This was the weekend that was ...

It started with this.

The annual Floating Market was back!

A whole array of different traders turn up once a year to sell their wares - and of course look very pretty!

Of course Mike soon found his favourite.

And me!

Peek inside.

Of course one of the hidden treats is sitting in our garden listening to the conversations of people going by. No - it's not in the least bit nosey it's - errrr - ummmmm - being interested.

Closer to home we've had the robins nesting in the ivy. They are now so used to us that they are almost eating out of my hand. Not sure what the people walking by would think of me though - hand full of dried mealworms outstretched as I cheerily quip 'come on little fella.' I don't know how or when this actually happened but that seems to be my default response to any creature I now come across. 

Not sure what would happen if one of them answered me back. 

Here he is posing on the bird feeder (he's that tiny dot).

As for our poor old blackbird chick - sigh - he was doing very well until last Friday when we found him lying in the path. Not a scratch on him. So much so that Mike even tried to do a mini resuscitation. 

It didn't work :( 

Here he is in happier times (the chick not Mike).

Mike's a bit taller.

With a bit of a beard.

And trousers.

Mostly.

I've starting knitting a sock! Winwick Mum is hosting a wonderful sockalong - do pop over and see what she has posted so far. But in typical impatient fashion I wanted to get started. 

So I have. 

Feeling positive so far but haven't 'turned the heel' yet.

 Wish me luck.

And the 'eyelash from Oswestry' fabric has been cut out to make a simple skirt. Now I'm concerned it's more of a craft cotton, without much give, and I - erm - need a bit of give! I've decided I'm going to stitch very narrow seams in a bid to convince myself that my size hasn't gone up.

Other than that we've been spending a fair old chunk of time at the allotment. 

'The WHAT? You kept that quiet!'

We've even started to pick a few lettuce! I foresee a future where I develop a serious lettuce aversion in an attempt to not have to eat it three times a day.

And other than daily doings that's about the weekend summed up.

Hope you've had a good one.

Jane

xxx

The Charging Rhino

It hasn't quite turned out as planned. 

After a fairly gruelling start to the year the half term break had been hovering just ahead like a sparkly oasis. Time to breathe I thought. Maybe visit some new places and take some much needed restorative walks. 

Renew my perspective. 

Look forward.

But then came the tickle.

Just a little one but significant nonetheless.

The tickle that is soon followed by hot eyes and a runny nose.

The charging rhino had come to a stop. 

Now before I  continue I had better explain the analogy. Apparently when one is under a certain amount of daily pressure the only way to get through it is to put your head down and barge through. This stops you from getting attacked by wild animals and eaten. However once the threat/pressure/ situation has passed it is time to stop charging and relax. And just when you do so those sneaky little critters catch you from behind and before you know it you've got a cold. 

Or at least it goes something like that.

And so it goes that I'm writing this from my bed, surrounded by tissues, blisteze and old magazines.

Of course I'm very fortunate. Mike is also on his break and keeps popping in with much welcomed cups of tea and home made soup. I've got a roof over my head and a warm bed to sleep in.

But things have still been going on.

On Tuesday we had some new carpets fitted. I know you'll be enthralled to hear more but all I'm going to say is that after twenty years of children, dogs and rabbits skipping about we now have cream carpet adorning our stairs and landing. That's right. CREAM! What were we thinking? But it does look lovely even if any trip up and down stairs now demands clean feet. And our bedroom, where we have insisted on keeping hold of our original Victorian boards even though they were scarred with woodworm trails, is now covered in a luxurious tuft!

Of course this included a mass movement of furniture which started a bit of a sort. Started mind you, not finished. We are now paused - mid sort.

Wednesday saw the cold break but did not stop us visiting the theatre. This time I was accompanied by Mike to see the fantastic John Shuttleworth at the New Vic Theatre in nearby Newcastle under Lyme. Now I realise that drink and drugs should never mix but to be honest I hadn't realised that a small mid interval gin and tonic (always a theatre treat) would react so potently with three days of cold medicine.

Goodness me I haven't laughed so much for a long time. Tears were rolling down my face!

But don't do that at home.

Which brings us back to now. My body has finally said no, stop it, I've had enough. Stop feeling guilty about things you had planned to do and let those little critters have their way. And if that means staying put and being waited on by others then so be it! 

Appreciate it. Let it happen.

A dear friend bought me this cushion at Christmas and the sentiment always makes me stop and think.

Take care and, if your rhino does need to take a breather, watch out for sneaky critters.

Jane

xxx

P.S. Preparations are now well under way for our bloggy get together in Stratford in April. It would be so nice to meet you, so if you're even a teensy bit curious as to what we're going to be up to, give myself or dear old Gilly a shout!

Sad news

Some of you lovely followers out there will probably be aware that our poor old Jessie dog has not been too well of late. At sixteen she was almost blind, pretty much deaf and struggling very much with her back legs. Yesterday it all became too much and the decision was made to have her quietly put to sleep. It was a decision I'd been dreading but we've known for the last few months that things were getting worse and there was a sudden nosedive this week. 

Today I've had a quiet day. Not working on Fridays, I decided to stay close to home and found myself on auto pilot - cleaning, washing, and generally trying to keep myself busy.

 But it was hard. 

Jessie used to follow me everywhere - she had no manners with regard to following me and staring whilst I visited the bathroom! I found myself automatically stepping over where her bed had been, and saving her some crusts from my sandwiches. When I answered the door earlier I automatically put my hand out to hold her collar. It's going to take some time to get used to.

But I have some lovely memories.

We 'rescued' her from a dogs home when she was six months old. She had a strong sense of wanderlust and would often take herself off on an adventure while our backs were turned. She sometimes got returned by complete strangers looking very pleased with herself. It was as though she'd found some new friends and was very glad to introduce us! She was picked up by the police and spent a night in the cells when they went off duty, she visited various offices on the local industrial estate, and once even made it across quite a busy dual carriageway to be found in the kitchen of a popular restaurant. On several occasions we would have a call from our local dvd store whose automatic doors would generously allow her entrance - 'Hi there - we've got Jessie here again - don't rush!'

And of course whenever she was returned people would say the same thing, usually along the lines of 'Oh but she's so lovely - and she does enjoy a custard cream!'

She adored our girls and put up with many years of being snuggled and squeezed by gaggles of toddlers.

When we had fourteen ducklings hatch in our garden she would lie there patiently while they waddled around and over her on the way to our little pond. And Ned rabbit could often be found stretched out next to her in a sunny patch of grass.

She really had the sweetest nature and gave us years of unconditional devotion.

She was gentle, loving and fun.

And we will miss her.

Jane

xxx

Brightening Up

I remember when Mr K and I got our first flat. It was on the ground floor which afforded us the most fantastic gift - a back yard. Now when I say 'yard' I don't mean the glorious American translation of a large well tended garden. Nope. This was a few paving slabs and very little natural light. So what did I do? I took up a row of slabs and planted some bulbs. We stayed in that flat for a couple of years and the sight of those red and yellow tulips each Spring lifted my heart.

I COULD GROW THINGS!

Nothing as prolific as this - sadly way before the age of digital photography

Our next flat had a slightly bigger yard - a nice 'square'one. For what seemed like forever we would visit the neighbouring waste ground and return with old bricks and buckets of soil to make raised beds. This time I had more space, more chance to experiment, and so began my love for anything 'herb'.

A nearby allotment came up and together we made it our own, complete with a little rose garden. I remember our most prolific crop was 'mouli' - a white Japanese radish that we neither knew what to do with or could give away. Another move said goodbye to that one and by now we were cultivating a different type of crop - our gorgeous girls!

We tried and failed to keep another allotment going, sharing with other families to try and make it more manageable - but the girls being so young and the busy nature of family life prevented us from any long term commitment.

 Our small back garden became packed to the rafters with all kinds of everything. I've absolutely loved every minute of the last eighteen years seeing it develop into my own little oasis. But both of us knew it wasn't quite enough. We had been bitten by the growing bug many years before and never quite shaken it off. So when a nice lady from the council rang a couple of weeks ago to ask if we were still interested in taking on an allotment I almost cried!

We had almost forgotten that seven years before we had put our names on the council waiting list. There had been an opportunity to join a site on the other side of town some time ago, but we knew that if we had to make a special journey by car to get there that the novelty would soon wear off. 

We hung on. 

And it paid off. 

The allotment is about five minutes walk away, maybe ten if we take the 'scenic' route along the canal. Unlike our previous plots the soil is a dream to behold - it's been cared for over the last eighteen years and is packed with worms (at this point I realise I might be starting to sound a little delirious). All the ideas that I have nurtured are now becoming possibilities and I'm doing no end of little scribbles and list making.

Not that it's going to be easy.

My idea of a dream shed is this sort of thing.

A quiet spot surrounded by herbs with the scent of sweet peas wafting toward me as I recline on my Cath Kidston cushions to survey the land.

What I've got so far is this.

Perhaps a greenhouse dripping with vines and bursting with the possibility of exotic fruits.

Once we've got it on it's base and it actually has some glass in it.

I imagine serenely wandering through the bug free, organic produce - Alys Fowler style.

You can see we have a way to go.

But it's here.

And it's ours.

For now.

And this time instead of taking slabs up I'm putting them down.

Oh for the joy of a path ...

So that's what's been keeping me preoccupied of late. At a time when there has been a fair amount of uncertainty and upheaval it's been good to feel that some things haven't changed. And the future is looking a little brighter.

Much love to all of you out there - and a huge welcome to my new followers.

Jane

xxx

And hello from Oscar - our allotment neighbour.

The Piano

My dad, aunty and uncle, all played the piano. Their dad (my Grandad, although I never knew him as he died tragically early at fifty five) was able to play by ear. Although not classically trained he used to entertain audiences at the local club, whilst my Grandma read music and would quietly pick out classical pieces at home. The front room of their modest terrace was dominated by their shiny black piano. Mum and Dad remember times when they would be invited around for Sunday dinner - when it came to the washing up Mum and Grandma would busy themselves in the kitchen and Grandad would softly play some favourite tunes in the background.Needless to say Dad followed suit, but with the benefit of lessons he achieved first class at advanced senior level. The next step would have taken him to 'cap and gown' but at the age of seventeen the army beckoned and his studies took a different turn. At the age of twenty four he married my mum and they moved in to the house next door to his parents. By some long forgotten turn of events Dad ended up with his Grandmas piano. This was a posh one - it had candlesticks and everything!

A bit like this one!

But in the true spirit of the sixties Dad removed these and plugged the holes with matchsticks for a cleaner effect ( I know!) Worse was to come. After returning from work one day he noticed the room was considerably larger. There was a lovely space just where his piano had been. Mum had seen it as a bit of a dust gatherer and, as you can perhaps understand when space was so limited, sold it to a friend for  (gulp) £5. Now even by today's prices that's very, very cheap! 

So my childhood was piano- less but there must have been some residue of interest in my genes as at a very young age Mum and I would mime grand piano duets on the low 1970's coffee table. Weekly visits to my Aunty Queenie in Liverpool would see my brother playing with my older cousins (usually something based on the war in which - when I was allowed to join in -  I would be shot during the first few minutes and have to lie very quiet and still!), and me retreat to their front room and pick out tunes from the Sound of Music. I could read the right hand but struggled with the left so usually made up the oddest harmonies. I swore to myself that when I grew up my house would have dogs, plants, books and a piano (sorry girls - you weren't a priority at the time!)

When Mr K and I married a piano was the obvious choice for a gift. Mum and Dad bought us a lovely old metal framed one and I promised myself that one day I would play. Then along came family life. My pregnancy with Big Sis started as a rocky one and I had romantic visions of playing Mozart quietly to my bump in order to calm the constant whirling and churning - but I ended up feeling way too sick. Then Little Sis came along and life was far too busy. I did find the odd pocket of time to sit and experiment, I even got quite good at Clair de Lune, but was always dragged away by some other distraction. We moved house a couple of times and the piano came with us, providing us with a lovely surface for family pictures and the odd plant. 

To the girls the piano was just another piece of furniture and occasionally they would show a bit of interest and pick out a tune, or they would sit with their Grandma who would teach them little ditties. When Big Sis was about five a new neighbour arrived and asked who could play. Of course all the excuses and 'one days' came tumbling out and she immediately offered to give some lessons. In return for the odd chore (and the magic of Fanny Waterman) she was happy to teach Big Sis the basics of the keyboard.

 From that point on there was no looking back. Big Sis took to it like a duck to water and went on to transfer her interest to all manner of musical endeavours - culminating in her forming her own band when she was sixteen (now defunct I might add!) Little Sis followed suit. For me to have live music being played in your house is such a gift. When Big Sis would turn up with her mates for an impromptu jamming session the house felt alive. When she left for university the house slowly quietened. Little Sis would occasionally pick out a piece but always had more pressing things to be getting on with. Then recently she came across the most beautiful piece of music in a game she was playing. She was able to print it out and is currently working her way through until it is note perfect.

Press here for full version Ib: Memory

The next part is quite difficult to put in to words. To both Big and Little Sis this probably won't mean much at all. But for someone who always dreamed of being able to play I couldn't have imagined what a joy it would be for my children to have such a love of music. I know mum and dad feel the same. Dad's arthritis mean that his fingers won't quite let him tackle the same old flourishes that they used to, so to hear his grandchildren play is such a treat. I haven't given up on learning  - never say never - but when we were given that piano twenty odd years ago I couldn't have imagined what pleasure it would bring, and what wonderful memories it would make.

Little Sis playing Ib

Jane
x

W.

January is always one of those months. Time to reflect, restore and regroup. Expectations are simple - keep warm, keep healthy and keep the washing pile ticking over. However once you turn the calendar page to February there is suddenly no excuse for leaving the Christmas lights on the weeping cherry outside, and by the time you do bring them in you realise the wooden front door has swollen so much in the bad weather that you can't retrieve the last bit of cable from the lower corner. This is why we now have a beautifully illuminated shoe rack. 

I'll give them another month. 

I'd refused to return Christmas to it's snoozing place this year until it had been thoroughly 'sorted out'. Our hidey hole is in the attic which has for many years now been a no go area. The only time it is ventured into is a) Christmas - put arm in, grab necessary boxes, retrieve and replace as necessary, and b) Summer - repeat operation with garden recliners. This means that the only movement has been around the door and the further reaches have remained blissfully dormant. No longer! After several dust laden hours of pulling, hauling and some rather choice language we managed to rid ourselves of two car loads of - ahem - rubbish and upturn some long forgotten treasures.

First up was this gorgeous little clock.

 We bought it for Big Sis when she was but a tot but she never liked the sound of it. In her words - 'I no like the tickety tock'. So into the attic it went. Sadly it was over wound so we need to get it seen to as the little pixies look so sweet going up and down on the see-saw as the clock tickety tocks away.

Then came this box. 

In typical fashion rather than just open it we stared at it for quite some time trying to figure out what it might be inside.Was the W. a monogram? What did Walter keep in his box? We remembered an old reel projector that we once had with old newsreels of a zoo and (oddly) the Hindenburg disaster. Eventually it was opened and I whooped at what was inside. A gorgeous Remington typewriter.

 Was W. a writer? A journalist? Had this been an essential part of his kit as he visited newsworthy places? It still works and makes a heartening nostalgic click with each letter pressed (although it feels very odd not being able to alter size or style of font!) 

So what do I do with it? Keep it safe in it's box and bring it out for special occasions, or find somewhere to display it in all it's glory (although the dusting of all those little parts doesn't thrill me)? Who do you think W. might have been? Do you know when it might date from (if it's any help it's been in the attic for twenty years so it's not from this century ;))?

So, although there's still more work to do  (we didn't make it into the furthest corners stuffed with baby clothes and Mr K's paintings) our first little foray was roundly rewarded. However I don't think we'll be needing those garden recliners anytime soon!

Jane 

x

Move Over Mary ...

Long before the marquees were erected, Paul and Mary were dusted off and 'soggy bottom' became a household term our family have gamely been competing with others in an annual tradition known as the 'cake off'. Around about October each year cookbooks are consulted and ingredients are mingled in an effort to produce a prize winning Christmas cake. Lots of winks, nods and nose tapping ensue and nobody is willing to share their personal recipe until the day. This year it was our turn to host and as well as the traditional Christmas cake the children had their own category - the Yule log.  After much food, fun and frivolity the cakes are dissected and  each take their turn to taste and anonymously vote for their favourite. 

The voting log

Straightforward yes? Aha but there would be no fun in that! Often this is the most corrupt part of the process whereby outrageous voting can occur on all sides. But this year - WE WON! So obviously no cheating occurred at all as I am quite willing to accept the mantle of best Christmas cake maker EVER (well at least in our house...for this year...!) 

The 'log off' was of a particularly high standard so we added artistic merit on top of flavour as a bonus section.

Yum.

Other years have seen the addition of 'chutney off's', 'jam off's and 'wine off's' - and there is always the excited prediction of what we could do next year but will probably never get around to.  

 There were carols and games.

And, perhaps unsurprisingly owing to our own Kirstie 'I can craft everything or at least get other people to craft it for me' Allsop, pom poms.

All in all the best time is had  - lots of friends, too much food and a significant amount of festive (ahem) spirit. Our very own family tradition - and without a soggy bottom in sight!

Hope you are all managing to enjoy what is important to you this year.

Jane 

x

A Ghostie Post

One of the many things I love about this time of year is the proliferation of all things spooky. The darker nights lend themselves to creating the perfect atmosphere - light some candles, stoke up the fire and off you go.

As a child I devoured ghostly tales. Usually they were compilations of short stories - read under the sheets with a torch - they were just enough to scare me into not wanting to go to the bathroom on my own! I remember 'The Waxwork' about a man who took up a dare to stay overnight in a wax museum, and 'The Doll's House' with it's slightly too realistic inhabitants. Later on I delved into some Edgar Allan Poe and M.R. James but it wasn't until I found 'The Woman in Black' a few years ago that I was able to revisit those early feelings of being genuinely spooked.

Of course this was also the heyday of Hammer Horror films. Each Friday night we would settle to watch Peter Cushing fight off some demonic beast whilst amply bosomed ladies wilted in the background.

Tales of the Unexpected provided more fuel - the hypnotic title music was often the best part - but it was relished nonetheless (the man who turned into a bee, the wife who 'tidied' her fastidious husband away into his own filing system of screw topped jars).

Several years ago the BBC ran a series of ghost stories running up to Christmas and each one was a treat. If you have never seen the Michael Hordern adaptation of Whistle and I'll Come to You it's a must see. Alongside Dicken's The Signalman. Both call for a nip of brandy to steady the nerves afterwards!

So - have I ever seen a ghost?

For many years I thought I had. At the age of six I woke in the dead of night to go to the bathroom. The door was directly opposite my bedroom and only a few steps away. Alongside the landing was a banister - the solid type that was popular in the 1970's. At the end it opened out on to a smaller landing at the top of the stairs with a window that allowed in the natural light. As I passed this section I froze. Standing in front of me was a young girl. She had a short silver coloured bob and was wearing no shoes. Her sleeveless mint green dress had no sleeves and a pocket with a large white daisy on it. I screamed and to this day remember how long it seemed to take for me to get back to the safety of my own bed and under the covers. Mum and dad were so convinced that someone must have been in the house that they searched high and low but, of course, found nothing. This mystery stayed with me until fairly recently. Watching one of these nostalgic 'let's remember all the kid's shows we grew up with programmes' there - alongside Mr Benn and The Clangers -was my ghost. Frustratingly I can't now remember the name of the character but she was a young girl who used to press the daisy on her pocket to grant a wish. Her clothes and hair were exactly the same as I remembered. I'm pretty sure the hairs must have stood up all the way down to my toes. After all these years the mystery of the girl on the landing was solved. So why even now, sitting in my sunny kitchen with a fresh coffee and Mr K's home made tea loaf, do I still feel a bit shivery?

Mum also has a ghostly tale. When she was three she had a particularly nasty bout of chicken pox. She was tucked up on the old sofa which was pushed up against the window. Outside the snow was falling but through the blur she saw a lady standing on the garden wall. The lady looked down at her and was smiling. Mum called her Grandma over and asked her to look. Of course her Grandma could see nothing so mum went on to describe a young lady with short dark hair and kind eyes. Grandma said nothing. Later on mum discovered that the lady she had been describing was in one of the family pictures - it was in fact her own mum who had died two years previously from tuberculosis. A combination of fever, memory and the hypnotic swirl of the snow - or was it something more?

Grandma Irene - looking after her poorly daughter?

There are many other tales. A close friend tells of hearing his dad having conversations late at night with his Grandad who had died several years before. Mr K once though that his glow-in-the-dark mummy was growing and chased him out of his bedroom! 

Do I still believe in ghosts? Not really. I believe our mind and imagination are incredible things and given the right conditions they will produce experiences that we have no other explanation for. So why is it that I still see things out of the corner of my eye, still imagine that that pile of clothes could be a figure and still have to - on occasion - ask Mr K to accompany me to the bathroom in the middle of the night?

I think there's someone behind you!

Jane

x