Weeks Whizzing By

Well! Three weeks since I last posted. Where has the time gone? More importantly, can I remember what has been happening? 

Firstly, wasps. Last weekend Andy noticed some wasp activity by the guttering going into the eaves of the back of the house. 'We never have that trouble at the Manor,' said Mrs Miggins, passing by Damson Cottage on her way to the studio. (She is after securing the lino cutting services of His Lordship Malarkey for the Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Card 2018. Muttered something about 'quality' and 'production lead times.' I muttered something about it being 'Flamin' June' and 'still six months away.' She muttered back something like, 'Shut up, peasant.' Rude.)

Anyway, wasps there were. I had a quick read on T'internet about 'Do we really have to murder wasp guests?' and the overwhelming response was, 'Yes, unless you want your entire garden smothered in wasp nests next year.' Also, I have witnessed first hand what murdering bleeders wasps can be towards honeybees, so on Thursday,  Alex the Wasp Killer arrived, did his do, and the wasps are no more. 

I have been promoted at work! From September. More pastoral stuff. More 'being in charge.' More salary. I shan't say anymore other than, from a professional point of view, this job is the most satisfying I've ever experienced in my teaching career. 

It has been flippin' hot. Up at the Manor, the renegade hens have installed what I can only describe as an Hawaiian luau setting. It started around ten days ago when Daisy, considering her dried up seaweed and open pine cones, declared the imminent arrival of a considerable heatwave. Ergo, in order to stop Les Poulets having to lie spread-chickened on the grass panting like idiots, Measures needed to be Taken. 

Consequently, a pantechnicon lorry type thing arrived and deposited a) two enormous bell tents b) several tonnes of soft, white sand and c) a dozen plastic flamingoes. I thought the flamingoes were unnecessary but with Mrs Pumphrey in charge of décor, well, anything goes. Primrose and Daisy have been traversing the gardens making flower garlands from the mass of roses that are currently flooding the flower beds. My Pimm's jug has mysteriously disappeared. Judging by the late night banjo music and cackling, the hens are having a high old time in the sunny evenings. The washing line is decorated with an assortment of bikinis suggesting a high old time is being had during the sunny days, too. I, however, am not enjoying the heat. I love the sunshine. But oh, puff! The heat. 

We felt the heat yesterday, me and His Lordship. I have a long weekend off work, Andy had holiday booked. We went to Tatton Park in Cheshire. Have you ever been to Tatton Park? It is MASSIVE! We spent all day there, and one of the best things was that because it was a term time Friday, there were very few people there. We visited the farm, the gardens, the mansion. We walked the grounds. We had elevenses, we had lunch, we had ice lollies. We walked 15,000 steps! We were very good about remembering to put on hats and sunblock - Factor 50 a.k.a the Vampire Factor. An all-round marvellous day. 

Bambino Bobble Wilson killed the toaster. There were some flowers in a small vase on the window sill sited just above where the toaster sits on the kitchen worktop. He tried to remove one of the flowers from the vase, the vase toppled and deposited its contents in the toaster and all over the work top. I told Bambino he was a very naughty kitten (sort of) and drained the toaster and left it in the sun all day to dry. Popped in an experimental slice of bread. Toaster toasted for around 15 seconds, produced some smoke, went 'Pfffttt!' And died. Bambino is unrepentant. Still, it has put an end to his toast thief days...

Andy's car has just cost us a 'Cor blimey' amount in servicing, MOTing, new tyre, brake pads, brake discs and exhaust. Ah well...hurrah for job promotions, eh?

I think that is it. I am cracking on with the writing. The writing is moving on apace. Therefore, I am generally in a happy place, which is a relief for all around me! There will be even more writing over the next couple of weeks as there is nothing on the TV to distract me beyond football and tennis, which have never been a distraction.

Phew!

I'm here! I have done no writing this week because Ofsted has been in school and the rule of Ofsted being in school is that you do NOT get to live any part of your normal life for the duration of their visit. You do not sleep, eat properly, get time to drink or pee. You DO get to feel paranoid, an ongoing sense of panic, like you might throw up in your classroom bin at any moment. And despite knowing ABSOLUTELY that you do a good job all the time, you suffer irrational feelings of inadequacy all the while they are in the building and you don't rest until you've had your lesson feedback and can feel assured that, come the last day of the inspection, you aren't going to be handed your P45 on signing out of school. 

(Actually, I am given to understand some education folk do not have these feelings. These folk are known as cocksure bastards who fart sunshine and are covered in silicon i.e nothing unsavoury sticks. I have met a few in my time. They generally get paid more than me for doing far less. Anyway, I digress...)

So, driving home Monday evening I was letting my mind wander over various lesson options. The weather was lovely and I had the car window open. I closed it as I approached Hinstock because there was a pungent 'poo de countryside' thing going on and I gave thanks once again that we didn't buy the house we looked at in Hinstock because there are a lot of 'poo de countryside' incidents there.  His Lordship Malarkey and I celebrated our two year anniversary at Damson Cottage this week, by the way - two years already! 

Anyway, suddenly I had a lesson plan epiphany involving a comparative study of  biscuits and the teaching of GCSE Assessment Objective 3 (or AO3 for those of us in teaching who live by abbreviations). On secondary observation day (Wednesday) I had 5 classes - a GCSE one, and four Key Stage 3, two of which contain bright bunnies whom I've already started doing GCSE with because they could, potentially, be entered a year early. You know, to give it a shot at least. My biscuit lesson, then, could be used for three of the five lessons (differentiated according to group/student ability) and the other two lessons would be covered by the novel 'Wonder' which I have just started reading with them anyway and naturally affords itself to all sorts of singing and dancing malarkey for Ofsted delectation. I was sorted! Aside from the four hours of planning that lay ahead of me that evening, of course. I stopped off at the supermarket, stocked up with biscuits and 'Lesson Plan Biscuit' was launched.

I shan't go into more detail other than to say my observation went spectacularly well and the feedback  from the inspector included the words 'Outstanding' and 'Inspired'. And at the debrief with senior management on the last day the inspector highlighted my 'Biscuit' lesson in the feedback. I am thrilled - with the way my students behaved and engaged with their lessons and how my risk taking paid off. I even allowed myself a small triumphant toot of my trumpet. I know one shouldn't allow oneself to get wound up by these things but I do. I can't help it. I am relieved it is all over. Until next time. 

(And I shall share with you here that, in a mildly militant way, for me at least, I refuse to mark in red pen, which is what we are directed to mark in. I mark in either lime green, purple, pink or turquoise. And do you know what? The inspector made no comment AT ALL about the colours of my marking pens. My marking, according to the feedback, was excellent. In your face, red pen marking!) 

So, normal life service is resumed. I am feeling shattered today - so I am in pottering mode. I pruned the roses this morning because they are in full blossom now and strutting their summer stuff. I even pruned the rose hedge on the front drive; you know, the gorgeous pink one that smells divine but is smothered in vicious bastard thorns. And this afternoon I am going to sit in the courtyard in the sunshine and sort through a mahoosive bin bag of wool that has come my way via a friend at work who has a flock of Jacob sheep. I've always wanted to have a go at processing raw wool. I don't know what I am going to do with it yet - spin it, card it, felt it -  but I do know it needs picking over to get rid of sheepy detritus, and then it needs washing. I have been reading up on it. I am fully in control of the wool processing situation. 

Ha ha!

Banging and Crashing

There is a sharp knocking on the back door of Damson Cottage. It is almost lunch time and I am day-dreaming by the Aga, waiting for the hot plate to heat up some baked beans. Waiting for an Aga hot plate to heat up can be time-consuming but not if you spend that time day-dreaming. And as we all know, time spent day-dreaming is NEVER wasted. Anyway, knocking, back door...where was I? Ah yes...

Mrs Pumphrey is standing in the little courtyard at the back of Damson Cottage. She is wearing a rather stylish shift dress made from a silk blend, I think, but like me, she isn't built for shift dresses. Too hippy, don't you know, and the dress is clinging to all the wrong places. However, I am a tactful soul prone to little white lies to avoid offending a large and hippy white hen, so I compliment her on her choice of frock.

'Beautiful colour,' I say. 'Aquamarine?'

'No,' says Mrs Pumphrey, twirling as best she can in a movement restricting frock. 'Blue. But thank you. I'm testing it out for the races.'

'Ah,' I say. 'Ascot? Cheltenham, maybe? Or Newmarket?'

'Ashby-de-la-Zouche,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'The Chicken Stakes. I'm entered in the Sir Nugget Twizzler Gold Eggcup. Five furlongs. It should be okay if the going is dry. Otherwise I am going to have to find matching wellies.' She takes on a worried look at this point, and I shall leave you with the image of Mrs P racing in a too tight shift dress, because quite frankly the thought of discussing it further makes me feel quite nauseous.


'Can I help you?' I say, aware the beans are beginning to bubble.

'Can you?' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Oh yes...yes, you can. Message from Mrs Miggins. She says, and I quote, 'Go to Damson Cottage and find out what the chuff all that noise is, Gloria. I can't concentrate on the accounts because of all the banging and crashing.'

'Right,' I say. Now, I don't want to shoot the messenger, so to speak, so I hold my tongue from spurting forth the diatribe that immediately comes to mind. I am still smarting over being turfed out of Much Malarkey Manor by the Militant Hen Brigade, but if Damson Cottage is to become my campaign HQ whilst I work out how to get back to my rightful place in the Manor, then so be it. And what I do in Damson Cottage is no-one's business but mine. And Himself Lord Malarkey, of course, because in an act of marital solidarity he has decided to be exiled with me as long as he can still go
back to visit the Doctor Who Exhibition and Reading/DVD room at the Manor. The hens have sold him an annual visitor pass.

I raise myself to my full 5 feet and 6 inches. 'You can tell Mrs Miggins,' I say. 'To shove her accounts up her pinny and put on a pair of industrial earmuffs.'

There is a moment of silence. 'Right,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Maybe I'll text her.'

'She hasn't got a mobile phone!' I shout, as Mrs Pumphrey potters off, head bent over her i-phone Eggs (!). I sigh, and start scraping the beans from the bottom of the pan onto toast.

The banging and crashing has come from me and Lord Malarkey shifting furniture around upstairs which has resulted in the additional activity of having a bit of a turf out. We have three bedrooms here. Our bedroom, which has a nice big walk-in wardrobe, then the front bedroom which has a double bed and become the 'guest bedroom' and the back bedroom which was an office space before the garden studio arrived, and then it became what is commonly termed 'a dumping ground.' It is also the room where the put-you-up bed and the foam-chair-that-turns-into-a-bed are set up when the granddaughters visit. It is an okay situation, short term, but it is not what I envisioned for my granddaughters.

This is the plan, then. This made all the banging and crashing. The wood bed frame from the double bed in the front bedroom was moved to our bedroom and our mattress put on top. The divan frame from our bedroom was moved from our bedroom into the back bedroom, but before that the tat from the back bedroom had to be moved into the now empty front bedroom. The guest mattress has gone on our divan in the back bedroom which now has a double bed in it available for immediate guest use.

This leaves the front bedroom available to be turned into 'The Granddaughters' Bedroom.' I have sourced a triple bunk i.e it has a double bed on the bottom and a single on top. After VERY careful measuring, we have decided it WILL fit. Once it is in situ, we shall be able to accommodate 5 guests in proper beds! I am thinking the Mitchell brothers, Al Capone and the Kray twins to help me
over throw the M.H.B. Lord Malarkey says absolutely not. Spoilsport.

I also have space to decorate the front bedroom which is now mostly empty. And get a new carpet. Before the bunk arrives. Which will be a source of more banging, crashing and high jinx as it is a build it yourself jobbie. So by the time the girls come up for a holiday, they'll have a properly done out bedroom to stay in. I am already getting excited about colour charts and bedding and curtains and stuff.

The furniture shift has also required some rearranging and shifting of books. We have managed to wave goodbye to 73 books today which has caused Lord Malarkey more stress than it has caused me. But it is progress. It has been a good day.

The Dawn of a New Era

I have been summoned by the hens to Cluckingham Palace for a conference. This is an inconvenience to me because for the past hour and a half I have been embroiled in a battle with Google trying to convince them that I do exist and  I am who I say I am and it is they who are being awkward and not me, despite my own previous and extensive history of awkwardness.

Cluckingham Palace is situated at the top end of the grounds of Much Malarkey Manor and is full of various hens in a variety of forms, namely 1)alive and kicking and 2)the equally lively and kicking spirits of Hens That Have Gone Before. It is useful to have spirit hens available for the purpose of the annual Much Malarkey Manor Christmas Story, but for the rest of the year they are a right royal pain in the Harris tweed. I sigh, then, when the voice of Mrs Miggins comes floating through the ether via the two tin cans and bit of string contraption she has strung up because she doesn't believe in the land line telephone, let alone mobiles which, she insists, are well documented for frying your brains cells off at an alarming rate.

'We need to see you immediately,' she informs me, when I walk up the garden to see what is occurring because all I am getting from my tin can is a load of tugging and the distant sound of Mrs Poo on her megaphone (the one she takes on Left-Wing rallies) shouting, 'She won't hear you on THAT, Laetitia. What you need is a MEGAPHONE!'

'And here I am,' I say.

Mrs Miggins glares triumphantly at Mrs Poo. 'You see,' she says. 'She heard me well enough without all the shouting.'

'Coincidence,' retorts Mrs Poo. 'Pure coincidence.'

'Well,' I say, 'regardless of how I got here, I am here. Now, what do you want? I am rather busy as it happens.'

'We need to have a conference,' says Mrs Miggins. 'About the Manor.'

'What about the Manor?' I say.

'I said, a conference,' says Miggins. 'One does not hold a conference on one's doorstep. One holds a conference in a conference room with interactive whiteboards, flip charts, laser pointers and a selection of Danish pastries and decaff coffee. And an agenda. And standing on the doorstep is definitely not on my agenda. Please,' she continues, 'do come in.'

I enter the small hall of Cluckingham Palace. I have to point out at this point that the word 'palace' is an exaggeration because it is actually a small summer house where the hens choose to hide away when they are up to something, usually nefarious. Anyway, in I go and am immediately accosted by Mrs Slocombe. 'Your conference badge,' she says, attaching to my person an oblong piece of cardboard with the word 'DELIGAT' printed in orange crayon. 'Please sign in,' she says, pointing at her clipboard upon which is a piece of paper. I can see already the other hens have signed in - Mrs Bennet, Mrs Miggins, Mrs Slocombe, Mrs Pumphrey, Mrs Poo, Primrose, Daisy, Camilla, Nora, Nancy and Nellie. My immediate thought is that I stand no chance against eleven hens.

In the main room, okay, the only room of the summer house the hens are sitting around an oval table chatting excitedly which immediately raises my suspicion. It is possible there had been a pile of Danish pastries on offer but now there are only crumbs and a lone chocolate chip which hints at the once presence of a pain au chocolate. Mrs Pumphrey is bouncing up and down on her chair, hinting at the fact she has smuggled in full strength coffee. She has the decency to shoot me a look of guilt - she knows I have expressly forbidden her to drink proper coffee for reasons I am too embarrassed to regale now.

I sit in the one remaining chair. On the table in front of me there is an agenda. Under the heading 'Apologies' it reads, 'Never apologise for anything.' Under the heading 'Business' it reads, '1)The future of Much Malarkey Manor. 2) There is no other business.'

'Well,' I say, leaning back. 'This is at least going to be succinct.'

Mrs Miggins is sitting at the top of the table. She bangs a gavel. 'ORDER!' she shouts. And, to my surprise, because I've never been able to do it, she brings the whole table of clucking hens to silence.

'We are hear today to discuss plans for the future of Much Malarkey Manor,' she begins. 'As you know the Manor is approaching its 10th birthday...'

At this point the hens erupt into cheers, whoops and stomping of  feet. Mrs Miggins bangs her gavel.

'And we feel it is time to move on with the future of the Manor, to bring it up-to-date, make it more fitting and relevant to the 21st century,' she continues. And then she gives me a bit of a look. A look which sends an uneasy chill up my spine. (Down my spine? Which way exactly does a chill run?)

'I have a sense of foreboding,' I say.

'Hmmm...' says Mrs Miggins. 'More a sense of aboding, I'd say.'

'Aboding?' I say.

'Yes,' says Miggins. 'In that you are going to be re-aboded. From the Manor. Into something more...er...suitable for your ageing personage...'

'My WHAT??' I say, nay splutter.

'We just feel,' says Mrs Miggins, 'that the running of the Manor should pass into the wings, I mean, hands of someone younger, more vibrant, more in the know of contemporary modes and trends...'

'Don't give me all that,' I say, rising to my feet. 'I have managed the Manor perfectly well all these years...'

'We don't doubt that,' says Miggins. 'And you shall continue to input into the running of the Manor in your own quaint and increasingly senile way but...'

'Senile??? Most of you are DEAD!' I say.

'That,' says Mrs Miggins, frostily, 'is neither here nor there. Anyway, we've had a vote and the result is 11 against 1, you lose. Mrs Pumphrey, please escort Lady Malarkey to her new abode. Conference closed. Thank you for attending. Everyone to the Ballcock and Plunger for pina coladas at noon.'

And that, dear readers, is how I find myself ensconced in a small cottage on the Much Malarkey Manor estate. It is called Damson Cottage and is, I admit, perfectly delightful if in need of some decorating. On the way, Mrs Pumphrey suggests I could write about my adventures there. 'You could call it Damson Cottage Capers,' she says.

'A caper is an edible flower bud the size of a peppercorn,' I say. Which is about how small I feel.

'Really?' says Mrs Pumphrey, pausing at the door of Damson Cottage. 'I thought it was a type of sausage.'

'Hardly suitable for a vegetarian person, then,' I point out.

'I suppose not,' says Pumphrey. 'Are you coming for pina coladas?'

'Probably not,' I say.