Off to the land of the ice and snow. And elks and enormous moon mountains, glaciers, lakes and trees. Icicles, footprints in powdery snow, clear skies and clean, clean, cold air that bites at your chest and makes crystals when you breathe. Wonderful.
We are off to Sweden, just for a flying visit. Long a favourite of mine and of Wonderful Man's, he actually lived in Stockholm for a year or so, long enough to learn a bit of Swedish and develop an appetite for sild, or swedish herring. We're off to visit friends who live north of Uppsala, in a tiny village on the edge of a forest where bears can sometimes be seen. We will drink hot glogg with almonds and raisins, eat cinnamon buns and talk long into the night huddled round a fire with the cold, blue snow outside.
I plan on bringing my moon boots and making snow angels. Wonderful Man is bringing his camera as the conditions look good for our elusive friends, the Northern Lights. Maybe we will be outside at midnight watching the sky dance with a bottle of whisky like we did in Iceland last year? Who knows. But I can't wait to find out.
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Untitled
It’s a bad old day.
It’s a bad old sad old day.
It’s one of those days where everything starts normal. Sunlight blinking through curtains, the clatter of teaspoon on mug, strong strong tea with its metallic taste, shuffle bump on the tube, reading that free paper but not really reading it, blinking in sunshine on the way to work. Normal.
And then the news comes. Said with salty splashed eyes, as we listened. And everyone went silent. People held on to each other, went to drink cups of coffee big enough to swim laps in, a tot of whisky. Nobody really knows what to do or say. The radio is blaring, it’s the only noise here. Today is sad sad sad.
Hearts go out to those left, bereft.
Memories pop in unbidden. Our house, quiet and closed, after another such senseless death. Sitting watching the early evening gloom. I went up to the fields for days afterwards, burying my face in the neck of any horse which would stand still long enough.
Safari njema to a special and wise man. You’ll be missed.
It’s a bad old sad old day.
It’s one of those days where everything starts normal. Sunlight blinking through curtains, the clatter of teaspoon on mug, strong strong tea with its metallic taste, shuffle bump on the tube, reading that free paper but not really reading it, blinking in sunshine on the way to work. Normal.
And then the news comes. Said with salty splashed eyes, as we listened. And everyone went silent. People held on to each other, went to drink cups of coffee big enough to swim laps in, a tot of whisky. Nobody really knows what to do or say. The radio is blaring, it’s the only noise here. Today is sad sad sad.
Hearts go out to those left, bereft.
Memories pop in unbidden. Our house, quiet and closed, after another such senseless death. Sitting watching the early evening gloom. I went up to the fields for days afterwards, burying my face in the neck of any horse which would stand still long enough.
Safari njema to a special and wise man. You’ll be missed.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
I'm excited....
....because rather than posting my christmas cards (which, despite Wonderful Man's protestations, WE ARE SENDING THIS YEAR), I've been to the post office to post my application to study my next uni course.
Shakespeare: Text and Performance.
I'm so excited!
It starts in February, and we will be studying nine of Shakespeare's plays. Eight of which I've read and know well! It will be like welcoming old friends back.
Years and years ago, I studied drama in Shakespeare's hometown of Stratford upon Avon. Wonderful fun, and as a finale we were allowed to tread the boards of the mighty RSC (now re-done and even more spankingly brilliant) in a set of performances of bits of Shakespeare plays.
We also did our own plays, including Agamemnon, combining the floral Aeschylus version with the raw, brutal Steven Berkoff re-write. I remember particularly clearly one scene, with my parents in the front row. I was playing the part of Clytemnestra, Agamemnon's wife. Agamemnon angered the goddess Artemis who stopped his boats from sailing so, to appease her, he sacrifices their daughter, Iphigenia in a particularly bloody scene. As she lay on the sacrificial stone, I was to do a soliloquy over her body, while a bucket of fake blood (a mix of coffee, beetroot juice, red food colouring, water and flour) poured over the top of both of us. Very suitably gory and Carrie-like (I think that's where we got the idea).
What I didn't realise was that I was performing, as were all the cast, in a thin white cotton dress. And what happens to thin white cotton dresses when they are drenched? You got it.
Suffice to say, when I looked up from my soliloquy, dripping, into the front row, my parents' faces were, to say the least, a bit shocked. Afterwards, buzzing with adrenaline after a good performance, and red raw from scrubbing off all the stage blood (BOY does that stuff stain if you don't scrub it off quickly) I asked them what they thought.
"Lovely darling, simply lovely!" gushed my wonderful mother, a huge smile on her face.
"Umm, yes, well. Very good. Quite." said my father.
Now of course, these days, this kind of thing doesn't matter. I watched a wonderful version of King Lear with full frontal nudity from no less than Ian Holm. And who hasn't seen Daniel Radcliffe (aka Harry Potter) prancing around on stage in Equus with his bits dangling around?
But back in 1994, when "woman-shows-ankle-to-chimney-sweep-shock" was a regular headline, I certainly turned heads. Needless to say, I have no theatrical aspirations with this new course.
And even if I did, I doubt my father would allow it.
Shakespeare: Text and Performance.
I'm so excited!
It starts in February, and we will be studying nine of Shakespeare's plays. Eight of which I've read and know well! It will be like welcoming old friends back.
Years and years ago, I studied drama in Shakespeare's hometown of Stratford upon Avon. Wonderful fun, and as a finale we were allowed to tread the boards of the mighty RSC (now re-done and even more spankingly brilliant) in a set of performances of bits of Shakespeare plays.
We also did our own plays, including Agamemnon, combining the floral Aeschylus version with the raw, brutal Steven Berkoff re-write. I remember particularly clearly one scene, with my parents in the front row. I was playing the part of Clytemnestra, Agamemnon's wife. Agamemnon angered the goddess Artemis who stopped his boats from sailing so, to appease her, he sacrifices their daughter, Iphigenia in a particularly bloody scene. As she lay on the sacrificial stone, I was to do a soliloquy over her body, while a bucket of fake blood (a mix of coffee, beetroot juice, red food colouring, water and flour) poured over the top of both of us. Very suitably gory and Carrie-like (I think that's where we got the idea).
What I didn't realise was that I was performing, as were all the cast, in a thin white cotton dress. And what happens to thin white cotton dresses when they are drenched? You got it.
Suffice to say, when I looked up from my soliloquy, dripping, into the front row, my parents' faces were, to say the least, a bit shocked. Afterwards, buzzing with adrenaline after a good performance, and red raw from scrubbing off all the stage blood (BOY does that stuff stain if you don't scrub it off quickly) I asked them what they thought.
"Lovely darling, simply lovely!" gushed my wonderful mother, a huge smile on her face.
"Umm, yes, well. Very good. Quite." said my father.
Now of course, these days, this kind of thing doesn't matter. I watched a wonderful version of King Lear with full frontal nudity from no less than Ian Holm. And who hasn't seen Daniel Radcliffe (aka Harry Potter) prancing around on stage in Equus with his bits dangling around?
But back in 1994, when "woman-shows-ankle-to-chimney-sweep-shock" was a regular headline, I certainly turned heads. Needless to say, I have no theatrical aspirations with this new course.
And even if I did, I doubt my father would allow it.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Malawi dreamings
Tomorrow I jump on a plane for Malawi, the first time since 2007. I can't wait.
A tiny scrap of a country in the grand scheme of things, Malawi has the biggest heart. And an enormous, freshwater, sparklingly clear lake. Into which I will leap, and splash and snorkel, finding all the brightly coloured little fish who swim up to my mask, blowing kisses through the water. Last time, I celebrated my birthday on the beach, eating freshly caught chambo fish in the middle of a circle of baobabs, the crescent moon above. And the next day we dived, deeper than I have ever dived before, circumnavigating a tiny island, exploring the drop-offs, swimming through boulder-encrusted tunnels, peering into cracks to find enormous, silky-black barbel fish with their wide staring eyes. I glanced at my depth gauge at one stage and we were just below twenty-eight metres, the surface of the water too far to be seen. Amazing.
But this time I probably won't dive, I'm not sure if there will be time as it's a whistle-stop tour. There will be time for snorkelling, I'm told - in the shallows, the water so clear it's almost not there, and little shiny cichlids darting through the blue.
We're also heading up to the north, the wild Nyika Plateau - seven thousand feet above sea level, like the remote places of Scotland with wildlife - herds of eland and zebra, and the occasional leopard hiding amongst the rocky kopjes. But it's the scent of Nyika which brings me right back - the whole plateau is dotted with pine forests which, in the early evening, cascade their fresh, greeny scent downwards. Utterly evocative, the first time I visited I filled the bottom of my suitcase with fallen pineneedles, wanting to take the scent home with me. To this day, there is a faint aroma of the pines when I open my suitcase. Nyika is so changeable that even in October, the hottest month in Malawi, up on the plateau the fires are still lit.
So until my return, may all your days be scented with pine needles, and all your nights be painted with firelight.
A tiny scrap of a country in the grand scheme of things, Malawi has the biggest heart. And an enormous, freshwater, sparklingly clear lake. Into which I will leap, and splash and snorkel, finding all the brightly coloured little fish who swim up to my mask, blowing kisses through the water. Last time, I celebrated my birthday on the beach, eating freshly caught chambo fish in the middle of a circle of baobabs, the crescent moon above. And the next day we dived, deeper than I have ever dived before, circumnavigating a tiny island, exploring the drop-offs, swimming through boulder-encrusted tunnels, peering into cracks to find enormous, silky-black barbel fish with their wide staring eyes. I glanced at my depth gauge at one stage and we were just below twenty-eight metres, the surface of the water too far to be seen. Amazing.
But this time I probably won't dive, I'm not sure if there will be time as it's a whistle-stop tour. There will be time for snorkelling, I'm told - in the shallows, the water so clear it's almost not there, and little shiny cichlids darting through the blue.
We're also heading up to the north, the wild Nyika Plateau - seven thousand feet above sea level, like the remote places of Scotland with wildlife - herds of eland and zebra, and the occasional leopard hiding amongst the rocky kopjes. But it's the scent of Nyika which brings me right back - the whole plateau is dotted with pine forests which, in the early evening, cascade their fresh, greeny scent downwards. Utterly evocative, the first time I visited I filled the bottom of my suitcase with fallen pineneedles, wanting to take the scent home with me. To this day, there is a faint aroma of the pines when I open my suitcase. Nyika is so changeable that even in October, the hottest month in Malawi, up on the plateau the fires are still lit.
So until my return, may all your days be scented with pine needles, and all your nights be painted with firelight.
Monday, 18 October 2010
My new favourite bird is a Puffin
I think it's fair to say I've seen a good number of birds in my time. Everything from the sparkly, flying jewels that are white-fronted bee-eaters, to the hunched undertaker shapes of vultures, to the amazing sight (and sound...and smell!) of well over one thousand yellow-billed storks at their nesting site. Even the aptly named Shoebill, which resides in a boggy swampland in northern Zambia and is the holy grail of many birders. Okay, okay, admittedly we saw it from two hundred yards away and at the first sight of us it took off and circled before disappearing into the beyond. But I saw it. Okay? I honestly did. Doesn't matter if it was nothing but a grey dot, I saw it. Not that I'm being definite about this, mind. But I SAW IT.
Anyway - I have seen lots and lots of birds on my various travels round the world.
But it took a four hour drive, followed by a ten minute boat ride, to really make me fall in love. Let me explain.
The teeny tiny island of Skomer is right on the southernmost, westernmost coast of Wales. Wonderful Man and I, given we were both on Gardening Leave (but let's not talk about Gardening Leave), had decided to take a trip - and he was desperate to show me the puffins. "You'll love them, Dills, honestly. They're the most brilliant birds ever." Really? Brillianter than a fish eagle in flight, than a Pel's fishing owl in mid-screech, than the iridescent shininess of a sunbird? Well, in a word, yes. They were.
We drove down to Wales in my stuttering Optimus Prime (more on his demise later) and stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast surrounded by fields of sheep. The village where we stayed, Marloes, had one pub, one restaurant, one church and was only four miles away from Martin's Haven, from where the boats departed.
And so it was that we found ourselves, queuing with a lot of other visitors brandishing binoculars and cameras, waiting to get on to the little fishing boat which would take us across to Skomer. I was a tad nervous. I'm not good at travel in boats or in planes at the best of times and the boat looked really quite small. Rather like a volkswagen beetle with a rudder. Wonderful Man was, well, wonderful, and kept reassuring me that we weren't going to hit rocks and sink, or tip over with the waves, that it was a lovely flat calm sea and that I'd really enjoy the ride. My fingernail marks in his hands slowly faded.
Off we set, put-putting our way out to the island, and, as he nearly always is, Wonderful Man was right. The ride was smooth and only took ten minutes. We walked up about ten million steps and were then let loose on Skomer. What an amazing place.
Criss-crossed by pathways, with a wild and desolate look, the island has no trees and is tiny, walkable in two hours. We set off for the far side, where we'd been told there was a puffin wheel. A puffin wheel? Yes, indeed. A puffin wheel is a formation of puffins in the sky, as they come in to land - much like the planes that circle London as they wait their turn to land at Heathrow.
The sight of a puffin landing is utterly comical. Let me try and describe it. In comes your puffin, looking rather streamlined, with his wings back. And then all of sudden, his wings flap out, his bright red feet shoot out to the side, and he lands, or rather tumbles over end upon end before coming to an undignified stop in a bit of a heap. He then gets up, shakes himself down as if to say "I meant to do that" and waddles off. Yes, waddles. That's another thing that they do.
I had positioned myself on the path, very close to the burrows that the puffins live in. Very quietly and carefully I'd found a burrow which had a puffin in it. Every few seconds, he'd emerge, fix me with a beady eye, and waddle off to a tump which had a bit of nesting material on it. He'd gather up a bit in his beak, and then make his way back into the burrow. Each time bending down to make sure he didn't bump his head. And each time he went back into his burrow I'd move forward a few inches. Out he'd come again (mind your head now) and fix me with a look, before gathering fluff again and disappearing back. I have to say it was utterly mesmerising. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. So much so that I sat there for nearly two hours. Never mind that the puffin probably had so much nesting material in his nest that he'd never see the back of it, but I was utterly transfixed. So much so that when Wonderful Man, fresh from taking approximately 500 photographs, gently suggested that we move away and have our packed lunch, I had to be prised off the path.
We then moved to a different area called The Wick, a massive, almost sheer cliff dotted with nesting seabirds - we saw manx shearwaters, razorbills, fulmars, kittiwakes and guillemots in incredible numbers - the fulmars with their bright white heads peeking out like chinks of light in the rock. Around the Wick there is a natural amphitheatre of curving rock which drops almost vertically down to the sea, creating a closely walled inlet, from where the puffins rise like phoenixes before coming in to land. It's an incredible sight.
And to make it even more beautiful, May, when we visited, is bluebell time. Swathes of blue and purple greeted us as we made our way on the little paths that criss-cross the island (to keep us away from the puffin burrows. Puffins don't like it when a hiking-booted foot descends into their burrows so the rule is enforced strictly to keep to the paths.)
Each corner we turned, there was something else to see - from the puffin wheel to the great black-backed gulls, each the size of a Tower of London raven. We had to be careful around these as they had a habit, a la Hitchcock's The Birds, of swooping down and pecking. The trick is to hold something above your head that you don't mind them having a go at. Hence one corner of Skomer Island is perpetually full of walkers holding newspapers, maps, rucksacks and even hats on walking sticks above their heads. And I thought the sight of a puffin coming in to land was funny!
If you have any sort of interest at all in birds, birding, the natural world or just looking at lovely things, visit Skomer Island. You'll leave with a huge smile on your face (and probably a bit of bird poo on your shoulder).
Anyway - I have seen lots and lots of birds on my various travels round the world.
But it took a four hour drive, followed by a ten minute boat ride, to really make me fall in love. Let me explain.
The teeny tiny island of Skomer is right on the southernmost, westernmost coast of Wales. Wonderful Man and I, given we were both on Gardening Leave (but let's not talk about Gardening Leave), had decided to take a trip - and he was desperate to show me the puffins. "You'll love them, Dills, honestly. They're the most brilliant birds ever." Really? Brillianter than a fish eagle in flight, than a Pel's fishing owl in mid-screech, than the iridescent shininess of a sunbird? Well, in a word, yes. They were.
We drove down to Wales in my stuttering Optimus Prime (more on his demise later) and stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast surrounded by fields of sheep. The village where we stayed, Marloes, had one pub, one restaurant, one church and was only four miles away from Martin's Haven, from where the boats departed.
And so it was that we found ourselves, queuing with a lot of other visitors brandishing binoculars and cameras, waiting to get on to the little fishing boat which would take us across to Skomer. I was a tad nervous. I'm not good at travel in boats or in planes at the best of times and the boat looked really quite small. Rather like a volkswagen beetle with a rudder. Wonderful Man was, well, wonderful, and kept reassuring me that we weren't going to hit rocks and sink, or tip over with the waves, that it was a lovely flat calm sea and that I'd really enjoy the ride. My fingernail marks in his hands slowly faded.
Off we set, put-putting our way out to the island, and, as he nearly always is, Wonderful Man was right. The ride was smooth and only took ten minutes. We walked up about ten million steps and were then let loose on Skomer. What an amazing place.
Criss-crossed by pathways, with a wild and desolate look, the island has no trees and is tiny, walkable in two hours. We set off for the far side, where we'd been told there was a puffin wheel. A puffin wheel? Yes, indeed. A puffin wheel is a formation of puffins in the sky, as they come in to land - much like the planes that circle London as they wait their turn to land at Heathrow.
The sight of a puffin landing is utterly comical. Let me try and describe it. In comes your puffin, looking rather streamlined, with his wings back. And then all of sudden, his wings flap out, his bright red feet shoot out to the side, and he lands, or rather tumbles over end upon end before coming to an undignified stop in a bit of a heap. He then gets up, shakes himself down as if to say "I meant to do that" and waddles off. Yes, waddles. That's another thing that they do.
I had positioned myself on the path, very close to the burrows that the puffins live in. Very quietly and carefully I'd found a burrow which had a puffin in it. Every few seconds, he'd emerge, fix me with a beady eye, and waddle off to a tump which had a bit of nesting material on it. He'd gather up a bit in his beak, and then make his way back into the burrow. Each time bending down to make sure he didn't bump his head. And each time he went back into his burrow I'd move forward a few inches. Out he'd come again (mind your head now) and fix me with a look, before gathering fluff again and disappearing back. I have to say it was utterly mesmerising. I couldn't keep my eyes off him. So much so that I sat there for nearly two hours. Never mind that the puffin probably had so much nesting material in his nest that he'd never see the back of it, but I was utterly transfixed. So much so that when Wonderful Man, fresh from taking approximately 500 photographs, gently suggested that we move away and have our packed lunch, I had to be prised off the path.
We then moved to a different area called The Wick, a massive, almost sheer cliff dotted with nesting seabirds - we saw manx shearwaters, razorbills, fulmars, kittiwakes and guillemots in incredible numbers - the fulmars with their bright white heads peeking out like chinks of light in the rock. Around the Wick there is a natural amphitheatre of curving rock which drops almost vertically down to the sea, creating a closely walled inlet, from where the puffins rise like phoenixes before coming in to land. It's an incredible sight.
And to make it even more beautiful, May, when we visited, is bluebell time. Swathes of blue and purple greeted us as we made our way on the little paths that criss-cross the island (to keep us away from the puffin burrows. Puffins don't like it when a hiking-booted foot descends into their burrows so the rule is enforced strictly to keep to the paths.)
Each corner we turned, there was something else to see - from the puffin wheel to the great black-backed gulls, each the size of a Tower of London raven. We had to be careful around these as they had a habit, a la Hitchcock's The Birds, of swooping down and pecking. The trick is to hold something above your head that you don't mind them having a go at. Hence one corner of Skomer Island is perpetually full of walkers holding newspapers, maps, rucksacks and even hats on walking sticks above their heads. And I thought the sight of a puffin coming in to land was funny!
If you have any sort of interest at all in birds, birding, the natural world or just looking at lovely things, visit Skomer Island. You'll leave with a huge smile on your face (and probably a bit of bird poo on your shoulder).
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Who has hijacked my blog?
Hello dear readers -
A plea to all of you - if anyone knows how to get rid of the twitter feed which seems, mysteriously, to have appeared at the top of my blog from someone called Dilly who is based in Singapore, please let me know.
And Dilly from Singapore, if you're reading this - remove your twitter feed from my blog!
Thank you.
A plea to all of you - if anyone knows how to get rid of the twitter feed which seems, mysteriously, to have appeared at the top of my blog from someone called Dilly who is based in Singapore, please let me know.
And Dilly from Singapore, if you're reading this - remove your twitter feed from my blog!
Thank you.
Friday, 28 May 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, 8 May 2010
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...
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...
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
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.
But if I was to ask, "Do elephants play with Golfs?" then the answer would have to be yes.
And here's the proof.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
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.
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.
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