Picked Last For Games

This may surprise many of you, but it was not always the fine figure of a man that stands before you now. oh no.
In school, I was clumsy, uncoordinated and unsporty.
I was average in biology, Welsh, history and at art
Poor at woodwork
And abysmal at physics.
I liked English.
But like I said,
I was shite at all sports.
Suffice to say, I was always left standing against the wall when teams were picked for games.
I was never the very last to be picked , but more often than not, only "hunchback Alan " and "obese Dicko" were waiting to be chosen after a team leader had  reluctantly picked me.

This ritual of " being picked for games" was humiliating and always difficult for a shy eleven year old to cope with . I doubt that it would be allowed now.
Did the experience follow me into adult life?
Well, I think it did......just a little.........
I have never loved team activities since
I always shy away from any situation that could possibly embarrass me in any way

And do you know what....? I cannot abide soddin football.

Shopping

" Oh God.........not another salesperson"

 It's Chris' birthday tomorrow and I haven't bought his birthday gift as yet. Tomorrow I am taking him to Bodysgallen Hall ( below) for a posh afternoon tea, but this afternoon I will have to run the gauntlet of the " nice " shops in Chester to see if I can find something appropriate for a curly moustached academic with a penchant for the finer things in life

For many an afternoon troll in designer bespoke shops would be a delight.
I find the prospect nothing less than excruciating .
This morning I wanted to plant out the rest of my potatoes. (The ground is just warm enough for someone to rest a bare arse in the soil) but I will have to forgo this in order to cobble together an outfit that doesn't quite make me look like the gardener out of Downton Abbey . I don't want the salesperson's of Chester looking at me like the shop owner did to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman
Wish me luck!

Never Again

This morning I rang Eirlys to thank her for looking after the dogs . Last night I left a gift for her and her hubby by the gate to her farm as I know they are early to bed people. After my phone call and on reflection, I think I should have left her a new mop, bucket and industrial sized bottle of disinfectant.
Hey ho.
She let the dogs have the run of the house for the briefest time
In that short moment, all four had opened their bowels, merrily jumped in it and galloped around the farmhouse with gay abandon.
Oh the shame
Eirlys , as usual was incredibly upbeat about it all
" my duvet needed a good clean anyway" she chirped this morning " and it was a good drying day yesterday!"
" did they damage anything else?" I asked weakly
" only  one of my bras" Eirlys said cryptically
I was too ashamed to ask for more details.
Most of the day the dogs had been removed to a nice warm stable, and were as happy as Larry in it, sniffing horsey smells and sleeping in the hay.
Your children always let you down at the wrong times, do they not?

A Big Blue Cock

Well, it was lovely to see my father in law ( to be) in London today. He was cheerful and avuncular as   always, but external factors made the rest of the visit to a rather hot and over crowded capital rather less than totally enjoyable.
First was the tube strike.
This necessitated several forced marches on packed over heated streets and one 10£ aborted taxi ride of 100 yards down a gridlocked Strand.
Second was a piss poor meal grabbed at a pub not far from Charring Cross ( our original lunch booking was at a rather nifty gastro pub in Bloomsbury- owing to the aforementioned tube strike we had to change our plans)
And Third was a disappointingly shite comic version of The Thirty Nine Steps in Piccadilly.
Now some of the production was mildly amusing and inventive, but I had already lost the will to live as soon as a hundred schoolgirls marched into the stalls in front of us, each one clutching a bag of crisps.
I am typing this on the train home. I am sweaty, tired, worried that Eirlys' front room has  been decimated by three terriers and a hormonal bulldog and am irritated  that I have spent far too much in Marks and Spencer's food hall.
Having said all this, it was lovely to see my father in law....and I am grateful ( honest I am......I'm a good girl I am!) for the chance to have a day out.
The highlight of the trip?
Apart from a few hours with my fiancée and FIL doing something different.
It was the fucking big blue cockerel in Trafalgar Square
Cracking

Trelawnyd in Bloom

18 degrees and it feels like summer.

I have been staying close to home most of the day as I have been waiting for my nephew to collect and return the Berlingo. It's having it's pre MOT resurrection 

The whole village seems to have burst into life...literally........ 

With spring flowers and gardening activity going on everywhere.
Apart from the vicar, who seemed to be having a bad day ( I made very sure I didn't officially ask him to open the flower Show) , everyone I met seemed to be bright in mood.
Peter and Val waved energetically at me through their garden sprinkler when I took the dogs for a walk and as I walked down high Street " Gay " Gordon bellowed
" HELLO FLOWER" cheerfully just making himself heard above the din of the council workers who were cutting the village green grass
I took these snaps as I ambled 

Stan & kit 's  garden,one of  the best in the village

The Conservation Group's  flower border outside the church

Pat  Bagguley's garden

Wallflowers on Bron Haul

Bonnie & Clyde

Bonnie & Clyde are alive and living in Trelawnyd

George has now taught Winnie to steal eggs

It's a case of Monkey see,  monkey do

I noticed the pair up to no good over in a patch of nettles and knowing that one of the geese had 

Constructed a make shift nest there, I grabbed the ipad to record what the two

unlikely egg thieves were up to

Virtual Flowers For Tom

Our kitchen table this morning....how very fucking Homes & Gardens?

The garden at Bwthyn y llan, always looks it's best in early May. Cottage flowers such aquilegia, Jews mallow, bluebell and tulip adorn not only the borders but can be found plonked into vases around the living room and kitchen.
It's my favourite part of the year.
Now I posted the above photo for Tom. No, not stone Mason, " Bath" Tom, the rakish imp , celebrity banter expert and scourge of every young pretty barmaid this side of the M1, no, I am sending this virtual bunch of flowers to Angola Tom of
Hippo On The Lawn fame. ( click the word hippo to find the blog)
A day ago I received an email from tom's wife, Marcia stating that Tom had been extremely poorly in hospital. She told me he was improving but was very weak, so I thought ( like you do) that if the old duffer could muster the energy to tap the keyboard on his computer, be may appreciate a " get well soon" token of free welsh flowers .
Having gotten to know tom over the years, I do know that his admission to hospital was a serious affair., after all, this is the man who was recently bitten by an angry puff adder and who dealt with the resulting necrotic foot with a slug of whiskey and a bandaid.
Hats off to the old soldier
They breed them tough in the colonies don't you know?
I tried to type in capital letters, about the risk of infection, the need of IV antibiotics and the probability of septicemia .... He just smiled a lot and attacked the bite with a razor, hot water and a towel.......
Come the zombie apocalypse get behind Thomas.... That's what I say!
So I am sending him our collective best wishes. I know that many blogging enthusiasts in this odd little world here follow Hippo On The Lawn avidly.... And why wouldn't they? The adventures of his adventures in Angola make Auntie Glad's scones look just a little wan
This world is made just a little richer and more interesting with Tom's writing and escapades still in it

Alarm Call

A hormonal turkey, laying hens, a cockerel   a snoring bulldog and night shift