Fancy a spot of gardening?

Now, I’d always thought that gardening meant spending time in one’s garden, on one’s knees, trowel in hand, planting little bulbs, spreading compost, digging up things, dead-heading roses, watering, mowing, hoeing, spreading, fertilising and the like.

But apparently not!

I have just been put on “Gardening Leave”. Which is to say, that I have resigned from my job and because I’m skipping off merrily into the arms of a competitor, I’ve been asked to leave.

I have to say, I do understand the reasoning behind it. Wonderful Man, when he bravely left his advertising job to set up a photography business, was put on gardening leave of three months. And I have spoken to friends in the City who say it’s a regular occurrence. Apparently it’s because when you resign, if you’re going to a competitor, then there’s a good chance that you’ll be very naughty indeed and start to pinch paper clips. Or even staples. Tut tut! So instead of giving you the chance of pinching paper clips (or even, damn you to hell, staples), you’re – very politely but firmly – asked to “please remove all personal articles from your desk and vacate the premises forthwith. And don’t try and nick any staples on the way out, because we’re watching you”.

So off I went! With a bit of a lump in my throat, I have to confess. For no matter how excited you are about your next career, it’s always sad to leave your last one. Especially after five years. But onwards and upwards, as Amelia Earhart used to say.

And of course, during gardening leave I’m not allowed to say anything about gardening leave. Rule Number One with Gardening Leave: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Two: You Never Talk About Gardening Leave. Rule Number Three: You Never…well, you get the picture. With apologies to Fight Club. Hence the reason this is all a few months late. I didn’t want to be taken outside and lined up in front of a firing squad for Talking About Gardening Leave.

But believe it or not, I have actually been doing some gardening! Really, truly and honestly! You see, even though I have a windowbox as a garden, Wonderful Man has A Garden. Well, I say that now because you can actually see it now. But when I started, you couldn’t. Honestly. In order to reveal his garden, I (we) donned protective gloves and armed ourselves with secateurs, and cut down an army of brambles. Some of them were higher than me! But as we clipped, chopped, snipped, yanked, ripped and decimated these mighty Lords of Luna, a garden appeared. Little trophies, long since hidden, started to present themselves like jewels. A michaelmas daisy here, a hawthorn there, a budleia in the corner, and right in the middle, an amber bush. Too pretty.

We also revealed a pond! Albeit a very cloggy one filled with very large, smooth stones. Now, before I tell you this story (which isn't for the fainthearted) I should explain that Wonderful Man's garden backs onto a railway track. So you can imagine the shocked faces of the commuters to see me, clad in t-shirt and shorts, up to my thighs in the garden pond, lugging stones out. 'Twas a sight to behold. Wonderful Man popped open a beer and sat back to enjoy the view, and as for me, I got rather into it! By the time I had finished, three commuters had had minor turns and I'd evacuated a pile of stones the size of a mini. But the pond was clear! If a little shallower than it had been.

So now it's garden planning. Being a keen and recent devotee of The Good Life, and a huge fan of Hugh Hairy-Marketstall, and wanting to grow everything good to eat, I drove a hard bargain. Hence the left hand side and half of the back flowerbed will be turned over to rosy tomatoes, spinach, runner beans, sweetcorn, apples, strawberries, gooseberries, rhubarb, you name it I'll grow it. And the rest will be wildflowers, a butterfly haven.

Now....we haven't actually started planting yet. But we will. As soon as we've had a nice sit down on the deckchairs and poured ourselves a long, cool drink. Ahhhhhhh....the life of a gardener. Does it get any better than this?

Vampire or Victim?

Now there's a question. You see, Wonderful Man and I have been invited to a fancy dress party tonight (please excuse the involuntary shudder). We have to go along as something beginning with the letter "V". Simple! we thought.

But it turns out that there are very few things beginning with V that you can dress up as. Hmmm. Well, there's vampire. Vamp, for that matter. Vixen (although how you'd get that lovely fluffy tail, I've no idea). Ummm. Victim? That was my first thought, but having experimented with yards and yards of petticoat netting, a rippingly stunning bodice and torn tights, I just looked like an Essex girl after an average Friday night. So what else? Voyeur? I could go along with a balaclava and a pair of binoculars. Perhaps a tad boring. Wonderful Man has decided to go as a vulture, complete with a black feather boa and a beak. Rather strangely brilliant.

Vet? Yawn - man in white coat with fluffy toy. Viper? Yes, but how? Vegetable? Now I'm just getting silly. Valium? Now that could be interesting. Volcano? That's a goodie.

To be honest, I quite like the idea of going as a vamp. Ever since I played the part of Polly Peachum in the Beggar's Opera, festooned in net petticoats, a ripping bodice and mussy hair, I've quite liked the showgirl look. Maybe I can combine and be a vampy vampire?

Back to the dressing up box. Depending on my success, you may see a photo up here. People of a nervous disposition please look away...

Do elephants play golf?

No, surely not. What a preposterous question!

But if I was to ask, "Do elephants play with Golfs?" then the answer would have to be yes.

And here's the proof.

A horse called Rocky

Or Champion Rockefeller the Third, if you want to give him his full name. Horse in a million.

You see, I'm reminiscing a bit today. I found this photo:



...while I was doing a bit of clearing up. It's a photo of my Mum and her horse, Crackerbarrel - he was a gift from her parents on her 21st birthday. Rather beautiful, I think you'll agree! (and not just the horse).

We've always been a bit of a horsey family. Except Dad, who is not horsey at all. Not one jot. When he returned from one of his business trips to the states when we were children, we gathered around to hear him tell the tale of When I Was Put On A Horse. Fresh from gymkhana-ing, and festooned with rosettes, I bounced on his knee. "Did you canter? Did you gallop? Did you jump anything?"

"Well," he said. "It went fast. And my foot came out of one of the little loopy things." Needless to say, we never got him on a horse again.

But for Mum and me, my having been put on a horse for the first time when I was two, her having trained as an eventer and a riding instructress, there was nothing more wonderful than swinging up into the saddle, shortening the stirrups (the loopy things), gathering up and heading out into cold morning mist, the snorts from our horses speckling the air with hot crystals. As we came round our favourite bend, knowing that there was a jolly good gallop right ahead of us across an unploughed field, she'd look at me with a grin. "Ready?" And off we'd go. Streaking across the field like a pair of lightning bolts, the horses with their heads stretched, racing each other, and us laughing like a pair of whirling dervishes. Utter bliss.

I kept that love all through my life and even now, one of my favourite smells is the earthy, musky, oily scent of a horse's neck. When Wonderful Man and I were in Iceland, I was entranced by the Icelandic ponies, great shaggy shapes with cascading manes who lived out in the fields in all weathers. I pocketed sugar cubes from our breakfast table and took them to feed these little hermits - little larger than ponies, but they were feisty! At one stage I was surrounded by about twenty of them, all pushing and shoving to get to my hands. I think I may have fallen in love then and there.

But this is about a horse called Rocky. We shortened his name from the ridiculous Champion Rockefeller the Third, a moniker given to him due to his breeding. For this was not just any old horse. Standing a good 15 and a half hands high, labrador-black and shiny, with sparkly eyes and a nose that could scent a sugar cube from fifteen metres, he was the love of my life when I was a teenager. I still remember weekends spent at my local riding stable where he was kept, mucking out in all weathers, taking beginners on the lead rein, erecting and knocking down jumps, raking the exercise yard, sweeping the stables, you name it, I did it - and all for the chance of taking Rocky out for a swish along the moors. He was Rocky the excitable...never before had I met a horse who would get so excited that he would canter on the spot, much like a child stamping its feet, when we were about to go over the cross country course. Or one that I had to turn backwards before we went off for a gallop, afraid that he would barge past the others in the queue. He would turn his head full circle and nibble gently at my feet as we waited. He was, as we'd say in horsey circles, a goer. Light on his feet, he would appear to float over the fields we traversed, shaking his head and prancing like a trick pony. And his dressage! I won't bore my non-horsey readers but suffice it to say he could half-pass to the left like a pro. Never a beat missed, never a stumble, never even a flick betrayed him. Poetry in motion, and I was simply there to enjoy the ride.

So why am I writing about Rocky? Well, because three years ago, at the grand old age of twenty-eight (Methuselah in horse terms), my beloved Rocky lay down in a grassy spot underneath a huge oak tree and floated away. A little older, a little sway-backed, even a little dip-backed, and with fingers of grey reaching up from his muzzle, and a slightly wobbly mane, but still with those eyes and that everlasting thirst for sugar lumps. I still remember the enormous bite shaped bruise he gave me when he lunged for the sugar lumps I had in my jodhpur pocket.



I've been thinking about taking to the saddle again. I've missed it over the last few years, not had much time, work's always got in the way. But I yearn for the feel of an English saddle, for the snort of the horse, the scent of his mane, the feel of him gathering himself before the final push. I've really missed it. And now it's time to start again. I have dreams one day of owning - outright - my own horse. He would be a magnificent grey, but pure white. Arab, and swan-necked, with a glimmer of dark around his eyes. A big horse, maybe seventeen hands, one that could jump a five bar without even noticing. And a mane that I could bury my head into. I have no idea what his name would be. I've toyed with some - Akkanar, Tresellian, Shadowfax, Hasufel. But none seem quite right. I'm sure that when I find him, he'll tell me his name. For now he exists in my daydreams until the day I can set him free, swing myself into the saddle, gather him up and head out onto the moors. I can hardly wait.

Missing: one elephant. Large, grey, unmistakeable.

By popular demand! Here's my story of an elephant called Dionysus. Enjoy!

It was sticking out of the top of one of my favourite books. Just a little blue corner, hardly noticeable. But when I pulled out the blue card with the picture of the elephant, I remembered. The card was a birthday card from my mother. On it she had drawn smiley faces, and kisses. I knew why she’d sent an elephant card. It was all because of an elephant called Dionysus.

When I was younger, I ran a tiny bush-camp in the centre of Zambia. My days started before the dawn, when the sun was just an orangey glow in the corner of the sky. The night noises surrendered to the morning chorus as I pulled myself out of bed, grabbed my rifle and opened my tent to the chill air which still lingered from the night. It was my job to make sure that camp was secure – a tricky job, considering we were right in the middle of a national park full of lion, leopard, elephant and buffalo.

This was my time – walking around camp looking for any visitors – whether those with silky yellow fur and blazing eyes, or with a trunk and tusks. I always secretly hoped for the elephants to be there, hulks looming from the darkness, excited squeals or gentle rumbles, delicate trunks picking the last juicy leaves from our trees. I had given up on my idea of a vegetable garden, having lost too many plants to their appetites.

When my mother came to stay at camp, late in 2001, I introduced her to my elephants with pride. A coalition of elephant bulls had made our little corner their home. The boys, fully grown and impressively tusked, had moved in. Being a trainee safari guide, it was part of my job to study a particular animal each year. How could I resist when the elephants were constantly on my doorstep? And so my love affair with Dionysus started, and like any infatuated female, I was desperate to introduce my mother to the object of my affections, sure that she would fall in love as I had.

Our first day was a success – driving out from camp in my rattling land cruiser, we soon found the group. They were hard to miss! Reggie and Ronnie, the tough guys, jousting in the early sun, Credence and Clearwater chomping their way through a monkey-bread tree, and Occuloides and Dionysus dozing gently in the shade. Over the time I had studied them, they had become used to my appearing, in a loud, smelly land cruiser, and they paid me no heed. Except Dionysus, who would always come and greet me. With my mother safely in the passenger seat, I climbed up onto the land cruiser bonnet and spread out my notebooks, my camera and the bag of oranges I always carried. Peeling an orange, I watched for Dionysus’ trunk to raise, scenting the sweet juice, and waited for him to approach closely. As I dropped my orange rinds over the edge of the bonnet, he sidled up and nonchalantly reached for the rinds, enveloping them entirely with the fingers at the end of his trunk and stuffing them into his mouth. I knew I could always seduce him with orange rinds. My mother laughed out loud.

“Cheap date!” she said.

It became a routine for us, piling into the cruiser and driving out to find the group. Until one day when we found them, distressed. As I drove up, Occuloides appeared, and charged the vehicle, eyes wide and ears outstretched. He’d never done that before. I was unprepared, accelerating only at the last moment to avoid him. I moved the vehicle further away. Binoculars out, I scanned the bush. They were all there, except for Dionysus. What had happened to make him disappear and for the rest to be so agitated?

“What’s wrong with them, darling?” my mother asked. I had no idea, but it was clear that something had upset them. Each elephant was pacing, swaying from side to side, emitting panicked rumbles and the occasional full trumpet. I picked up my radio.

“Camp from mobile, come in please”.

“Yes, Anna, this is Jon, go ahead”. My scout. He must know if anything had happened on this side of the river.

“Jon, I’ve found the boys but something’s wrong, they’re panicky and Occuloides has charged us. I can’t see Dionysus anywhere. Has anything happened on this side?” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “poachers”.

“I’m sorry, Anna, I think we have, I heard shots fired last night.” My insides turned.

“Anna, can you see vultures circling? Are there any hyenas around?” I scanned the bush for the typical signs of a kill, but saw nothing.

“Negative, Jon, nothing here. Are you sure you heard shots?” Please, please no. Not my beautiful boy.

“I’m sorry Anna, yes, it sounded like an AK”. An AK47. The poacher’s weapon of choice. Utterly indiscriminate, it fired six hundred rounds per minute, thudding into and shredding the flesh of anything in its path. I tried to keep my voice normal.

“Okay, Jon, we’ll keep looking. If Dionysus shows up at camp, please radio me, over”.

“Sure thing, Anna. Out.”

Our efforts that day to find Dionysus were fruitless. Around the camp fire that night, I sobbed into my gin and tonic, while my ears strained for any sound that might indicate an elephant. My heart breaking to the crescent moon that rose that evening, I spent a sleepless night.

The next day, and for many days after, were just as frustrating. I monitored the radio, waiting for any sign, any scrap of news that my elephant had somehow survived, was safe, was somewhere in the area. On my mother’s and my expeditions, I minutely examined any elephant footprint that I found, willing it to be Dionysus. I knew his footprint intimately. Dionysus had a deep fissure across his front left foot, the souvenir, I assumed, of an accident when he was a calf. I searched his favourite waterholes, drove deep into the bush to his scratching trees, the bark worn smooth from hours of rubbing to rid himself of the irritating ticks in his skin. I walked up and down the Luwi dry river bed, eyes scanning the banks, probing for a glimpse of grey skin, a flash of ivory. My nights became waiting games, sitting up with Jon and my mother around the camp fire, poring over maps of his last sighting, trying to figure out where he might have gone. My mother, knowing the bond I had nurtured, sat next to me, her hand warm on my back, stroking and stroking as I begged Dionysus for the hundredth time to show himself, to show me some sign that he was alive, that his rumbles still pierced the savannah, forest and river that surrounded us. I had reached one of the lowest points I could reach. I felt somehow responsible for him, that had I not encouraged our bond perhaps he would not be so trusting of humans. Was this my fault?

Weeks later, and my mother’s last night in camp, there was still no sign of Dionysus. Reports had come in of the carcass of a bull elephant, a mere fourteen kilometres from camp. The radio had been blaring, the Wildlife Authority asking for more information, for photos to be taken of the carcass, samples of blood, of bone, for the exact co-ordinates. I usually leapt at the chance to be involved, but this time I couldn’t, scared what I might find. Mum and Jon consoled me as the night drew in, and the radio became silent.

Midnight, and pandemonium broke loose in camp. A creaking, groaning and gurgling as our one thousand litre water tank was pulled from its platform and came smashing down to the ground. Mum and I leapt out of bed, grabbed torches, and ran outside. Stopping underneath the acacia tree in the centre of camp, we shone our torches and saw a beautiful sight. Dionysus, alive, standing next to the destroyed water tank, dipping his trunk in and out, siphoning up the water and squirting it into his mouth. I could hear the splashes and rumbles in his stomach as he drank deeply. I let out an involuntary cry, and my mother gripped my arms tightly as we watched him amble slowly over to our acacia tree and stretch his trunk into the highest branches, searching for the juiciest shoots. I looked up at him, vast in the moonlight, and slowly backed my mother to the far side of the tree, where we crouched down and smiled to each other in the darkness.

The following morning, we surveyed the carnage of camp. The water tank was split in two, the water now soaked into the ground. Our kitchen had received a direct hit, the fridge overturned, our fruit eaten. But as I walked into camp, I saw the vast baggy-trousered backside of my elephant disappearing into the riverbed. My Dionysus, the survivor, was back, and safe. And that was all that mattered.

Travel Shows and Travel No's

Ah, the wonderful world of the travel show. Having fought valiantly and, eventually, successfully with the four foot by eight foot bendy bits of our stand, and finally been able to make them stand to attention (with the use of copious amounts of electrical tape, superglue and sticky-back plastic), we were all ready to go. Every year, my company has a stand at a particular travel show which is held at a particular venue in central London. It's actually a really good fun event, and gives us a chance to boast enormously and shamelessly about our products, what we do, how we do it and how utterly brilliant we are. We are also lucky enough to have previous and current clients visit us on the stand and tell us that we're brilliant. Altogether, a rather ego-boosting experience.

But, like any event such as this, you do get the odd weirdo plodding around. The ones who parade around the show in full safari gear, as if they'd just got off the plane in deepest Africa, complete with hiking sticks and mosquito proof hats. The brochure collectors, dragging round old-lady wheeled shopping baskets with them, collecting brochures by the ton. The job seekers. And finally, that almost dying breed (she says hopefully), the memory laners. Now, some of these can be really interesting to listen to. But some aren't. "Ooh, yes, we went to South Africa, about seven years ago, wasn't it seven years ago, dear, yes, it was, and we did the wine bits and then we visited Cape Town and we went to that lovely little restaurant, and I had the mussels and you had the salmon, or did you have the mussels, and I had the salmon, anyway it was lovely and then we walked down this little street and then we visited this vineyard and I tried the white and you tried the red, didn't you dear, or was it that you tried the white and I tried the red, anyway, it was lovely and we bought a case of the white which was lovely and then we went along the coast a bit and we sat overlooking the ocean, and then you had a glass of the white and I didn't because I was driving and then we went a bit further and we visited that place with all the thingies in it, and then we stayed at this little guest farm which was lovely, and then we......" by which time your eyes have glazed over and you're staring into the middle distance with an expression not unlike the man begging the firing squad to just pull the bloody trigger.

Now, I'm not saying that it's all like this. In fact, today was probably one of the best days I've had in my history of travel shows. Not only was I lucky enough to have not one, not two, but three of my best friends turn up on the stand to say hello, but I also had two of my dearest clients turn up for a chat (greeting me with the words "how many orangutans will I see in Africa?" - oh BLESS YOUR HEARTS for reading and appreciating my blog - it gave me the thrill of a lifetime to have it quoted to me!). I also saw, for the first time in years, two of my oldest clients and friends from when I used to live in Zambia and run a bushcamp. They reminded me of a brilliant story from when I first met them.

I ran a bushcamp in deepest, darkest Zambia. (No, I am not attempting to emulate Baroness Blixen's eponymous speech "I had a farm in Africa...."). Anyway. I had a bushcamp in Africa, under the Mchinga escarpment....

In my bushcamp, we had plenty of very large, very tall, very bushy trees. Which grew in all directions. We were lucky enough to have one tree which grew, parallel to the ground, and in a perfect position to hang a hammock off it. The reason I'm explaining this in minute, mathematician detail will become clear. We'd been out with these clients on a late night game drive, trying to find a hyena den which we suspected had cubs. On the way back to camp, I'd been regaling them with my stories of being an excellent barmaid, so they challenged me to make a superb cocktail. On arriving back in camp, I leapt out of the vehicle, flashlight in one hand, coolbox in the other, and dashed towards the bar. Can you see where this is going?

Yup. I ran straight into the hammock tree, the trunk of which was cunningly positioned right on a level with my forehead. Isaac, my scout, told me later that my body had kept going and my head stayed still, after its thwacking impact with the trunk. I'd knocked myself out cold. A couple of minutes later, surrounded by concerned guests and giggling staff, I'd groggily come to, struggled to my feet, and manfully (or womanfully) made it to the bar. Where I proceeded to pour everyone drinks. Much to their consternation. Baileys and Campari, anyone? Gin and milk? Or how about a lovely white wine and custard? It was fairly obvious that I'd sustained a rather major concussion. My attempts at conversation were verging on the "parsnips on the internet" genre, and so one of the guests, an ex-army nurse, very gently but firmly led me to my room and dressed my wounds. I had the imprint of a tree on my forehead and a very large and obvious gash across my nose. I have no idea what I said to her but, bless her heart, she never let on. I seem to remember telling her I loved her more than baked beans. But maybe that's a figment of my imagination.

The next day, at early breakfast, with a bump the size of a goose egg on my forehead, I again attempted to make tea for everyone. Until my lovely guests (realising I was still, to put it mildly, three sheets to the wind) very gently sat me down on one of the camp chairs, where I promptly fell asleep. Until four o'clock in the afternoon. Apparently I didn't move at all, while camp kept going around me. I then very groggily came to (does this story have shades of the Drunken Honey Badger?) and meandered back to my tent, where I promptly fell asleep again. And didn't wake up until morning. I'm told that my lovely barman came into my tent every hour or so to check that I was still breathing. It really wouldn't do to have to write an awkward letter to my father.

"Dear Sir, We regret to inform you that your daughter has popped her clogs due to an argument with a Breonadia microcephela..."

Orangutans and Safari Guides

Now, I get asked a lot of questions, working in this industry. Usually I can answer them all brilliantly, succinctly and accurately. But occasionally one will crop up which absolutely (to coin a revolting phrase) blindsides me. Just like the one I was asked a few weeks ago. I'd been merrily chatting away to a lovely chap who wanted to go to Africa on safari. He'd obviously done his research, talked knowledgeably about going for walks in the bush, the different places he wanted to visit and what he wanted to do when he got there. And then he asked me one of "those" questions. The ones that make you want to splurt with laughter but of course you can't, because there's a client on the phone who will probably get rather irritated with the sound of your giggles down the phone line. So what did he ask, I hear you say. Well here it is.

"How many orangutans will I see in Africa?"

Dear reader, I swear I thought he was kidding. I really did. I mean, having done as much research as he obviously had, and to be as seemingly knowledgeable as I thought he was, I was sure that he was taking the mick. So of course I treated it as a joke. Laughed a little and then said something about the fact that he was such a joker. But unfortunately he wasn't kidding. He was being serious. I'm serious.

Of course, every safari consultant worth their salt has stories of Questions I Have Been Asked - such as "what is the rainy season? Is that when it rains all the time?" and "do I need to bring food to feed the animals?" But this one really took the biscuit (chocolate hob-nob, since you ask). How does one dig oneself out of that one? I know I occasionally have a habit of only opening my mouth to change feet, but surely I can be forgiven for my response to this?

It reminds me of a particular safari I took when I was a mere whippersnapper. We had a superb guide, Marcus, with a weatherbeaten face, copper bangles on his wrists (with the obligatory green stains on his arms), very short shorts, a bush knife that would shame Crocodile Dundee hanging from his belt, and a lion's tooth on a leather thong around his neck. Classic Safari Guide, circa 1985. Being an impressionable teenager, I developed an enormous crush on him and followed him, fawning unashamedly, around his camp. To his credit, he treated this hormone-addled hanger-on with gentleness, even going so far as to whip out his knife to dig a thorn out of my foot (I had the romantic notion of walking round barefoot to impress him. Until I stood on a thorn and squealed like a golfer who's just been hit in the nuts with a golf club). This was true Safari Fever. I had just watched Out of Africa, with the aristocratic Baroness Blixen and the rugged Denys Finch-Hatton. I won't make you nauseous with all the daydreams I conjured up, whilst gazing into the middle distance. Suffice to say I thought he was "well lush", to emulate the vernacular of the day.

But lovely Marcus didn't suffer fools gladly. Which was proved on a rather exciting game drive that we took. I sat next to him in the passenger seat (how obvious was I?) and there were two other guests in the back of the cruiser. We stopped to watch a pride of lion, doing what lions do, which is essentially sleeping and farting. One of the guests leant forward. Marcus leant back, to listen to her. She cleared her throat.

"What time is feeding time?"

Marcus smirked, and cleared his throat. We all waited with bated breath while he considered his response. What nugget of fascinating information was he about to impart?

"Take a walk, and you'll find out".

Remembering Mum

I think it's fair to say that January, as a month, is a tricky one. Christmas is all over and done with, the credit card bills are coming in, it's cold and rainy (and occasionally snowy) and it's the month when we're all hoping that our long overdue Christmas bonus will arrive.

But for me, and for my brothers, January is a particularly poignant month. And a difficult one. January 21st, to be precise. This January 21st marks the eighth anniversary of the death of our mother. Eight whole years. Four hundred and sixteen weeks. Two thousand, nine hundred and twelve days.

Each year that it's come round, I've dreaded it. Not so much the day itself but what it's come to represent. Another year without Mum. Things that were blurry memories suddenly come into sharp focus. I remember clearly when we all came home from the hospital, shell-shocked, wretched and disbelieving. Mum's clothes were still on the bedroom chair where she'd left them, her slippers by the door, her coffee cup on her desk, still with a remnant of coffee at the bottom. I kept that mug for years and years, untouched. I still have her favourite t-shirt, long since divested of her scent.

Mum died, age 54, of complications arising from the influenza virus. Half an hour after I'd brought her a fresh glass of lucozade, I went up to her room to find her, apparently asleep. But she wasn't sleeping. Those minutes that passed between my finding her and the ambulance arriving were the loneliest moments I've ever spent in my entire life. I was wracked with guilt for years afterward because I think I remember shouting at her as I was trying to resuscitate her. But she was gone. It was apparently the most random occurrence, as if God had lined up everyone in Oxfordshire and taken a pot shot.

And now, eight years later, I still remember the little things about Mum. It's a cliche, but she was my best friend. We'd snuggle up on her bed with mugs of hot chocolate and talk about everything. I remember her way of giving little signs - a secret smile, a wink, a quick squeeze of my fingers. I remember the way that she laughed, throwing her head back and clasping her hands. And the way that she stood, always with one foot on tiptoe. It's something I unconsciously do now.

People say that you have to wait two years after the death of a close one to feel even slightly normal again. I'm not sure that's necessarily right. I think rather it comes in fits and starts. One day I can be fine, and then the next I can feel as if I'm at the bottom of a long tunnel, looking up at blackness. Then the next day I'm fine again. It catches you unawares. There's a piece in one of my favourite books, describing a Mother's grief over the death of her daughter. She talks about how she keeps moving, and that way her grief streams out behind her, like a swimmer's long hair in water. It's only when she stops moving that it entangles her, and pulls her down. That struck a real chord with me.

But we move on, and continue to exist, because there is no alternative. I think about Mum every day, and miss her every day. I grieve for my future children, having missed out on knowing the best Granny there could have been. And, I get angry. Very angry. Occasionally with Mum. Of course it is not her fault that she had to leave us, but the fact is, she did. Grief produces all sorts of irrational thoughts, and it's learning how to deal with them that is the grieving process. in the beginning, I was overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers. The man in a blue four wheel drive who found me, hysterical and screaming in our drive while the paramedics worked on Mum, and gently put his arms round me, telling me to just breathe, just breathe. The lady in Waitrose who put down her shopping, took me by the hand and led me gently out of the store when she found me, sobbing and incoherent, in the breakfast aisle, clutching a pot of Mum's favourite marmalade. And all the people who have confided in me their thoughts, their feelings, their grief at the loss of one of their loved ones. Although I am now part of a club I never wanted to join, it's a comfort to know that the other members are so friendly.

So, another year passes. I fight a little harder to keep the memories of Mum fresh in my mind, surround myself with pictures of her, and try to be the person that she'd want me to be. I know I don't succeed all of the time. But as Mum used to say, "it's the fact that you've tried that counts".

And I count myself lucky. For twenty-seven years, I knew a beautiful, strong, sparkling, feisty and brave lady, who I was lucky enough to be able to call Mum. And I would not change that for the world.

The Ballad of the Drunken Honey Badger

Okay, okay, I give in. The pressure's just too much. Here, in all its glory, is the story of the drunken honey badger.

I should perhaps explain first what a honey badger is, shouldn't I? The name sounds lovely - all cuddly and sweet. Honey badger. You imagine a snuggly, cuddly little furry animal with beetle-black eyes, a sweet disposition and big floppy paws, right? Wrong.

Honey badgers are psychotic with a capital P. More vicious than Mike Tyson on acid, harder than Vinnie Jones with a chainsaw and more irritable than me after I've just found a parking ticket on my car. These chaps mean business. They are, for all their ferocity, relatively small - about a metre long, with big claws and very sharp teeth. And a slightly squished nose. Although don't tell them I said that. They live in the wild bush of Africa, and their staple diet is....you've guessed it, honey. But of course in Africa, eating honey is not all about popping down to your local supermarket and buying a jar. Oh no. These chaps rip open bees nests with their bare paws and scoff down the honey then and there. Whilst being stung. Repeatedly. All over. By millions of bees. Are you beginning to get the picture?

But that's not the only thing they do. Legend tells of honey badgers attacking land cruisers, lions, hyenas and even killing buffalo. Don't ask me how they do it. Suffice to say a bull buffalo has a very tender area dangling between his back legs, and honey badgers have very sharp teeth. Nuff said.

So, when we discovered that we had a resident honey badger at my camp, I have to say I was none too pleased. I think my exact words were "we need more ammunition". I was not happy that he'd moved in. So I named him Herbert. Very anthropomorphic, I know. The other resident animals around camp weren't too happy either. For months beforehand, our camp had entertained the wonderfully dimwitted Henry, our resident hyena. Henry was a sweetie. And I say that even though he used to break into my shower (hosepipe in a tree, to be exact) and steal my soap and toothpaste. We would find the bars of soap outside camp with teethmarks and slobber all over them. At least it would freshen his breath! But Henry was harmless. I think goofy would be a good way to describe him. He'd blunder around in our kitchen scullery area looking for scraps, try to get into the kitchen and occasionally wander off with a coolbox in his mouth. We quite liked having him around.

But all this changed when Herbert moved in. Poor Henry got the shock of his life one evening, when, mooching around the kitchen as was his routine, he came round the corner to find a snarling, growling, spitting honey badger. Now I must add here that Henry was about twice the size of Herbert. And hyenas are known for their incredible bite strength - their jaws can crack elephant bones. So what did Henry do? Draw himself up to his full height and growl back? Start squaring up? Nope. He turned tail and ran, whimpering. Such is the fear engendered when a honey badger is around.

So, having Herbert resident in our camp certainly kept us on our toes. Heading into the back of camp to get more ice, or more glasses, we were all on the alert for that raspy growl that signalled that he was around. More than once he chased me right through camp, growling all the way. He was not popular.

So, onto our story. Camp was a simple affair, with a big wooden bar between the trunks of two trees, and a couple of makeshift shelves for all our bottles of gin, vodka, amarula etc. One night, as usual, Herbert came into camp and started ferreting around in the kitchen area. A few days previously, he'd broken into our storecupboard, ripped open all the packets of sugar and flour, pooed on it and then slept in it. When Frances, our chef, opened the door the next morning, a floured, sugared and pooey honey badger hurtled straight between his legs and off into the bush. Poor Frances was so shocked he had to sit down and have a glass of brandy. Given that Herbert made his escape between Frances' legs, and Frances knew about honey badgers and buffalos, I'm not surprised he was a bit shaky. So when Herbert came back, he found the storecupboard door firmly boarded up.

I can only assume what happened next, but I imagine the following: Herbert, thwarted in his quest to make another Honey Badger Mud Pie, then sauntered down to the bar area. I imagine that he climbed up onto the bar, stood on his hind legs and sniffed at the bottles there. I imagine that the Amarula bottle fell down onto the sand, and that Herbert, with his very strong teeth, chewed through the metal cap.

The evidence the next morning was clear: scratch marks on the storecupboard in the kitchen, footprints leading to the bar, footprints on the bar counter and an empty bottle of Amarula behind. Oh, and, not forgetting the unconscious honey badger, lying on his back in an attitude of utter bliss. And snoring loudly.

This presented us with a dilemma. We had guests in camp, and the world's most irritable creature was about to wake up with the world's worst hangover. Nul points for 'elf and safety. It was decided that he must be moved out into the bush to sleep it all off. And there started the second problem of the day. None of the camp staff wanted to go near him, let alone touch him (honey badgers can be very smelly at times. But again, don't tell them I said that.) I tried bribery. I tried threats. I tried stamping my foot. In the end my wonderfully brave scout offered to help but only if he could be at the foot end. I would have to take the head end, close to those needle-sharp teeth. We took up our positions. I grabbed Herbert's front paws, John grabbed his back paws, and together, puffing and panting, we half-dragged, half-carried him off into the bush. About a few hundred yards out of camp (a safe distance, we figured, although our exhaustion may have played a part in the decision) we dumped him unceremoniously under a large tree and went back.

I have to say, I can be quite sentimental sometimes. For even though Herbert was the bane of my life, and terrified me to my very soul when he chased me around camp, I found myself feeling rather concerned about him. Would he ever wake up? Had he drunk so much that it might kill him? Obviously I didn't want that. How would I explain to the park authorities that I'd poisoned a honey badger with a bottle of Amarula? So I kept just wandering out of camp and checking on him. Our guests came back from their morning walk - he was still slumbering. After brunch, I checked again. Still asleep. I went out just before afternoon tea, and he was still blotto. Finally, as we were clearing away afternoon tea and the guests were heading out on their afternoon walk (in the opposite direction, I might add) he started to stir. We watched from a safe distance.

Having staggered to his feet, he then shook his head a few times and growled. Clearly he had a stonker of a headache. He then attempted a few steps. But ended up walking in circles, as if his left legs were shorter than his right. He sat down hard on his haunches a few times, and then wobbled back to his feet, growling all the time. Finally he managed to take a few steps - and walked headlong into the tree that we'd put him under. He jumped back, growled at the tree trunk, and then unsteadily made his way round the tree and off into the bush. We heard his growls getting fainter. Isaac, our camp barman, swears he heard a hiccup.

Poor Herbert! I did feel rather sorry for him. Having never had a hangover before, how must he have felt after an entire bottle of Amarula! He didn't appear in camp at all for the next week, giving Henry a welcome holiday from being snarled at. I actually started to miss him. But then he came back. And let us know in no uncertain terms how grumpy he was at having been poisoned. When we walked into the (animal-proof, or so we thought) kitchen the next day, it had been well and truly Herbetted. I won't describe the carnage. Suffice it to say, Herbert had got his revenge. Well and truly. And as a final "cherry on the top", he'd left his calling card. Not just anywhere though, as you might think. No. He positioned it very carefully, right on top of our booze store.

That's one honey badger that you could end up seeing at an AA meeting.

'Tis the season to remember...

I've had a fantastic Christmas. No, I'm not boasting (well, maybe just a little bit). But it was simply lovely. Snow, mulled wine, an enormous great glistening turkey, wonderful company, lunchtime pub-visits, presents, it was a picture-postcard of how Christmas should be. All this despite the fact that Wonderful Man and I both came down with the Christmas flu bug that's been going round (a perfect excuse for a hot toddy!).

But today I'd like to remember something else. In fact, someone else. My wonderfully eccentric, slightly dotty, larger-than-life Auntie Gwen. Sadly we heard that she'd died of a heart attack early on Boxing Day morning.

It's always hard when someone dies at Christmastime - in the midst of all the celebration, the Christmas cheer, the laughter, there's a sad pause, an emptiness that doesn't dominate but still affects. As Sting rightly puts it, "there's a little black spot on the sun today...."

Auntie Gwen was a character. My first memories of her were trips down to her house on the edge of a huge valley, sitting in her large drawing room with its oil paintings of ducks, making funny shaped bread rolls with her in her oven, climbing the trees in her orchard and shaking the branches so the apples would fall, and playing with her dogs. For Auntie Gwen always had dogs. From Patsy, her horse-sized Newfoundland who I could ride on as a small child, to a huggably soft springer spaniel called Bracken (if memory serves me) to her last dog, an enormous and excitably bouncy labrador cross called Shadow. Auntie Gwen was never without a dog. Legend had it that when she'd adopted a tiny little dog (her one and only small dog) and it bit her, she bit it right back. On the nose.

We loved our visits to her house, scrambling up and down the steep banks of her wild garden, thrashing around with Patsy, fishing in the streams and then climbing the trees to crunch down mouthfuls of teeth-gratingly sharp apples. Patsy taught me one of my first lessons about animals and death - hearing a high pitched cry, I jumped over the wall to see her shaking a rabbit, floppy and broken-necked in her mouth. Rather than being repulsed, we were fascinated.

While we made free with her garden, she would sit for hours in her swinging seat with my mother, their gentle laughter drifting over to where we would be digging up worms, making dams in the stream, or simply making huge piles of shiny apples. She and my mother had a beautiful connection, ever since my mother was a child and would go and stay with Auntie Gwen on her farm. Together they would pick daffodils, feed the calves, walk along the hedgerows, go and say hello to the horses (starting a lifelong love affair with horses for my mother) and spend their days outside in the sun. My mother used to tell us her favourite story about bathtime - Auntie Gwen would station her golden retriever, Goldie, to watch over Mum in the bath. The moment she walked out of the room, Mum would call the dog, who, ever playful, would leap merrily into the bath, splashing water everywhere. When Auntie Gwen came back in with warmed towels, she would find Mum shampooing Goldie's hair, the dog sitting in the bathwater looking utterly blissful.

In later years, Auntie Gwen lived halfway up a remote welsh mountain, overlooking hills and valleys, first with another newfoundland, Bumble (approximately the size of a bear), and then with the inimitable Shadow. A little older, a little more stooped, and maybe a little more dotty, she still replied to my letters faithfully, telling me about Shadow, about the village, the weather. On one memorable occasion when I visited with my brother, she demonstrated her bath-lift to us. Fully clothed, of course but still slightly disconcerting!

Auntie Gwen was the last of the older female generation in our family. I like to think that she's happy somewhere with the rest of her family - her mother (my great-grandmother), her sister (my grandmother), her niece (my mother) and all the other strong and feisty females that make up my ancestors. Probably with a large gin and tonic in her hand.

Auntie Gwen, wherever you are...we salute you.