Revenge is a Shit filled plastic bag served warm

The Lane

Like most small lanes in this overcrowded country that we live in, the lane outside the cottage can be used as a bit of a rat run. Generally traffic remains light, but what with the "help" of Sat Navs, which occasionally send large lorries to their doom to the dog leg corner right outside our cottage and business men cutting through  from the A55 on their way to the coastal towns, walking down the lane can be filled with potential danger.

Cwm Road (it's not bit enough to BE a road) up to the village

Last Thursday evening I was surprised by a dirty white 4 x 4 down the lane.I was walking the dogs and had Albert in tow, so effectively non of us had any place to go when it roared around the corner into view.

I pulled the dog leads tight and faced the car in the centre of the road forcing him to stop in a hurry and as Albert squeezed himself up through the hawthorn hedge into the safety of the sheep field, I motioned the driver to reverse up a bit so we could reach a field gateway so he could pass us safely.

Now I know I didn't look very happy,

and I know I made it clear that I thought he was going way too fast for the conditions, 

So feeling like a somewhat combative middle aged old fart I prepared for a bit of a battle

But the driver was not having any of it, he inched forward making me pull the dogs up right up into the hedge side and slid past me, flicking me the "Vs" as he did so.

Unfortunately this is not a rare occurrence, not in today's ill mannered driving world!

Yesterday afternoon, I spied the 4 x 4 again when I was out walking the dogs.

It was empty and parked on the road in a small lay by above the village. There was no sign of the driver or anyone else for that matter and on impulse, I reached into my pocket and jammed a rather full plastic bag full of dog shit on a grill by the windscreen wipers

A childish gesture certainly

A satisfying one..........oh yes.............................

Down the Lane

 I am doing a day shift today which is a bummer as the sun is burning brightly and I would have liked to strim the field, so I need to be off to sort the animals out , but before I go I will leave you with a photo of Sorrel's single chick, my one and only "baby" of 2012

 The chick looks like a hen to me, which is a wonderful bonus....and by tradition I asked a passing egg customer ( this time a couple of walkers) to name her. After some time thinking hard, the walkers suggested Celeste......

So....Celeste it is.......

Michael Nyman - The End of the Affair

I just heard this on Radio 3, just as I was locking up the turkeys
More uplifting than the more famous "Diary of Hate" theme, this music complements the Jordan film magnificently
It's one of my favourite film scores....I had forgotten just how powerful it is
Enjoy

Feel Better Sausages

Last week I bumped into someone from the village that I have always been friendly with.
They were tearful and upset, and talked at length about facing a dreadful time in their life, a change that they were obviously struggling with psychologically and emotionally.
Of course the only real thing that anyone can do to help at times like these is to listen.
Tea, a little sympathy and some non judgemental time can help, there is no rocket science  in that one, but I must say, I always find that a small token of some flowers, a few eggs or a card sometimes go a little way in providing a little extra support when life is just that little bit tough.
This morning I caught sight of my village neighbour, and on the spur of the moment I went back home, collected a few home made sausages from the freezer and called in to drop them off.
At first they seemed a little perplexed when I handed them over
then smiled a little when I  explained ( and I was remembering the story of Eunice and the Mars Bar when I did so) 
"Sausages...they're very good for stress"
"That's a first" they said " feel good sausages eh?"


I know....I know....... I am a "feeder"
ps. note to self.....when looking for an "appropriate" sausage photo on google...DON'T put in the key word as BANGERS

The Twins at 50

"Going Gently? the twins at 50 (note Janet looks younger and somewhat brighter than I)

The Queen has an official and an unofficial birthday celebrations, and so, as it would seem, do my sister and I.
Last night elder sister Ann  and hubby Tim hosted a "Downton Abbey" evening to mark "the twins' 50th"
"I am the only person who was there when you both were born" Ann noted gravely the other day, so to her it was only fitting that she organise a birthday dinner.


The whole family turned up in a varying collection of ball gowns, dinner jackets and in the case of my brother-in-law Ned and myself somewhat strangely in gamekeepers outfits, and sounding almost as loud as your average Italian clan, 18 of us sat down to dinner until the wee small hours

dinner for 18

Leo came to the dinner dressed as a French Spiv

Raindrops keep fallin' on my head

I did feel a little sorry for Chris' brother and his family yesterday
As a Principle of a large Language school he has been unable to take some much needed holiday for quite a while. His first break in ages has been this trip to Wales, where it has proverbially "pissed it down" everyday they have been here !
Yesterday was a real washout for them all and even when they sought solace at the multiplex cinema in Llandudno, some daft twat drove through a huge puddle in the car park, soaking the lot of them.
They all came to ours yesterday afternoon and was just settling down with a hot cuppa, when Chris' brother, who was sat on the floor in the living room, remarked that rain was coming though the ceiling and was splashing him on the head!
Unfortunately, for him, it wasn't rain!
William for some strange reason only known to himself was peeing on the ancient floorboards in our bedroom and the wee had found a small gap through which it had drained quite merrily .
Unlike his son, he is not particularly a doggy person..

Leo

This boy needs a dog!

A Duck In The Dark

At the moment all animal activity is being intently observed by a somewhat excitable eight year old with a dog fixation. Supervising him is just fine as we only have to keep him amused in the early evening , as during they day he and his parents are off roaming the rather wet hills and valleys of North Wales.
Last evening we collected the eggs, I taught Leo how to blow a large goose egg at the kitchen table and  we herded the geese and turkeys back into their houses for the night, a procedure that was not a easy as it sounds as the geese and turkeys are all larger than he is.
When it came to the ducks only seven were seen standing nervously in the dusk light. I have eight ducks. 5 pure bred Indian Runners, a magpie female, 2 half breed Indian Runners and a bog standard drake called Halleh, who, long term readers will remember was a lone ducking that was brought up by Blanche, an over broody hybrid hen, who had a desperate need for babies.
I have found through bitter experience that a ratio of 7 females to one male is more desirable given the fact that drakes in season will shag the arse off every female in sight and will do so without finesse or any delicacy whatsoever..
The ratio of 1 to 7, I have found, will give the females some respite in spring and early summer.

The Ducks facing off a cat in the grass next to last year's Bosoms

The ducks are a constant on the field. The Indian Runners  criss- cross their way through the grass all day long, screaming like teenage girls at a Take That concert as they do so, and all look as though they do bugger all except show off this hysterical part of their somewhat neurotic personalities.
The truth is somewhat different.
The female ducks remain the most prolific eggs layers on the field given their age, and provide an invaluable contribution to the animal care piggy bank by doing so.


Anyhow, like I said, last night at bedtime only seven ducks were standing by their house waiting to be locked away for the night. After a quick head count, I worked out that it was one of the Indian Runner females that was missing, an unfortunate thing, as Runner Ducks go even more hysterical ( if that was at all possible) when they are alone and separated from the flock.
Leo and I looked everywhere. In the pond, in the stream, in the long grass......she was nowhere to be seen and with a heavy heart we locked up the other animals and headed back to the cottage.
As we came back I explained to Leo that she was either sat on some eggs somewhere under a hawthorn bush or she had been snatched by a fox.
He thought about this for a moment, the concentration almost steaming up his glasses


"What you need to do", he said at last, " is to go out when it is very dark and light a candle for her so she will see  it and she will find her way home!"
I said I would see... and we went off to walk the dogs down the lane...


Around 11.30pm , as I was tidying up after our guests had gone, I remembered Leo's advice and took myself out on the field.
I didn't have a candle but a small wind up torch which I shone around the bushes and trees for one last look before bed.
Suddenly, from out of a mass of nettles came the duck, quacking loudly as she galloped forward across the field like an extra from a disaster movie.
I caught her easily and placed her back safely with her chattering flock who were sat quietly in the duck house.


I had to smile to myself and the phrase
"Out of the mouth of babes"
came to mind

The Blitz and Botty Jokes

What with the Jubilee, Operation Dog Snot removal, the arrival of Chris' family and the occasional Intensive Care Shift, I am way, way behind with my chosen blog reading and commenting.
I will endeavour to catch up this evening when the cottage goes quiet and still after the final dog walk of the day and after every soaked animal has been locked up safely for the night.
Last night Chris' brother, sister in law and nephew arrived for dinner.
The dogs braced themselves for the hug- fest that was Leo, and after a somewhat convoluted bedding in introduction boy and dogs ended up all together on the kitchen sofa , where Leo read them all passages from his Scooby-doo annual.

My experience with children is , as you would expect,  rather limited. What I have learnt is that kids will find interest, enjoyment and humour in their own things....things that are often miles away from anything an adult could suggest and offer them........
Mind you toilet humour is always a good starting point when kids need their imaginations pricked....they love bottom jokes!


As a child our Liverpudlian grandparents would tell us amazing stories about the war. The May Blitz in 1941 caused over 2,800 casualties and flattened much of the city  .. but all we children wanted to hear is the story where my gran was "blown off the loo" in the School Shelter during the December Blitz
We were told of the dreadful loss of life in the Durning Road tragedy, where an Edge Hill public shelter suffered a direct hit and 166 people died, but again all we wanted to hear was how My Uncle Jim, who was then around ten years old was rushed to a shelter in a pair of ladies high heel shoes and a chenille curtain when the munitions train exploded!

The wreckage of the Louisa Street Shelter

The story of how my great grandfather died was a very different and sobering story for we children to listen to, for he was killed in the Louisa Street bombing of October 1940., a bombing raid that very nearly killed my grandmother, mother and uncle who were racing towards the shelter that suffered a direct hit at the time.
My grandmother recalled stopping in the road, as the bombs were falling, not knowing whether to run to the Louisa street shelter , where her in laws were taking refuge, or to take the chance to run to the local school which had a reinforced room in which they could hide.
They ran to the school, at the same time as eight people including her father in law, James Samuel Fry was killed in the Louisa Street bombing, a bombing that precipitated the family's flight out of the Liverpool to Wales.
This story always received the goggle-eyed respect and solemnity from her grandchildren that it deserved, and it proved to be a valuable parable and first exploration into the subjects of death for children who had previously had no experience of it...


Having said all that....... the story of how Gran got blasted across the floor with her bloomers around her ankles, still remains a firm favourite of mine  even at 50!
Who said it is only kids that love a good botty joke.