Betrothed

 

There's alot of things that I dont know.
I didn't know until last week that gay marriage was "legal" in the UK from midnight tonight.
I didn't know that the word fiancée only referred to the bride-to-be and not the groom!
(I only learnt this one out at 6.00am this morning after Chris was bellowing
" there's a sloppy turd on the living room carpet!" 
and I answered with a rather pathetic
" what a charming thing to shout at your fiancée so early in a morning "

Funny what you find out when you look for it.

For a couple that have been blundering through their second decade together, getting "hitched" was always on the cards at some stage in our lives. .I just had to come to the conclusion that it was up to me to "organise"
Everyone has their own roles in a relationship
and I am the "organiser" at home
I am bred for the role as I love making out lists.

So the date and venue for the ceremony with close friends and family has been booked.
(It will a long awaited delight for both our families to get together at one time) and my sisters and sister in law have been squealing a great deal about hat wearing and will be conscripted to help organise some of a bigger bash in the village on the following day.
A gay civil marriage party in the Memorial Hall eh?
That wil be a first for Trelawnyd!
Anyhow dear readers, you won't hear too much about the nuptuals for a while. All the fine tuning bits need tweaking, overtime shifts need booking and winifred needs a drastic bout at weightwatchers before she can fit into that bridesmaid dress I bought for her last year, Suffice to say, the day has been set!

And do you know what?
Despite the vagaries of living with a man who bellows about stools on the living room carpet at some ungodly hour in the morning.
Getting Married is the perfectly right thing to do!
I would never have contemplated it with anyone else 

The Flower Show Shuffle

The Flower Show will be in its 42nd year this year. For most of those years the formidable Sylvia Evans was at the helm...running things with a rod of iron and a blood pressure through the roof. Last year Sylvia's niece rolled up her sleeves and helped out literally days after Sylvia's funeral, but she has now left the village, so the flower show is without a Secretary and  as these things tend to happen all together also now without a treasurer.
Last night we had an emergency meeting in Auntie Glad's kitchen.
Emergency scones had been baked for the occasion.
The treasurer position was filled easily enough, but as I suspected no one wanted the much harder and time consuming role of secretary. Sylvia's size 10 sling backs are big shoes to fill.
Anyhow, the upshot of the meeting is that I will now take on the secretary's role, and I have five bags of " Flower  Show" paperwork on the lounge floor to prove it.
42 years of tradition in five bags.
The committee agreed that we would purchase a quality silver trophy as one of the new prizes and it will be named The Sylvia Evans Memorial Cup. We also agreed that we would fund two new benches for the village green. The old ones have been rotting away for a while.
In my first job as Secretary, I have emailed the community council with the offer.
The meeting , finished as it always has done, with half the committee washing up the tea cups and the other half returning auntie Glad's old wooden chairs to the front room.
As always I thanked Gladys for her hospitality
And as always she replied with the same phrase
" don't thank me....thank The Lord"

Now for f@€#'s sake

I am two off 700 followers
Someone join in
I want some balance
X

Fatherhood

Yesterday one of the Dads on the school run stopped me when I was returning back to the cottage after egg delivering. I know him to wave to but I don't know his name. He told me that his son was unwell at home and could he bring him to the field to feed the birds for a bit of fresh air.
Of course I said that he could.
This morning I noticed the pair out on the field.They were feeding the sheep with cheap white bread and both were laughing as both ewes stamped the ground with their forefeet, impatient with the rate at which the slices were coming.

Suddenly I was transported back to a cold Sunday afternoon when I was around ten.
It was a bittersweet memory of sorts
It was the day my father, uncharacteristically asked me to go nature watching with him.
Now, my parents never ever really took us kids out at weekends, it wasn't on their radar to do such a thing, and so I was surprised, nervous and rather excited at the prospect.
Ten Year old boys adore any chance of poking around amid badger setts!

We drove out of town, to a large house set in its own land and small wood. I remember it was icy and there was a carpet of brown horse chestnut leaves on the ground.
We got out of the car and my father gestured towards the trees
" off you go.. I'll meet you later, I'm just going to see my friend"
I didn't realise that his friend owned the house.
The sadness and disappointment I felt on that Sunday afternoon remains with me to this day.
and I remembered it so well, when I watched father and son feeding the sheep
My father didn't mean to be in anyway cruel
He thought the offer of a nature walk, albeit one alone was appropriate.
He thought I would have great fun,
while he chatted to his mate over a small warming whiskey

to do..............

This morning I sat down at the kitchen table and made a list of all of those jobs I have been meaning to do but havent quite got around to sorting

Sort out broken immersion heater
Chit Potatos and sort onion sets for planting

Book afternoon tea at Bodysgallen Hall for Chris' Birthday
Book a nice restaurant  for when Sorrel visits.
Find a local to lock the birds up on Friday ( we are off to the theatre to see Priscilla!!)
Dog Insurance for Winifred,
Price up new toilet bowls ( remember Albert chipped the bog after running into the bathroom with a rat!)
AND ITS STARTED TO LEAK WHEN YOU FLUSH!
Organise a trip for us to go to sheffield for a friend's 50th
look at venues and dates for our civil partnership!

I think I have almost ticked everything off!!!!!!
tee hee

Sleep Well

Nil Of Note

In my mind there has always been too much waffle when writing official nursing records.
In my mind you write the important and leave out the dross.
One of my most favourite comments in the nursing kardex
Is " nil of note to report"
It's a phrase that covers a multitude of sins

Today, I have nil of note to report.
Ok, I have pottered about clearing bosoms for a while,
Ok, I slipped down the stairs zipping up my pants and squirted myself in the face with some lurid dettol bleach cleanser
( I was stupidly carrying the bottle in my mouth)
and I have spent a particular revolting half hour cleaning the arse of an egg bound chicken before I could pop the egg out with a bit of Vaseline .
Some days are " nothing" days aren't they?
I've made supper.
Tried to Marshal the troops for an emergency flower show meeting on Wednesday night ( we've lost our acting secretary)
and spent an entertaining few minutes hearing all about animal helper Pat's Hawaiian holiday!
It's been cold but bright today
Even the weather has been nil of note to report.

When a duck goes bad!

The surviving ducks ( from right to left)
Hersel,Carol,Polenta,Maggie,Michonne, Sophia  and Beth)

Yesterday, it was with a very heavy heart that I culled one of my original runner ducks. Dale had been with me for a few years before he was bought by a chap over on Dyserth hill as a companion for his single Muscovy. Around six months later the chap brought Dale back stating that the Muscovy had mysteriously died under " odd circumstances" and could I re home the runner.
Looking back at the facts, I suspect this was the start of Dale's murderous career, but I overlooked the odd attack on a weak hen or the over zealous " beaking" of one of the other drakes, putting it down to hormones.
The truth, however, was just a little more unsavory
Dale was a serial killer.
Like Miss Marple, in sleepy St Mary Meade, I started to put the clues together.
An old buff Orpington with her feathers pulled out.
A bloody headed female runner called Maggie hiding away by herself in the stream too frightened to join the rest of the ducks
And only yesterday the frantic calls of Jo the goose as she was cornered and attacked by something which turned out not to be any larger than an average wine bottle had me running from the cottage clutching a broom.
It was then when I caught Dale pecking at all and sundry.
A murderous look in his eyes
Bang to rights.
Guilty as charged.
And ten minutes later dead as a dodo.
The bad seed needed removing
Oh lord....perhaps I am watching a little too much Walking Dead?