This morning I had a call from the dentist. My immediate thought was that I had missed an appointment, which wouldn’t surprise me at all.
No matter how hard I try, I am one of those people who constantly misses stuff. Doctor’s appointments, kid’s parties, netball matches – anything out of the ordinary routine is liable to slip through the big, holey net that is my brain.
I write endless lists, I stick neon Post-its on the fridge, I set the alarm on the mobile - which is on loud AND vibrate in my pocket - and scribble notes on my hand, but somehow stuff still slides past me.
There is a version of this put about by my friends (ok, by me), which is that I pack far more into my day than anyone else which makes it far harder for me to remember stuff than anyone else.
Recently when two friends were talking about some remarkable thing I’d done for one of them (oh, rest assured, you’ll hear the whole story) they agreed that I was a loyal and trustworthy friend who could always be relied upon to go the extra mile whenever needed.
There was a pause and then one of them frowned slightly and added, ‘ Well...actually....she’s never there quite when you need her, but she always gets there eventually.’
There are good and bad angles to living in a small village, which will not be world-shattering news to anyone who’s ever done it. The upsides are obvious. When someone’s poorly we walk their dogs, make them shepherd’s pie and put out their bins. There is always someone to water your plants while you’re on holiday. If you break down by the side of the road because you’ve filled your diesel car with petrol you can be sure that within minutes someone you know will happen along and pick you up. And if you go to bed leaving the keys dangling from your front door, you’re unlikely to wake to a living room cleared of TV, stereo and laptop (unless it’s a Bank Holiday weekend).
The downside is that everyone knows exactly what I’m doing at any given minute of any day -sometimes they seem to know more about what I’m doing than I do.
Then suddenly the other day, it hit me like a squash ball between the eyes. I suddenly realised that it’s not sometimes – it’s always. It has taken me ten years, but it just dawned on me that I should stop moaning about this and be grateful that effectively there are hundreds of people living on my doorstep who are managing my daily diary far better than I am.
I finished one batch of writing the other day and went to walk my dog; I hadn’t got far when I bumped into a lady I know vaguely from church.
‘Hello,’ she said with a surprised smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon. Thought you were picking up your cousin from the station.’
Which, of course, is exactly what I should have been doing. Quick about-turn, short jog home, grab a few flowers on the way, smooth the bed sheets and poof up the pillows in the spare room, plonk the flowers in a vase - and I was on the platform with a welcoming grin only a few minutes later than planned, giving cousin no clue whatsoever that I’d completely forgotten she was coming to stay. Thanks to the lady (whose name I can’t remember) from church.
My daughter’s riding teacher texts me on the morning of her lesson to say, ‘Just checking you’ve remembered it’s Friday.’ Her guitar teacher does the same thing on Monday. My Aga man rings me the night before a service to remind me to turn off the oven before I go to bed. It was relatively recently that I discovered that these people don’t do this as a matter of course for all their clients. Just me. Because they know that if they don’t, I’ll forget.
So when the phone rang this morning I should have known better. The dentist’s lovely receptionist wasn’t calling to moan that I’d missed my appointment, she was ringing to check I’d remembered that I have one tomorrow. For which I am very grateful, because of course, I hadn’t.
(Note to editors and clients: None of the above applies to work matters, for which I am always on time and which I never forget about. )
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Monday, 17 May 2010
A FEATHERY FEAST
Last week my friend’s retriever ate a seagull. A whole, white, unblemished, fresh-from-the-sky seagull.
When I agreed to walk Max, I asked if he had any particular quirks I should know about. Like my dog, for example, who is utterly sweet natured and adorable unless you’re a Jack Russell on a lead, in which case he’ll eat you.
‘Oh yes,’ said my friend Rachel. ‘He retrieves things.’
Bearing in mind that Max is a retriever, the discovery that he was a bit of a beachcomber didn’t worry me. Even when she added that he guards his trophies jealously.
‘You’ll never get anything off Max,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. He hardly ever seems to suffer any ill effects,’ she added somewhat cryptically.
When I was growing up a friend of mine had a retriever, a really soppy old thing who used to collect fresh eggs from the hen coop at the end of her garden and bring them to the kitchen. He would hang on to them gently until someone held out a hand and only then would he release his precious cargo, undamaged.
So when, at crack of dawn this morning, Max shot across the sand to the water’s edge and pounced on something, I barely noticed. I hardly batted an eyelid when he came right up to me, proudly bearing the very large bird.
I remained happily ignorant until we’d walked about halfway around the point. Max barked and scarpered if anyone approached him, but the bird was still clearly untouched.
Then all of a sudden, he vanished. I called but there was no sign of Max. I wandered on, confident he’d catch me up when he felt like it, but he didn’t.
Eventually, retracing my steps, I spotted him hiding in the sand dunes. He appeared to be shredding something. I hollered and he came lolloping towards me, stopping every now and then to shred a bit more. By the time he reached me, a large proportion of the beautiful, unblemished seagull was, how can I put it? Blemished. I’ll spare you the details but it wasn’t pretty.
Somehow I knew that offering him one of the peanut-sized treats I had in my pocket wasn’t going to distract him. I cajoled, I did my authoritative voice, I chased after him flapping my arms (not sure why), and I stood stock still, pointing sternly at the sand and saying, ‘Leave it!’ in a voice an octave lower than my usual one, which I’m told makes people more likely to listen to you. Margaret Thatcher did it apparently.
None of it worked. I turned my back on him and strode off, hoping that withdrawing my affection might make him realise the error of his ways, ditch the shredded bird and charge after me. (What? It works with men). Instead he stuck close to my heels, bearing the increasingly gory remains of seagull proudly for everyone to see. By this time I realised that the seagull had had its chips anyway and I gave up fighting and concentrated on pretending he wasn't with me.
By the time I got back to the car park, there was no longer any sign that the seagull had ever existed. No beak, no feet, nothing.
For a week I picked up doggy-doo with feathers in it. Seriously. Perfectly formed and healthy looking, if you must know, but stuffed full of feathers.
And Rachel was right. Max suffered no ill-effects whatsoever.
When I agreed to walk Max, I asked if he had any particular quirks I should know about. Like my dog, for example, who is utterly sweet natured and adorable unless you’re a Jack Russell on a lead, in which case he’ll eat you.
‘Oh yes,’ said my friend Rachel. ‘He retrieves things.’
Bearing in mind that Max is a retriever, the discovery that he was a bit of a beachcomber didn’t worry me. Even when she added that he guards his trophies jealously.
‘You’ll never get anything off Max,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry. He hardly ever seems to suffer any ill effects,’ she added somewhat cryptically.
When I was growing up a friend of mine had a retriever, a really soppy old thing who used to collect fresh eggs from the hen coop at the end of her garden and bring them to the kitchen. He would hang on to them gently until someone held out a hand and only then would he release his precious cargo, undamaged.
So when, at crack of dawn this morning, Max shot across the sand to the water’s edge and pounced on something, I barely noticed. I hardly batted an eyelid when he came right up to me, proudly bearing the very large bird.
I remained happily ignorant until we’d walked about halfway around the point. Max barked and scarpered if anyone approached him, but the bird was still clearly untouched.
Then all of a sudden, he vanished. I called but there was no sign of Max. I wandered on, confident he’d catch me up when he felt like it, but he didn’t.
Eventually, retracing my steps, I spotted him hiding in the sand dunes. He appeared to be shredding something. I hollered and he came lolloping towards me, stopping every now and then to shred a bit more. By the time he reached me, a large proportion of the beautiful, unblemished seagull was, how can I put it? Blemished. I’ll spare you the details but it wasn’t pretty.
Somehow I knew that offering him one of the peanut-sized treats I had in my pocket wasn’t going to distract him. I cajoled, I did my authoritative voice, I chased after him flapping my arms (not sure why), and I stood stock still, pointing sternly at the sand and saying, ‘Leave it!’ in a voice an octave lower than my usual one, which I’m told makes people more likely to listen to you. Margaret Thatcher did it apparently.
None of it worked. I turned my back on him and strode off, hoping that withdrawing my affection might make him realise the error of his ways, ditch the shredded bird and charge after me. (What? It works with men). Instead he stuck close to my heels, bearing the increasingly gory remains of seagull proudly for everyone to see. By this time I realised that the seagull had had its chips anyway and I gave up fighting and concentrated on pretending he wasn't with me.
By the time I got back to the car park, there was no longer any sign that the seagull had ever existed. No beak, no feet, nothing.
For a week I picked up doggy-doo with feathers in it. Seriously. Perfectly formed and healthy looking, if you must know, but stuffed full of feathers.
And Rachel was right. Max suffered no ill-effects whatsoever.
Sunday, 16 May 2010
Missed it, Mister Plod
Last night I was wrenched from sleep by a very, very loud bang. ‘What the hell was that?' I mumbled through closed eyes. 'Sounds like the dog exploded.’
Ignoring my half-conscious nonsense, the hero of the hour was out of bed at a speed I’d never seen him achieve before. He was away down the stairs with half an arm in my Estee Lauder robe (one of those free gifts they throw in to make it look like the obscenely-priced perfume is, in fact, excellent value) before you could say ‘burglar’, leaving the front door wide open.
Only mildly curious, I snuggled back down and would have gone back to sleep easily had it not been for the icy draught creeping up the stairs.
I read somewhere once that the best way to keep warm is to lie still. I think it was a survival guide in case you got lost on a snowy mountain. Apparently that way, your body only has to heat up the immediate centimetre surrounding you, like the Ready Brek glow, whereas if you wriggle about, the glow gets confused and tries to heat up the whole world, leaving you with lots of cold bits.
Well let me tell you, if you rely on this information at night on the Matterhorn, you’re going to die. I have now tried it, and it doesn't work. I lay stiff as a corpse for a good five minutes but it made not a jot of difference. Then I wiggled about a lot, thinking (as I had done originally, when reading this silly advice) that raising your body temperature has to be a better way to keep warm.
Eventually, furiously, I stomped downstairs planning to slam the door loudly enough for the village hero to get the message but not loudly enough to wake up the kids. It’s a delicate skill but I've done it so many times I've nailed it.
Having got there, it dawned on me belatedly that he'd shot off unhesitatingly in the middle of the night and that maybe I should be concerned. I poked my head out and, seeing nothing but darkness, tugged my t-shirt a bit further over my bottom, donned wellies (good look that, t-shirt, wellies and yesterday's make up) and crept out into the drive. I called but there was no reply. No sign of him.
I ventured to the end of the drive. In the gloom I could make out shadowy figures milling around a few doors down and, yes – there was definitely a man in a fluffy robe.
There had been some kind of car crash. Hoping it was nothing too grim, I put the front door on the latch and went to investigate.
It astonishes me that there aren't more accidents outside my house. We are positioned in a 30-mile-an-hour zone mid-way between two hairpin bends, but the speed some of the lads (sorry, but it is always lads) manage to crank up in the few short yards in between them is breath taking.
Turns out this one cranked it up a bit too much and lost if halfway round the bend, taking down a garden wall and ploughing his car into the ditch.
He was not hurt but was beside himself, not least because it wasn't his car. His cousin, who’d lent it to him, was also beside himself when he turned up, but not nearly so friendly. He was determined to get his car out of the ditch. I can’t tell you what he said to us when we suggested he go home and sort it out in the morning.
After a great deal of shunting, grumping and swearing (which our hero stayed out of for fear of getting my robe muddy), the lads managed to extract their battered motor from the ditch and drove off very shakily in the direction of home. This all took about an hour.
Two minutes later, the village police raced up and screeched to a halt. Leaping out they addressed the assembled neighbours.
‘Hear a car slammed into the ditch,’ they announced excitedly (not much goes on around here as a rule).
The men in dressing gowns looked at each other and then back at the bobbies.
‘Yes,’ said one of them, pointing slowly in the direction from which the police had just arrived.
‘That would be the one you just passed going two miles an hour in the opposite direction with the headlights hanging off and the doors bashed in....’
You know all those TV dramas where the policeman says to the reluctant witness, ‘...but you must have seen something unusual’?
Ignoring my half-conscious nonsense, the hero of the hour was out of bed at a speed I’d never seen him achieve before. He was away down the stairs with half an arm in my Estee Lauder robe (one of those free gifts they throw in to make it look like the obscenely-priced perfume is, in fact, excellent value) before you could say ‘burglar’, leaving the front door wide open.
Only mildly curious, I snuggled back down and would have gone back to sleep easily had it not been for the icy draught creeping up the stairs.
I read somewhere once that the best way to keep warm is to lie still. I think it was a survival guide in case you got lost on a snowy mountain. Apparently that way, your body only has to heat up the immediate centimetre surrounding you, like the Ready Brek glow, whereas if you wriggle about, the glow gets confused and tries to heat up the whole world, leaving you with lots of cold bits.
Well let me tell you, if you rely on this information at night on the Matterhorn, you’re going to die. I have now tried it, and it doesn't work. I lay stiff as a corpse for a good five minutes but it made not a jot of difference. Then I wiggled about a lot, thinking (as I had done originally, when reading this silly advice) that raising your body temperature has to be a better way to keep warm.
Eventually, furiously, I stomped downstairs planning to slam the door loudly enough for the village hero to get the message but not loudly enough to wake up the kids. It’s a delicate skill but I've done it so many times I've nailed it.
Having got there, it dawned on me belatedly that he'd shot off unhesitatingly in the middle of the night and that maybe I should be concerned. I poked my head out and, seeing nothing but darkness, tugged my t-shirt a bit further over my bottom, donned wellies (good look that, t-shirt, wellies and yesterday's make up) and crept out into the drive. I called but there was no reply. No sign of him.
I ventured to the end of the drive. In the gloom I could make out shadowy figures milling around a few doors down and, yes – there was definitely a man in a fluffy robe.
There had been some kind of car crash. Hoping it was nothing too grim, I put the front door on the latch and went to investigate.
It astonishes me that there aren't more accidents outside my house. We are positioned in a 30-mile-an-hour zone mid-way between two hairpin bends, but the speed some of the lads (sorry, but it is always lads) manage to crank up in the few short yards in between them is breath taking.
Turns out this one cranked it up a bit too much and lost if halfway round the bend, taking down a garden wall and ploughing his car into the ditch.
He was not hurt but was beside himself, not least because it wasn't his car. His cousin, who’d lent it to him, was also beside himself when he turned up, but not nearly so friendly. He was determined to get his car out of the ditch. I can’t tell you what he said to us when we suggested he go home and sort it out in the morning.
After a great deal of shunting, grumping and swearing (which our hero stayed out of for fear of getting my robe muddy), the lads managed to extract their battered motor from the ditch and drove off very shakily in the direction of home. This all took about an hour.
Two minutes later, the village police raced up and screeched to a halt. Leaping out they addressed the assembled neighbours.
‘Hear a car slammed into the ditch,’ they announced excitedly (not much goes on around here as a rule).
The men in dressing gowns looked at each other and then back at the bobbies.
‘Yes,’ said one of them, pointing slowly in the direction from which the police had just arrived.
‘That would be the one you just passed going two miles an hour in the opposite direction with the headlights hanging off and the doors bashed in....’
You know all those TV dramas where the policeman says to the reluctant witness, ‘...but you must have seen something unusual’?
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
You know they call me sledgehammer
Two weeks before Easter, Hubby came home and knocked down the wall between garage and conservatory with a sledgehammer.
Next weekend we have around forty friends and their small children coming for drinks and nibbles – and the living room is full of rubble.
Holding back my inner fishwife I am forced to admit (only to myself, obviously) that the fall of the wall is almost entirely my own fault.
Bored of waiting for my extension to be finished (started), I went to look at a house for sale yesterday. A very pretty (small, dark) cottage with a large (completely boxed-in) garden – and immaculate.
Now I’ve looked at immaculate houses before and, by and large, they’re not really my thing. To get the best price the vendor has completely recarpeted the house in top-quality, chocolate shag pile and fitted a spanking new kitchen which you really couldn’t justify ripping out but couldn’t live with for longer than it took you to open the front door – so you can’t buy the house.
But this one wasn’t like that. It was immaculately kitted out in my style (although I accept that to put the word immaculate and the phrase ‘my style’ in the same sentence would flummox most people who know me). I even loved the lamp shades - which I have an almost medical thing about – and which they were leaving. And the beautiful curtains. And the garden was stunning. My kind of stunning.
So the following morning I took hubby by the horns and suggested he go look at it.
His eyes rolled into the back of their sockets and his head hit his Shreddies. He peered at me through the milk in his fringe, clearly bewildered.
‘I didn’t know you wanted to move,’ said the poor man. ‘And besides – that place doesn’t fit your ‘criteria’. Surely??’
He had a point. It didn’t. My criteria are a standing joke in our family. They are the sort of requirements that are perfectly reasonable if your budget is well over a million – no neighbours within any kind of listening or spying distance of the garden, which by the way has to be south facing, masses of space and light, at least three reception rooms because I work from home, not on an estate as I have hens and camper vans and am a bit shabby so would upset all the stripey lawn set, and ideally on the sea front (even more ideally on a beautiful beach but not one that anyone else can go on, so people can’t watch me sunbathing and strangers’ dogs can’t wander into my lovely garden and eat my hens). On our modest budget though, my criteria are notoriously hard to meet. Where we live now meets all of them except the sea front bit and took ages to find.
So I understood his confusion. But then he blew it. ‘After all the plans we’ve made for the extension, all the work I’ve done....’
And there it was. The red rag that broke the camel’s back if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphor.
We moved here a few summers ago. I thought the extension would be finished for the first Christmas. Then I thought it would be finished for the next Christmas. Then the next. Hubby listened quietly and patiently as I babbled and blubbed about how long it was taking and then left for work, apparently ignoring my frustrated ranting.
I was wrong, as usual. Five thirty on the dot he came home with a sledgehammer and knocked down the wall. By bedtime the extension was, well, started. I can't really complain.
And by the time he and daughter number one had spray painted daffodils and sunshine on the decorator’s curtain separating my drinks party from the garage my teeth were no longer even gritted.
I’m looking on the bright side. It will be a great ice-breaker and a great party. And by this Christmas the extension will be finished........
Next weekend we have around forty friends and their small children coming for drinks and nibbles – and the living room is full of rubble.
Holding back my inner fishwife I am forced to admit (only to myself, obviously) that the fall of the wall is almost entirely my own fault.
Bored of waiting for my extension to be finished (started), I went to look at a house for sale yesterday. A very pretty (small, dark) cottage with a large (completely boxed-in) garden – and immaculate.
Now I’ve looked at immaculate houses before and, by and large, they’re not really my thing. To get the best price the vendor has completely recarpeted the house in top-quality, chocolate shag pile and fitted a spanking new kitchen which you really couldn’t justify ripping out but couldn’t live with for longer than it took you to open the front door – so you can’t buy the house.
But this one wasn’t like that. It was immaculately kitted out in my style (although I accept that to put the word immaculate and the phrase ‘my style’ in the same sentence would flummox most people who know me). I even loved the lamp shades - which I have an almost medical thing about – and which they were leaving. And the beautiful curtains. And the garden was stunning. My kind of stunning.
So the following morning I took hubby by the horns and suggested he go look at it.
His eyes rolled into the back of their sockets and his head hit his Shreddies. He peered at me through the milk in his fringe, clearly bewildered.
‘I didn’t know you wanted to move,’ said the poor man. ‘And besides – that place doesn’t fit your ‘criteria’. Surely??’
He had a point. It didn’t. My criteria are a standing joke in our family. They are the sort of requirements that are perfectly reasonable if your budget is well over a million – no neighbours within any kind of listening or spying distance of the garden, which by the way has to be south facing, masses of space and light, at least three reception rooms because I work from home, not on an estate as I have hens and camper vans and am a bit shabby so would upset all the stripey lawn set, and ideally on the sea front (even more ideally on a beautiful beach but not one that anyone else can go on, so people can’t watch me sunbathing and strangers’ dogs can’t wander into my lovely garden and eat my hens). On our modest budget though, my criteria are notoriously hard to meet. Where we live now meets all of them except the sea front bit and took ages to find.
So I understood his confusion. But then he blew it. ‘After all the plans we’ve made for the extension, all the work I’ve done....’
And there it was. The red rag that broke the camel’s back if you’ll excuse the mixed metaphor.
We moved here a few summers ago. I thought the extension would be finished for the first Christmas. Then I thought it would be finished for the next Christmas. Then the next. Hubby listened quietly and patiently as I babbled and blubbed about how long it was taking and then left for work, apparently ignoring my frustrated ranting.
I was wrong, as usual. Five thirty on the dot he came home with a sledgehammer and knocked down the wall. By bedtime the extension was, well, started. I can't really complain.
And by the time he and daughter number one had spray painted daffodils and sunshine on the decorator’s curtain separating my drinks party from the garage my teeth were no longer even gritted.
I’m looking on the bright side. It will be a great ice-breaker and a great party. And by this Christmas the extension will be finished........