Look Ma, no hands!) must have the odd wobble as it comes up to The Big Day.  Now, this does not mean I have wobbles about the marriage itself, not in the slightest.  I have absolutely no doubt whatsoever in my mind that Wonderful Man and I will be blissfully, stupidly, unimaginably, ridiculously, wonderfully, incredibly and amazingly happy for the rest of both of our lives. 

But.

And there is a but.

Weddings, while enormous fun to organise, are complicated blighters.

Being sans Mum, I have enlisted the help of trusted friends, Mum-substitutes (yes, you know who you are) and Everyone Else On The Planet Who Has Ever Got Married and ploughed the depths of their brains for any hints, tips and advice.   And am still doing so. 

I think we're actually doing rather well.  For I have a secret weapon.  I have The Spreadsheet.  Wonderful Man shudders every time I drag this behemoth out but it is my lifeline - it's as long as I am tall (nearly) and packed with all sorts of different columns, rows, reminders and other bits.....and all nicely colour coded.  Ish.  It is certainly helping me enormously.  And is now helping my wedding planner enormously.

Wedding Planner, I hear you say?  Wedding PLANNER???

Okay, okay, I confess.  I have a Wedding Planner.  And she is so utterly wonderful that I might actually end up marrying her.  She whisked my spreadsheet away from me and has been sending concise, detailed little e mails on all subjects from the lighting (who knew?), whether I want avalanche roses or Akito roses (avalanche, since you ask.  Bigger, and blousier) and who will be drinking the NON-alcoholic wine at the wedding.  She is supremely organised, and very good at calming fluttering brides.  And she is Wonderful Man's present to me after I had a, shall we say, minor meltdown and sobbed that I was convinced that I would naff up the whole day and I couldn't get married with my pants showing. 

Pants showing?

'fraid so.  For I have started having Wedding Dreams.  Not the lovely super dreams where you're drifting down the aisle in a sea of Amanda Wakeley, holding a sweetly scented bouquet, make up perfect and everything in place, no.

My first dream actually started beautifully.  I drifted happily down the stairs of the venue, ready to take Pa's arm and head up the aisle, all dressed up and with my girls in their emerald green silk behind me.  All was perfect.  Until Pa said "umm, where are the guests?" and I remembered I had forgotten to send the invitations.  Cue us borrowing every mobile phone in the place and ringing friends to scream at them to get to Buckinghamshire FAST, we were getting married in fifteen minutes with the registrar tapping her watch and saying "I've got another wedding you know, and that couple are ORGANISED."

Needless to say I woke up in a muck sweat after that one.  But it gets worse.

I dreamed that Hedsor House, our venue, had burned down and was being rebuilt so when I walked into the glorious main hall, supposedly bedecked with flowers and with a string quartet playing, it was a building site with a damp concrete floor, rain pouring in the skylight (which had lost its glass) and instead of chairs the guests were all perching on those oil barrels filled with concrete that they stick signs in.   GAAAAAAH!

I saved the best for last though. 

In I drift, serene on my father's arm, floating up the aisle.  But on the end of each row of chairs, instead of crisp, white flowers, there are bouquets of barbed wire.  And those bouquets catch on my dress, pulling me back and snagging me so I'm having to struggle up the aisle, until finally and inevitably they pull the back of my dress off and I have to stand at the front and get married with a huge hole in the back of my dress and my pants showing. 

And they don't go with the colour scheme.

I am sure that there will be plenty more to come (and I promise to report on them!) but for now a selection of my greatest fears to entertain my dear readers. 

But one thing's for sure.  I'm getting up that aisle and marrying my Wonderful Man.  And it will be WONDERFUL.  Pants or no pants. 

Pip pip. 

Of Anorexic Spiders and Gardening

Eclectic title for a post, I know.  But it does kind of give you an idea what's been happening at our homely hidey-hole, Fortress Balham. 

Perhaps I ought to explain.  Wonderful Man and I are the proud parents of a rather splendid Chilean Rose hair tarantula.  Now, when I say "proud parents" I mean that I gaze at her in adoration, noticing all the little bits such as the peachy coloured fuzz which covers her, her delicate little feet and her habit of trying to climb the glass in her aquarium.  Wonderful Man, by contrast, watches from afar, carefully making sure that Rosie Posie, as she is known, is not developing any Houdini-like skills.  It's fair to say that our "spider-rearing" techniques are at opposite ends of the spectrum.  But recently, we have hit a snag.

I am forced to conclude that we have an anorexic spider.

For weeks now, Rosie has refused even the most juicy of morsels, turning her nose up at crickets, locusts and even red runners when they are offered to her.  Whereas previously she would leap on any unsuspecting insect which was dropped into her tank, dispatching it with surgical precision and then leisurely nomming down, she now acts like Gillian McKeith faced with a Mars Bar, waving her little palps in the air and backing away post haste.  The red runner, having been reprieved, then scrambles up Rosie's log and stands there like a little victor.  It's really most frustrating. 

We would not worry if this had only been the case for a few weeks.  But it's been months now since Rosie has eaten anything at all, although she empties her water bowl nearly every day.  Is our spider having feelings of low self-esteem, wishing to transform herself into Victoria Beckham-like skinniness?  Or is she just being a contrary little madam?  Only time will tell.  But watch this space.

Now, onto gardening.  Ahhhh, gardening.  Never did I think we would ever become so enthralled (=obsessed) with compost, seeds and cultivation.  But enthralled we are, and our little plot has become something of a talking point amongst our neighbours, stuffed to the gunnels as it is with all manner of juicily cropping, er, crops.  Witness the runner beans, now seven or eight feet high, which I grew from tiny, shiny, speckled seeds.  I grew them from seed!  Tiny little seeds!  A little further along, the thick green stalks of sweetcorn stand sturdily, grown from inch-high little seedlings.  Next to them, our first beetroots are beginning to form.  On the opposite side, our potatoes, brussels sprouts and peas are flourishing - although with the recent downpours, our potato bags are now covered in an assortment of brightly coloured umbrellas.  Potatoes do not like too much water!

We must confess, however, to a slight gardening....setback.  Not a disaster as we did learn from it but just a little bit disappointing, however.  We had decided to grow purple sprouting broccoli in a corner of our raised bed, under the elder tree.  Teeny little seedlings were duly implanted in the compost, and we watched their progress each day.  Slowly they grew, a few inches each week, stronger each day.  We waited with bated breath for our harvest of richly purple sprouts.  Dutifully we sprinkled them with plant feed and seaweed.

And what did we end up with?

Towering triffid-like plants with leaves the size of dustbin lids - and.....wait for it.......TWO sprouts.  Yup, you heard right.  Two sprouts.  From ten plants.  In the end, in frustration, we decided to get rid and plant something a bit more friendly.  But they didn't go easy.  Scissors and secateurs failed at the job and we ended up sawing through the tough, woody trunk, and then heaving at the roots to get them free.  Finally we cracked it and sat back, surveying the carnage we had left.  Ten enormous holes.  But there was an upside.  The next morning the bed was being thoroughly foraged by our robin, clearly delighted that those messy big old plants had gone and he could go back to pulling worms from the soil. 

But overall our garden has been and continues to be a source of joy.  Little victories spring up each day - the discovery of tiny, hard green tomatoes on the plants I grew from seed elicits a shivery thrill.  And when our bright yellow patty-pans started appearing, peeking through the prickly stems, each garnished with a greeny-orange flower, I could hardly contain my excitement.  My work colleagues have got used to my arriving in the office saying "you'll never believe what's come up now!" before excitedly showing them photos on my phone. 

Ahhhh...the bliss, the sheer bliss.  More muddy-fingered news soon. 

Different shades of white

A few dreamy Antarctica shots.  I'm enjoying memories today.  

Two teeny birds atop an iceberg.

Paulet Island, where we encountered three million Adelie penguins.  Three million!!!

And the prow of the Plancius, heading into an Antarctic dawn. 

Breakfast time in Laikipia

Yes, it is a kudu.  At the breakfast table.  

And not forgetting the squirrel.

They do things differently in Laikipia.

More small things

I'm finding lots of small things today. 

The best chicken pie in the world.  Decorated with stars so it knows how important it is.

Gooey pear cake, made with those long thin pears which are ripe for about half an hour before turning all grainy and mushy.

Our first silkmoth.  I couldn't even feel her on my finger.

And not forgetting the garden.  Ecclesiastical purple and pagan green.

Small things

Pussy willows in our office.  I was once told that if you put them in water then they blossom and die.  So we keep them away from the smallest drop.

And my favourite photograph of my mother, as a toddler.

Lunchtime schmunchtime

What do we usually do at lunchtime on a typical day's work?  Grab a slightly damp sandwich from the sandwich delivery boy and eat at the desk, typing with one hand?  Or maybe take five or ten minutes in the "break out" (I emulate the vernacular but always tongue in cheek) area to flick through the two-month-old Hello magazines found there?  Perhaps no time for lunch at all?

I know it's something of which we are all guilty.  Heavens, we spend nine hours a day there, shouldn't we have just a little break?

So, I did. 

A few weeks ago, I got in my car at lunchtime and drove to the far side of Putney, to a place I've seen as I drive past but never stopped to go in.  This time, I did stop.  Pulled on my winter coat and went for a walk. 

I walked through vast wrought-iron gates and along paths which petered out to grass.  Feet brushing against dewy dampness, not yet touched by the sun, I took a long, meandering walk.  But I wasn't alone.  On the left, a Laura Emma Wylie joined me.  On the right, a Mr George Brooks and his beloved wife Tabitha.  A little further along, partially concealed, I met Fanny Butts, formerly of Coldharbour Lane.  I was surrounded by hundreds of people.  

I find walking through a cemetery really quite comforting.  They are always quiet, contemplative.  Just a few birds and really not much more to disturb your thoughts.  I like looking at the gravestones, seeing who was here before, finding a common link.  For example, Laura Emma Wylie was married to John Wylie.  The same name as my great-uncle who has just passed away after a long illness.  I find myself imagining their lives, how they might have been, what they might have done.  I like standing in the middle of them and picturing who could be standing right next to me.  I like the peace and quiet, the colours of the moss on the old gravestones, the overgrown-ness of it all.  A dash of yew here, a clamber of ivy there.

Maybe it's just the getting out of the office for an hour, into the fresh air.  Perhaps I'd feel exactly the same had I headed to Richmond Park and taken a walk there, trodden in the footprints of the deer.  But I think I'll keep coming back here.  I'd like to see how it looks in spring, perhaps with a carpet of crocuses.  Maybe a dog rose or two. 

Certainly beats reading Hello magazine...