When one annouces with a heightened level of glee that one is now an 8 hen family, one deserves to get a smack in the face from Fate for the sin of being gleeful, and that is exactly what happened on Tuesday when Nora - one of the 'ens - decided to go over the rainbow to chicken heaven. I went on morning hen duty as usual and they all came skipping out as per usual except for Nora who sort of mooched out then plonked herself on the ground and sat there, labouring in her breath. Hello, I thought. And kind of knew that Nora's day had come.
Anyway, vet Andy was summoned. From being an eager participant in the previous morning's bread fight, Nora's comb and generally feathery demeanour seemed fine but behind her still clear eyes was a weary look, a look that said, 'Goodness but it's hard work, this breathing malarkey.' Andy took her to work, x-rayed her, and shortly thereafter she died. Andy said her lungs didn't look right. Having kept hens for 10 years now, I've come to realise that hens, when they decide to die, do so pretty much with little warning, especially these big Light Sussex types. Mrs Pumphrey and Daisy both went quickly and before their third birthday. Perhaps it's the breed? Who knows? Anyway, we are now a 7 hen family....sigh...no more gleefulness...
Bambino Bobble Wilson took it upon himself during the night of Tuesday into Wednesday to dismember the new bath plug I had recently purchased. So recent was the purchase that I had yet to get around to digging out the pinch pliers to unpinch the chain attachment and re-pinch it around the thingy doo-dah on the bath so it became 'as one' with the tub so to speak. Fate decided to teach me a lesson about being lackadaisical regarding promptness in performing household 'to do' jobs by allowing Bambino Bobble Wilson to play with the plug in such a forceful manner that the bit on the end became detached from the chain which became detached from plug itself. So when I got up yesterday morning I found the plug on the stairs, the chain under my side of the bed, the bit from the end of the chain in the doorway of the bedroom and the bit that attached the plug to the chain nowhere to be seen at all.
'Do you think he might have eaten it?' I said to Andy, who was already looking stressed because he was expecting public servant bigwig types at his practice for an open evening to demonstrate the fabulousness of the PDSA. This was a stupid question really, given Bambino's garbage hoover nature.
Anyway, Andy went to work and Bambino proceeded to vomit three times in quick succession, yet still maintain the air of a highly active cat who is constantly on the lookout for mischief. I reported to Andy the heady combination of sickie yuck coupled with normal behaviour otherwise. After an extensive search I discovered, tucked just under Andy's bedside table, a piece of metal that could be the missing plug attachment, wrenched from its original triangular shape into a wonky circle shape during the dismemberment of the plug. This morning Bambino presented us with a massive slug of a furball, but Andy has still decided to take him for an x-ray just in case. Sigh...no more lackadaisical habits...do household jobs IMMEDIATELY! Especially if they involve bath plugs...
And then there was the elephant. Tuesday was our 14th wedding anniversary and 14 years is symbolised by ivory. Well, we weren't going to honour the anniversary with the purchase of ivory goods so I jokingly said I was going to buy an elephant for the garden. Whilst Andy was at work I took photos of a patchwork elephant I made a few years ago, situated at various points around the garden, and posted the images on Facebook which caused some hilarity. The next thing I know, a two foot high furry elephant soft toy arrived yesterday (alarmingly vacuum packed to the size of a small rabbit) courtesy of my brother who had declared he thought the patchwork elephant looked lonely.
It is an adorable elephant. Squishy, soft and big enough that you can hug up to it on the sofa if you are feeling a bit sad or upset. A comfort elephant, if you like. It has been named Porter after a lady we knew years ago who was elephant obsessed. Initially, my brother suggested Zagrey, as in 'Elephants are grey' and I thought 'Indaroom' as in 'Elephant in the room' but these didn't seem respectful of the magnificence and therapeutic qualities of the creature, so Porter it is. It suits it well.
Thursday, August 9, 2018
Wednesday, August 8, 2018
Going Private
All my life I've had NHS dentists. My experiences have been variable - from very good to terrible. I've found you get used to a good one then arrive for a check up only to discover they have 'moved on' and 'Today you'll be seen by Mr S Todd. He's from Fleet Street, y'know.' This invariably becomes the dentist who sends you rocketing to the ceiling with their slap dash probing and anaesthetic ways, which makes you reluctant to return - 'I'm phoning to cancel my check-up. Yes, I've just put a heavy duty fruit cake in the oven. It'll be days until it's done. Yes, I'll make another appointment. Byeeeeee!!' until you experience a dental issue by which time you've moved house and need to re-register elsewhere.
I am pretty certain I've been held hostage by unscrupulous types to have work done that wasn't necessary until I was old enough and brave enough to say, 'No thanks. I am confident the filling will stay put and the tooth does not require extensive root canal and crown work,' and have been proven correct when, 10 years later and several check ups by other dentists have shown the aforesaid tooth and filling all hunky dory no probs. As a child I had four teeth removed pre-extensive brace work for two years. I remember the gaps closing up almost immediately. My dentist then declared I suffered overcrowding due to big teeth in a small mouth. I had a top wisdom tooth removed as part of free treatment following the birth of Christopher in 1986. I had another back tooth removed as a result of an abscess caused by a terrible filling by a terrible NHS dentist who seemed to follow Dark Age techniques but you can't do much when you are upside down, head clamped and telling yourself to 'trust her - she's a professional. She knows what she's doing.' She didn't. Anyway, apart from that, my teeth are serving me well.
So, a month ago I was enjoying a piece of pumpernickel bread. It had pumpkin seeds scattered atop and at one point I thought, 'Hello, that's not a pumpkin seed,' and it wasn't, it was a small piece of a back tooth attached to a piece of very old filling. I sighed. Partly because I associate bits of tooth falling off as a sign of turning into a toothless old hag with grey hair and wrinkles (!) and partly because I knew I now needed to find a new dentist. I asked the advice of a colleague who lives local to Market Drayton and he immediately pointed me in the direction of Marianne. 'She's excellent,' said he. 'She's private, though.'
I've never gone private for anything medical. But I thought, what the heck. It needs sorting. I phoned, expecting to have to wait ages for an appointment. But no. 'Next Wednesday all right for you?' said the receptionist.
Well, I have to say that going private has been a revelation. I arrived at the appointed time and under went the most extensive and thorough check up EVER in my life. All the while, Marianne was talking me through what she was doing and why she was doing it. And all with the gentleness of a butterfly touch. I had x-rays, camera probes, some very thorough poking and prodding. At the end it was declared I had lost a bit of surface filling on another tooth, of which I was totally unaware but no anaesthetic required to re-do that, that the broken bit was unaffected by decay so just needed 'building back up' and that the biggest problem was my other top wisdom tooth. 'That's my priority,' said Super Dentist, and so another appointment was made.
Monday I returned. The news was not good. Despite me having no symptoms whatsoever beyond having to use a mile of floss around that wisdom tooth every day because it was a food trap of grand proportions with its neighbour, the xray showed there was a pretty hefty hole there. Two options, then: 1) drill out the old filling, see what was occuring, refill. Or 2) because the tooth wasn't actually useful i.e it wasn't meeting any tooth below, just wafting around on its own like a floss hungry free loader, remove it. 'It'll save you a lot of hassle in the future,' said Marianne. 'And unnecessary expense.'
She decided to see if the tooth was saveable but in my head I was already doing visualisation techniques to have it removed with ease and without fuss, ado or bother.
Anaesthetic delivered - didn't feel a thing. Extensive drilling. Didn't feel a thing. The decay had reached the tip of the nerve in the tooth. I was on the verge of a big infection. Tooth out? Yes, tooth out. More anaesthetic in my palette. Didn't feel a thing. Another xray to check how close root was to sinus. A warning I might have to be referred to hospital for removal, it being a big back tooth and all. I thought, I'm not having that and declared it would all be fine and easy, and carried on with the visualisation to that effect.
And one minute later, after some gentle easing and a bit of tugging, Marianne said, 'Oh! It's out,' in a manner that suggested she didn't think it was going to be that easy, amd there was relief all round. Another wisdom tooth bites the dust, pardon the pun.
I was given an aftercare pack and I was on my way. And yesterday the dentist phoned to check all was okay. How good is that? I said I was fine. No pain killers required, swilling salt solution three times a day as per the aftercare instructions. And thankful I have found the best dentist ever, for whose service I am more than happy to pay.
I am pretty certain I've been held hostage by unscrupulous types to have work done that wasn't necessary until I was old enough and brave enough to say, 'No thanks. I am confident the filling will stay put and the tooth does not require extensive root canal and crown work,' and have been proven correct when, 10 years later and several check ups by other dentists have shown the aforesaid tooth and filling all hunky dory no probs. As a child I had four teeth removed pre-extensive brace work for two years. I remember the gaps closing up almost immediately. My dentist then declared I suffered overcrowding due to big teeth in a small mouth. I had a top wisdom tooth removed as part of free treatment following the birth of Christopher in 1986. I had another back tooth removed as a result of an abscess caused by a terrible filling by a terrible NHS dentist who seemed to follow Dark Age techniques but you can't do much when you are upside down, head clamped and telling yourself to 'trust her - she's a professional. She knows what she's doing.' She didn't. Anyway, apart from that, my teeth are serving me well.
So, a month ago I was enjoying a piece of pumpernickel bread. It had pumpkin seeds scattered atop and at one point I thought, 'Hello, that's not a pumpkin seed,' and it wasn't, it was a small piece of a back tooth attached to a piece of very old filling. I sighed. Partly because I associate bits of tooth falling off as a sign of turning into a toothless old hag with grey hair and wrinkles (!) and partly because I knew I now needed to find a new dentist. I asked the advice of a colleague who lives local to Market Drayton and he immediately pointed me in the direction of Marianne. 'She's excellent,' said he. 'She's private, though.'
I've never gone private for anything medical. But I thought, what the heck. It needs sorting. I phoned, expecting to have to wait ages for an appointment. But no. 'Next Wednesday all right for you?' said the receptionist.
Well, I have to say that going private has been a revelation. I arrived at the appointed time and under went the most extensive and thorough check up EVER in my life. All the while, Marianne was talking me through what she was doing and why she was doing it. And all with the gentleness of a butterfly touch. I had x-rays, camera probes, some very thorough poking and prodding. At the end it was declared I had lost a bit of surface filling on another tooth, of which I was totally unaware but no anaesthetic required to re-do that, that the broken bit was unaffected by decay so just needed 'building back up' and that the biggest problem was my other top wisdom tooth. 'That's my priority,' said Super Dentist, and so another appointment was made.
Monday I returned. The news was not good. Despite me having no symptoms whatsoever beyond having to use a mile of floss around that wisdom tooth every day because it was a food trap of grand proportions with its neighbour, the xray showed there was a pretty hefty hole there. Two options, then: 1) drill out the old filling, see what was occuring, refill. Or 2) because the tooth wasn't actually useful i.e it wasn't meeting any tooth below, just wafting around on its own like a floss hungry free loader, remove it. 'It'll save you a lot of hassle in the future,' said Marianne. 'And unnecessary expense.'
She decided to see if the tooth was saveable but in my head I was already doing visualisation techniques to have it removed with ease and without fuss, ado or bother.
Anaesthetic delivered - didn't feel a thing. Extensive drilling. Didn't feel a thing. The decay had reached the tip of the nerve in the tooth. I was on the verge of a big infection. Tooth out? Yes, tooth out. More anaesthetic in my palette. Didn't feel a thing. Another xray to check how close root was to sinus. A warning I might have to be referred to hospital for removal, it being a big back tooth and all. I thought, I'm not having that and declared it would all be fine and easy, and carried on with the visualisation to that effect.
And one minute later, after some gentle easing and a bit of tugging, Marianne said, 'Oh! It's out,' in a manner that suggested she didn't think it was going to be that easy, amd there was relief all round. Another wisdom tooth bites the dust, pardon the pun.
I was given an aftercare pack and I was on my way. And yesterday the dentist phoned to check all was okay. How good is that? I said I was fine. No pain killers required, swilling salt solution three times a day as per the aftercare instructions. And thankful I have found the best dentist ever, for whose service I am more than happy to pay.
Sunday, August 5, 2018
And so this is Summer...
It has been a mad five weeks, and there have been occasions when I have been on the verge of blogging but have been put off by the increasing direness of our internet supplier. I kept thinking, I'll blog, but it'll be faff because it will take me an age to type anything, then it will take an age to upload and I'll rue the time lost of my life that I'll never get back. On reflection, this is a bad attitude to take, but it did goad us into upgrading our internet supply and now we have, and I quote the engineer who visited with his bag of internetness, 'the fastest broadband speed I've ever installed.'
(Of course, we might have been only the second client he had ever serviced, but he looked like he'd been around the telecommunications block a few times and so I like to think not. And we are fast now - Andy did a check this morning and it was 147 Mbps!)
So, what's been occurring? Heatwave continues but it is not as heatwavy here in the West Midlands as it has been in Kent, I am reliably informed by my family and friends darn Sarf. I can now officially confirm my school's June Ofsted was 'Good' in all areas and I got 'Outstanding' for English with the report making special mention of my 'Biscuit Lesson.' I am happy with this because it now means I can leave teaching any time in the next three years on a high note with nuffink to prove to no-one, guv.
Last day of term for me was 27th July and that evening Number 1 Son arrived with the two Granddaughters to offload them for a week in order that he and his partner could go out gallivanting of an evening. Oh no, sorry, that wasn't the reason. Ahem. It was so Gran and Grandpa could spend quality time with the Granddaughters. Anyway, after a week of quality non-stop activity I have discovered these things:
1) I am glad I had my own children in my early twenties because I cannot think why anyone would plan to have children later in life.
2) I despise theme parks with deeper breadths and depths of my soul than I ever knew existed.
3) the going rate for the Tooth Fairy has shot up, in my belief, beyond inflation.
4) children do not believe you when you tell them that drinking fizzy stuff is very bad for one's health and they might just as well start on the crack cocaine now as their health is doomed anyway.
5) you sometimes have to work bloomin' hard to stare down a stubborn child.
6) other stuff I cannot possibly divulge in a public arena but Grandpa Andy knows.
Anyway, a generally good time was had by all and we performed a child swap on Friday at an undisclosed venue in Oxford, only to find on the way home and stuck in a jam on the M5 that we had acquired my Mother instead. She is staying until next Saturday. She has already told me to visit the doctor regarding a mole on my arm which is 'bothering' her. Yes, bothering HER! This mole has been in situ and unchanged for the last 40+ years. And I doubt it is bothering her as much as our red kitchen and red front door because she hates red. She has also shouted at me in the middle of the supermarket. I was affronted by this as I am 52 and do not need reprimanding by my parent in any public place. Anyway, I didn't sulk and put it down to cantankerousness of age. Hers, not mine. But really.
Last week we also acquired some new hens. These were donated free by a farm we know which is running feral with gazillions of chickens. I thought we were taking three chicks, but when I arrived with cat carrier I was told, 'You can take their mother, too. You can bring her back in a few weeks if you like, but don't worry if you don't want to.' This was delivered with the undertone of, 'We don't want the mother back and if she is returned she will be pie,' and thus I was presented with a mum and
her three babies. They are very pretty bantam hens. All sort of speckled and striped and various combinations of black, white, grey, brown, gold and all-round prettiness. Mum Bantam has already presented 5 eggs so she can stay. I asked the farmer lady if she was sure the babies were all hens. She said, 'Yeeeeeeeesss...' in that high rising intonation tone of voice which suggested she wasn't really. If any of the babies turn into cockerels, we shall have a problem. Fingers crossed not, then. The granddaughters wanted to call the hens things like Unicorn Poo, Moppy Fuzz and Steve. I declined their creativity in favour of Millie, Mollie, Maggie and May, after characters from a favourite poem by e.e. cummings.
So we are now an 8 hen family, the biggest we've ever been. And not one ever lost to a fox which is probably tempting fate but I shall send Andy up the garden for a tiddle wee later, so that'll sort that.
The carpenter has been and removed all the skirting boards and architrave in preparation for the levelling of the quarry tile floor by the floor man on 16th, to be followed by the return on the carpenter on 3rd September to install new wood floor, understairs office space - desk and shelving - and removal of current stupid bannister rail to be replaced with new sensible bannister rail on opposite wall. This will then be followed by return of floor man to put in carpets in bedrooms and on stairs and landing. I am thinking that as we shall be skirting and architrave free for four or five weeks and furniture empty for at least three days I should use the opportunity to decorate the living and dining rooms because I won't have to fret about neat lines. Nor paint on the carpet. Or new wood floor. This means I have to make decisions about paint and wallpaper because Andy will be easy going and non-committal. But because I am off school I am feeling enthused about the idea of decorating. Plus I've done the granddaughters bedroom and it didn't really take that long except the bunk bed, the experience of which I have already deleted from my mind.
And so this is Summer. It is full on and things are getting done. Life is moving on. I am also galloping on apace with my career as a healing channel, but more of that another time.
(Of course, we might have been only the second client he had ever serviced, but he looked like he'd been around the telecommunications block a few times and so I like to think not. And we are fast now - Andy did a check this morning and it was 147 Mbps!)
So, what's been occurring? Heatwave continues but it is not as heatwavy here in the West Midlands as it has been in Kent, I am reliably informed by my family and friends darn Sarf. I can now officially confirm my school's June Ofsted was 'Good' in all areas and I got 'Outstanding' for English with the report making special mention of my 'Biscuit Lesson.' I am happy with this because it now means I can leave teaching any time in the next three years on a high note with nuffink to prove to no-one, guv.
Last day of term for me was 27th July and that evening Number 1 Son arrived with the two Granddaughters to offload them for a week in order that he and his partner could go out gallivanting of an evening. Oh no, sorry, that wasn't the reason. Ahem. It was so Gran and Grandpa could spend quality time with the Granddaughters. Anyway, after a week of quality non-stop activity I have discovered these things:
1) I am glad I had my own children in my early twenties because I cannot think why anyone would plan to have children later in life.
2) I despise theme parks with deeper breadths and depths of my soul than I ever knew existed.
3) the going rate for the Tooth Fairy has shot up, in my belief, beyond inflation.
4) children do not believe you when you tell them that drinking fizzy stuff is very bad for one's health and they might just as well start on the crack cocaine now as their health is doomed anyway.
5) you sometimes have to work bloomin' hard to stare down a stubborn child.
6) other stuff I cannot possibly divulge in a public arena but Grandpa Andy knows.
Anyway, a generally good time was had by all and we performed a child swap on Friday at an undisclosed venue in Oxford, only to find on the way home and stuck in a jam on the M5 that we had acquired my Mother instead. She is staying until next Saturday. She has already told me to visit the doctor regarding a mole on my arm which is 'bothering' her. Yes, bothering HER! This mole has been in situ and unchanged for the last 40+ years. And I doubt it is bothering her as much as our red kitchen and red front door because she hates red. She has also shouted at me in the middle of the supermarket. I was affronted by this as I am 52 and do not need reprimanding by my parent in any public place. Anyway, I didn't sulk and put it down to cantankerousness of age. Hers, not mine. But really.
Last week we also acquired some new hens. These were donated free by a farm we know which is running feral with gazillions of chickens. I thought we were taking three chicks, but when I arrived with cat carrier I was told, 'You can take their mother, too. You can bring her back in a few weeks if you like, but don't worry if you don't want to.' This was delivered with the undertone of, 'We don't want the mother back and if she is returned she will be pie,' and thus I was presented with a mum and
her three babies. They are very pretty bantam hens. All sort of speckled and striped and various combinations of black, white, grey, brown, gold and all-round prettiness. Mum Bantam has already presented 5 eggs so she can stay. I asked the farmer lady if she was sure the babies were all hens. She said, 'Yeeeeeeeesss...' in that high rising intonation tone of voice which suggested she wasn't really. If any of the babies turn into cockerels, we shall have a problem. Fingers crossed not, then. The granddaughters wanted to call the hens things like Unicorn Poo, Moppy Fuzz and Steve. I declined their creativity in favour of Millie, Mollie, Maggie and May, after characters from a favourite poem by e.e. cummings.
So we are now an 8 hen family, the biggest we've ever been. And not one ever lost to a fox which is probably tempting fate but I shall send Andy up the garden for a tiddle wee later, so that'll sort that.
The carpenter has been and removed all the skirting boards and architrave in preparation for the levelling of the quarry tile floor by the floor man on 16th, to be followed by the return on the carpenter on 3rd September to install new wood floor, understairs office space - desk and shelving - and removal of current stupid bannister rail to be replaced with new sensible bannister rail on opposite wall. This will then be followed by return of floor man to put in carpets in bedrooms and on stairs and landing. I am thinking that as we shall be skirting and architrave free for four or five weeks and furniture empty for at least three days I should use the opportunity to decorate the living and dining rooms because I won't have to fret about neat lines. Nor paint on the carpet. Or new wood floor. This means I have to make decisions about paint and wallpaper because Andy will be easy going and non-committal. But because I am off school I am feeling enthused about the idea of decorating. Plus I've done the granddaughters bedroom and it didn't really take that long except the bunk bed, the experience of which I have already deleted from my mind.
And so this is Summer. It is full on and things are getting done. Life is moving on. I am also galloping on apace with my career as a healing channel, but more of that another time.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
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.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
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!
Saturday, June 2, 2018
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.
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.
Friday, June 1, 2018
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.
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.
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