A little 4-year old voice pipes up from the back of the car the other morning on the school run...
B.: Mama, when I grow up I'm going to be rich.
Mama: Sounds good to me. And how are you going to manage that?
B.: I'm going to put all my toys in a hankie and leave home. Can I take Trouble with me? He is my cat after all...
Mama: Yes, you can take Trouble with you [thinks: one less cat in the bed in winter].
B.: Then I'm going to get some elves to make something really good and sell it. Then with the money I can make more and sell it. Then with that money I can make more and everyone will come and buy it, even the king. Then I'll have enough to buy sausages to eat and more things to sell.
Mama: Sounds like a good plan.
B.: And you know what? If any trolls try to stop me I'll just head-butt them over the side of the bridge and into the stream.
Eyeing her very self-satisfied four-year-old in the rear-view mirror, Mama turns over ideas for the Next Big Thing in management trends, and wonders whether "A princess, a cat, some elves and a billy goat: management by fairy-tale in the 21st century" might work on the NY Times bestseller list...
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Monday, 27 June 2011
Friday, 24 June 2011
Motherhood means ... No. 30
Motherhood means ...
... worrying whether I should be worrying that there is always a little bit of washing powder left in the container when I add the next bagful.
Perhaps another glass of fizz is in order.
Perhaps another glass of fizz is in order.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
A blessèd state
After three days of glorious sunshine and temperatures in the high 20s, today is overcast and threatening a little rain.
Good. I won't have to water the garden. But there is everything else.
Only two days into the 10-week summer holiday and my clean and tidy ideal home is a thing of memory. I'm drowning in cardboard-box tanks that fall apart when you move them, plastic-bottle contraptions that prove Boyle's Law, but soak everything in the process, and stuffed animals at all stages of mutilation spilling their innards from bedroom to study to churchyard and back. I'm up to my ankles in super-scratchable boxless DVDs, and up to my eyes in indecipherable swap cards.
The cats have colonised the bedrooms, the dog is a dark vortex of insanity in the entrance, and the chicks have developed a suicidal desire to fly the coop through any gap in the wire and offer themselves to the waiting fox. Or buzzard.
And under cover of last night's darkness my beloved husband has returned from his many wanderings. How do I know? Every drawer and cupboard door is open. The place is strewn with shoe polish, toothbrushes, dirty shirts and revolting conference baggies. And every time I try to cross the entrance I trip over the booby-trap boots.
A blessèd state, wife-and-motherhood. And now I know why my grandmother always used the word 'blessèd' to mean !*@?#!!!!
Good. I won't have to water the garden. But there is everything else.
Only two days into the 10-week summer holiday and my clean and tidy ideal home is a thing of memory. I'm drowning in cardboard-box tanks that fall apart when you move them, plastic-bottle contraptions that prove Boyle's Law, but soak everything in the process, and stuffed animals at all stages of mutilation spilling their innards from bedroom to study to churchyard and back. I'm up to my ankles in super-scratchable boxless DVDs, and up to my eyes in indecipherable swap cards.
The cats have colonised the bedrooms, the dog is a dark vortex of insanity in the entrance, and the chicks have developed a suicidal desire to fly the coop through any gap in the wire and offer themselves to the waiting fox. Or buzzard.
And under cover of last night's darkness my beloved husband has returned from his many wanderings. How do I know? Every drawer and cupboard door is open. The place is strewn with shoe polish, toothbrushes, dirty shirts and revolting conference baggies. And every time I try to cross the entrance I trip over the booby-trap boots.
A blessèd state, wife-and-motherhood. And now I know why my grandmother always used the word 'blessèd' to mean !*@?#!!!!
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Madonna with sunburst
After days of showers, heavy and otherwise, today is bright and breezy. No excuses - it's time to repair the damage in the garden.
One of my favourite Madonnas.
I love her sunburst halo.
Via Roma, Cannobio.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Rainbow over Lago Maggiore
Nineteen degrees at 8am, but promising hot, steamy and showery later.
Photo by AJ, aged 6
From Carmine Superiore, June 2011.
Monday, 13 June 2011
The holiday before the holiday
It's mid-June, and the mothers hereabouts are staring down the barrel of 10 weeks of summer holiday. The prospect is so scary that this mother has been taking pre-emptive action. This week, Mama has been on a pre-holiday holiday. Children, husband and dog have all been packed off to the tender mercies of Oma - where they have been enjoying a strict Prussian regime of ice-cream, the cellar's best Riesling and some rather good bones.
And Mama has been on holiday. Did I already say that? Yes? Nota bene.
And what lovely things did Mama get up to alone in Carmine with only a rabble of cats and a chuckle of chicks for company? I'll tell you what she got up to.
She cleaned 55 panes of glass and 8 mirrors. She swept, vaccuumed and mopped 11 separate floors plus stairs and hallways. She wet-dusted every surface, including ceiling beams, picture frames, the insides of cupboards and the very highest shelves. She raked out four grates and disposed of the contents and choked on the dust.
She sorted, bagged, carried down the hill and dumped a grand total of 23 bags of old clothes, toys and straight trash (and, yes, she was counting, through gritted teeth). She spent two days solid fishing unmentionable objects from under beds, separating the Duplo from the Leggo, reuniting jigsaw pieces with their sets and sellotaping broken boxes back together. In those days she pondered many of the great children's-bedroom mysteries, such as where the enormous pile of plastic, pastel-coloured ponies had materialized from, and whether her son's collection of cat-gift bird wings (minus the birds) constituted a health hazard.
She archived winter duvets and aired summer duvets; she stripped, laundered and made up five beds. She washed and dried (in teeming rain) four dog blankets, and seven rag rugs. She ironed for England, including pressing 11 shirts to hot-cotton perfection, 6 of them with fussy French cuffs. She discovered that if the laundry hampers and the ironing baskets are empty at the same time (which they normally never are), she needs 100% more space in the wardrobes than she now has.
Of course, having spent so much time on her own, Mama has a few secrets...a few little sins to confess. She has done things that she should not have done ("Where did that 5-litre jar of two-year-old age-browned pickled cauliflower go, darling?" And "Mama, what happened to that plastic Spongebob Squarepants I had? I've never looked at it before, but I want it - NOW!"). And she has not done things that she should have done ("Honey, did you pick up my suits from the cleaners?" And "Oh Mama, have you designed my party invitations, yet?" And "Why didn't you eat the lettuces before they bolted?").
So as this Monday dawns, and the husband, the son, the daughter, the dog, several cases of Alsatian fizz, rather too much stinky French cheese and hundreds of books make their way south, Mama is left with a vague recollection that somebody at some stage mentioned a holiday...
And Mama has been on holiday. Did I already say that? Yes? Nota bene.
And what lovely things did Mama get up to alone in Carmine with only a rabble of cats and a chuckle of chicks for company? I'll tell you what she got up to.
She cleaned 55 panes of glass and 8 mirrors. She swept, vaccuumed and mopped 11 separate floors plus stairs and hallways. She wet-dusted every surface, including ceiling beams, picture frames, the insides of cupboards and the very highest shelves. She raked out four grates and disposed of the contents and choked on the dust.She sorted, bagged, carried down the hill and dumped a grand total of 23 bags of old clothes, toys and straight trash (and, yes, she was counting, through gritted teeth). She spent two days solid fishing unmentionable objects from under beds, separating the Duplo from the Leggo, reuniting jigsaw pieces with their sets and sellotaping broken boxes back together. In those days she pondered many of the great children's-bedroom mysteries, such as where the enormous pile of plastic, pastel-coloured ponies had materialized from, and whether her son's collection of cat-gift bird wings (minus the birds) constituted a health hazard.
She archived winter duvets and aired summer duvets; she stripped, laundered and made up five beds. She washed and dried (in teeming rain) four dog blankets, and seven rag rugs. She ironed for England, including pressing 11 shirts to hot-cotton perfection, 6 of them with fussy French cuffs. She discovered that if the laundry hampers and the ironing baskets are empty at the same time (which they normally never are), she needs 100% more space in the wardrobes than she now has.
Of course, having spent so much time on her own, Mama has a few secrets...a few little sins to confess. She has done things that she should not have done ("Where did that 5-litre jar of two-year-old age-browned pickled cauliflower go, darling?" And "Mama, what happened to that plastic Spongebob Squarepants I had? I've never looked at it before, but I want it - NOW!"). And she has not done things that she should have done ("Honey, did you pick up my suits from the cleaners?" And "Oh Mama, have you designed my party invitations, yet?" And "Why didn't you eat the lettuces before they bolted?").
So as this Monday dawns, and the husband, the son, the daughter, the dog, several cases of Alsatian fizz, rather too much stinky French cheese and hundreds of books make their way south, Mama is left with a vague recollection that somebody at some stage mentioned a holiday...
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Half asleep in polka-dot pyjamas
Six am.
Through the open window comes a squawking and a cackling and a familiar ringing cry from the hen house. Having lost four of my beloved chicks in recent days, I'm out of bed and doing the chicken-house sprint before you can say foxy-loxy. Barefoot in polka-dot pyjamas and still half-blind with sleep.
Could it be the buzzard, perhaps? Yesterday I witnessed an extraordinary sight - a jay, howling excitedly, wheeling and turning in pursuit of a massive buzzard - following the contours of Carmine's terraces and out of sight over the lake. Seconds later the jay was back, without the buzzard, and howling victoriously.
I know, it's the fox! I can't remember closing the chicken-house door yesterday, my skirt gripped to my waist and bulging with eggs. Did I? Oh God! I'm prepared for a litter of corpses and a drift of soft baby down.
As I reach them, the cockerel begins to crow an all-clear. In a corner of the prato, under the trees, next to the wood pile, I sense rather than see a massive, majestic red stag. He is motionless for a moment, eyeing up the polka-dot pyjamas. Slowly bowing his hefty antlers in haughty disapproval, he drifts away into the damp gloom.
I let myself into palazzo pollo, counting as I go. The big guys are easy. One cockerel. Check. Seven fat girls. Check. The flock of youngsters are harder to count as they fly to me from all corners of the enclosure like Trafalgar-Square pigeons to a tourist. Stand still! Okay. Seventeen. Check.
From out of the undergrowth one of the cats stalks angrily and sits herself down to wait with a humph. She's staring at me out of cool green eyes. Still sulking that I evicted her last night and passing judgement on the polka-dot pyjamas.
The netting is down, and I spend a few minutes fixing it back up - adept these days with the wirecutters (who'd have thought?). The chicks surround me, some on perches, some on the ground at my feet. Some try to sit on my shoulders, and I gently brush them away, remembering the several pairs of pearl earrings they've stolen right out of my ears in recent weeks. They're understandably attracted to anything that to them resembles grain.
The out-loud laugh that bubbles up I cut short, with a furtive glance around - am I destined for mad old lady-hood?
As I work I realise my little ones are being more than usually attentive this morning. To my knees.
I look down.
It seems they like the polka-dot pyjamas if no-one else does, and if I'm not careful I shall be bare-footing it back to the village with them in tatters and my mad lady status well and truly confirmed...
Through the open window comes a squawking and a cackling and a familiar ringing cry from the hen house. Having lost four of my beloved chicks in recent days, I'm out of bed and doing the chicken-house sprint before you can say foxy-loxy. Barefoot in polka-dot pyjamas and still half-blind with sleep.
Could it be the buzzard, perhaps? Yesterday I witnessed an extraordinary sight - a jay, howling excitedly, wheeling and turning in pursuit of a massive buzzard - following the contours of Carmine's terraces and out of sight over the lake. Seconds later the jay was back, without the buzzard, and howling victoriously.
I know, it's the fox! I can't remember closing the chicken-house door yesterday, my skirt gripped to my waist and bulging with eggs. Did I? Oh God! I'm prepared for a litter of corpses and a drift of soft baby down.
As I reach them, the cockerel begins to crow an all-clear. In a corner of the prato, under the trees, next to the wood pile, I sense rather than see a massive, majestic red stag. He is motionless for a moment, eyeing up the polka-dot pyjamas. Slowly bowing his hefty antlers in haughty disapproval, he drifts away into the damp gloom.
I let myself into palazzo pollo, counting as I go. The big guys are easy. One cockerel. Check. Seven fat girls. Check. The flock of youngsters are harder to count as they fly to me from all corners of the enclosure like Trafalgar-Square pigeons to a tourist. Stand still! Okay. Seventeen. Check.
From out of the undergrowth one of the cats stalks angrily and sits herself down to wait with a humph. She's staring at me out of cool green eyes. Still sulking that I evicted her last night and passing judgement on the polka-dot pyjamas.
The netting is down, and I spend a few minutes fixing it back up - adept these days with the wirecutters (who'd have thought?). The chicks surround me, some on perches, some on the ground at my feet. Some try to sit on my shoulders, and I gently brush them away, remembering the several pairs of pearl earrings they've stolen right out of my ears in recent weeks. They're understandably attracted to anything that to them resembles grain.
The out-loud laugh that bubbles up I cut short, with a furtive glance around - am I destined for mad old lady-hood?
As I work I realise my little ones are being more than usually attentive this morning. To my knees.
I look down.
It seems they like the polka-dot pyjamas if no-one else does, and if I'm not careful I shall be bare-footing it back to the village with them in tatters and my mad lady status well and truly confirmed...
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
In the hedgerow
Still showery, but much, much brighter. I have high hopes for hay-raking...tomorrow.
Wild strawberries in flower.
Carmine Superiore.
Monday, 6 June 2011
Rainy day
Warm, but raining hard with the occasional clap of gratuitous thunder. And thems as know say it'll be doing the same all week.
Wave ta-ta to hay-making, bid adieu to raspberry-picking and send a permanent good-bye to the basil as it falls prey to an army of damp-loving slugs. Say hello to permanently wet laundry, buongiorno to muddy wellies, and ciao to those pretty little fungal blooms in the corner of the sitting room where the village well used to be.
I love the sound of it, though, on the great stone roof. I love to sit at our highest window up under the eaves and watch the woods deepen in colour. I love to see the sheets of rain range across the silver lake. And I love it when Carmine is enveloped in cloud, and there's nothing in the world beyond me and the ancient stone.
Wave ta-ta to hay-making, bid adieu to raspberry-picking and send a permanent good-bye to the basil as it falls prey to an army of damp-loving slugs. Say hello to permanently wet laundry, buongiorno to muddy wellies, and ciao to those pretty little fungal blooms in the corner of the sitting room where the village well used to be.
I love the sound of it, though, on the great stone roof. I love to sit at our highest window up under the eaves and watch the woods deepen in colour. I love to see the sheets of rain range across the silver lake. And I love it when Carmine is enveloped in cloud, and there's nothing in the world beyond me and the ancient stone.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Brooding
Still raining, but with the occasional pause accompanied by a shaft of sunlight, just to lull the unwary into a false sense of meteorological security.
Red sky in the morning,
Shepherd's warning...
Morning view from Carmine Superiore.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Weather report
Looks like the rain has set in for the next few days. The house is very dark today, and everything seems damp.
A shame for the Pentecost campers.
A shame for the Pentecost campers.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Three-fold curse with postscript
Overcast and humid with occasional shower and hot sunny spells.
To the person who came into my garden in the last couple of days and stole one of my new jasmine plants, I curse you thus:
As the jasmine in other gardens perfumes the air with romantic dreams, may this plant give off the foul stench of sewage and roasting Nescafé.
As the plant takes root and grows vigorous, may your bad conscience take root, grow vigorous and spoil your enjoyment of Gardener's Question Time.
Oh yes, and if you just yanked it out and threw it in the hedge out of pure spiteful malice, may all your own efforts toward beauty in life be hauled out by the roots and hurled into the gutter, there to rot in a putrid mass. Amen.
Now I'm going to take off my pointy hat, make a cuppa and feed Greymalkin and Paddock.
To the person who came into my garden in the last couple of days and stole one of my new jasmine plants, I curse you thus:
As the jasmine in other gardens perfumes the air with romantic dreams, may this plant give off the foul stench of sewage and roasting Nescafé.
As the plant takes root and grows vigorous, may your bad conscience take root, grow vigorous and spoil your enjoyment of Gardener's Question Time.
As this jasmine cost the princely sum of nine euros, may you lose nine times nine times nine times nine euros-worth of tender green things to the slugs, and juicy red things to the birds.
Now I'm going to take off my pointy hat, make a cuppa and feed Greymalkin and Paddock.
Thursday, 2 June 2011
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Thursday, 30 June 2011
Reported conversations No. 26 : When I grow up
A little 4-year old voice pipes up from the back of the car the other morning on the school run...
B.: Mama, when I grow up I'm going to be rich.
Mama: Sounds good to me. And how are you going to manage that?
B.: I'm going to put all my toys in a hankie and leave home. Can I take Trouble with me? He is my cat after all...
Mama: Yes, you can take Trouble with you [thinks: one less cat in the bed in winter].
B.: Then I'm going to get some elves to make something really good and sell it. Then with the money I can make more and sell it. Then with that money I can make more and everyone will come and buy it, even the king. Then I'll have enough to buy sausages to eat and more things to sell.
Mama: Sounds like a good plan.
B.: And you know what? If any trolls try to stop me I'll just head-butt them over the side of the bridge and into the stream.
Eyeing her very self-satisfied four-year-old in the rear-view mirror, Mama turns over ideas for the Next Big Thing in management trends, and wonders whether "A princess, a cat, some elves and a billy goat: management by fairy-tale in the 21st century" might work on the NY Times bestseller list...
B.: Mama, when I grow up I'm going to be rich.
Mama: Sounds good to me. And how are you going to manage that?
B.: I'm going to put all my toys in a hankie and leave home. Can I take Trouble with me? He is my cat after all...
Mama: Yes, you can take Trouble with you [thinks: one less cat in the bed in winter].
B.: Then I'm going to get some elves to make something really good and sell it. Then with the money I can make more and sell it. Then with that money I can make more and everyone will come and buy it, even the king. Then I'll have enough to buy sausages to eat and more things to sell.
Mama: Sounds like a good plan.
B.: And you know what? If any trolls try to stop me I'll just head-butt them over the side of the bridge and into the stream.
Eyeing her very self-satisfied four-year-old in the rear-view mirror, Mama turns over ideas for the Next Big Thing in management trends, and wonders whether "A princess, a cat, some elves and a billy goat: management by fairy-tale in the 21st century" might work on the NY Times bestseller list...
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
Monday, 27 June 2011
Friday, 24 June 2011
Motherhood means ... No. 30
Motherhood means ...
... worrying whether I should be worrying that there is always a little bit of washing powder left in the container when I add the next bagful.
Perhaps another glass of fizz is in order.
Perhaps another glass of fizz is in order.
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
A blessèd state
After three days of glorious sunshine and temperatures in the high 20s, today is overcast and threatening a little rain.
Good. I won't have to water the garden. But there is everything else.
Only two days into the 10-week summer holiday and my clean and tidy ideal home is a thing of memory. I'm drowning in cardboard-box tanks that fall apart when you move them, plastic-bottle contraptions that prove Boyle's Law, but soak everything in the process, and stuffed animals at all stages of mutilation spilling their innards from bedroom to study to churchyard and back. I'm up to my ankles in super-scratchable boxless DVDs, and up to my eyes in indecipherable swap cards.
The cats have colonised the bedrooms, the dog is a dark vortex of insanity in the entrance, and the chicks have developed a suicidal desire to fly the coop through any gap in the wire and offer themselves to the waiting fox. Or buzzard.
And under cover of last night's darkness my beloved husband has returned from his many wanderings. How do I know? Every drawer and cupboard door is open. The place is strewn with shoe polish, toothbrushes, dirty shirts and revolting conference baggies. And every time I try to cross the entrance I trip over the booby-trap boots.
A blessèd state, wife-and-motherhood. And now I know why my grandmother always used the word 'blessèd' to mean !*@?#!!!!
Good. I won't have to water the garden. But there is everything else.
Only two days into the 10-week summer holiday and my clean and tidy ideal home is a thing of memory. I'm drowning in cardboard-box tanks that fall apart when you move them, plastic-bottle contraptions that prove Boyle's Law, but soak everything in the process, and stuffed animals at all stages of mutilation spilling their innards from bedroom to study to churchyard and back. I'm up to my ankles in super-scratchable boxless DVDs, and up to my eyes in indecipherable swap cards.
The cats have colonised the bedrooms, the dog is a dark vortex of insanity in the entrance, and the chicks have developed a suicidal desire to fly the coop through any gap in the wire and offer themselves to the waiting fox. Or buzzard.
And under cover of last night's darkness my beloved husband has returned from his many wanderings. How do I know? Every drawer and cupboard door is open. The place is strewn with shoe polish, toothbrushes, dirty shirts and revolting conference baggies. And every time I try to cross the entrance I trip over the booby-trap boots.
A blessèd state, wife-and-motherhood. And now I know why my grandmother always used the word 'blessèd' to mean !*@?#!!!!
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Madonna with sunburst
After days of showers, heavy and otherwise, today is bright and breezy. No excuses - it's time to repair the damage in the garden.
One of my favourite Madonnas.
I love her sunburst halo.
Via Roma, Cannobio.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Rainbow over Lago Maggiore
Nineteen degrees at 8am, but promising hot, steamy and showery later.
Photo by AJ, aged 6
From Carmine Superiore, June 2011.
Monday, 13 June 2011
The holiday before the holiday
It's mid-June, and the mothers hereabouts are staring down the barrel of 10 weeks of summer holiday. The prospect is so scary that this mother has been taking pre-emptive action. This week, Mama has been on a pre-holiday holiday. Children, husband and dog have all been packed off to the tender mercies of Oma - where they have been enjoying a strict Prussian regime of ice-cream, the cellar's best Riesling and some rather good bones.
And Mama has been on holiday. Did I already say that? Yes? Nota bene.
And what lovely things did Mama get up to alone in Carmine with only a rabble of cats and a chuckle of chicks for company? I'll tell you what she got up to.
She cleaned 55 panes of glass and 8 mirrors. She swept, vaccuumed and mopped 11 separate floors plus stairs and hallways. She wet-dusted every surface, including ceiling beams, picture frames, the insides of cupboards and the very highest shelves. She raked out four grates and disposed of the contents and choked on the dust.
She sorted, bagged, carried down the hill and dumped a grand total of 23 bags of old clothes, toys and straight trash (and, yes, she was counting, through gritted teeth). She spent two days solid fishing unmentionable objects from under beds, separating the Duplo from the Leggo, reuniting jigsaw pieces with their sets and sellotaping broken boxes back together. In those days she pondered many of the great children's-bedroom mysteries, such as where the enormous pile of plastic, pastel-coloured ponies had materialized from, and whether her son's collection of cat-gift bird wings (minus the birds) constituted a health hazard.
She archived winter duvets and aired summer duvets; she stripped, laundered and made up five beds. She washed and dried (in teeming rain) four dog blankets, and seven rag rugs. She ironed for England, including pressing 11 shirts to hot-cotton perfection, 6 of them with fussy French cuffs. She discovered that if the laundry hampers and the ironing baskets are empty at the same time (which they normally never are), she needs 100% more space in the wardrobes than she now has.
Of course, having spent so much time on her own, Mama has a few secrets...a few little sins to confess. She has done things that she should not have done ("Where did that 5-litre jar of two-year-old age-browned pickled cauliflower go, darling?" And "Mama, what happened to that plastic Spongebob Squarepants I had? I've never looked at it before, but I want it - NOW!"). And she has not done things that she should have done ("Honey, did you pick up my suits from the cleaners?" And "Oh Mama, have you designed my party invitations, yet?" And "Why didn't you eat the lettuces before they bolted?").
So as this Monday dawns, and the husband, the son, the daughter, the dog, several cases of Alsatian fizz, rather too much stinky French cheese and hundreds of books make their way south, Mama is left with a vague recollection that somebody at some stage mentioned a holiday...
And Mama has been on holiday. Did I already say that? Yes? Nota bene.
And what lovely things did Mama get up to alone in Carmine with only a rabble of cats and a chuckle of chicks for company? I'll tell you what she got up to.
She cleaned 55 panes of glass and 8 mirrors. She swept, vaccuumed and mopped 11 separate floors plus stairs and hallways. She wet-dusted every surface, including ceiling beams, picture frames, the insides of cupboards and the very highest shelves. She raked out four grates and disposed of the contents and choked on the dust.She sorted, bagged, carried down the hill and dumped a grand total of 23 bags of old clothes, toys and straight trash (and, yes, she was counting, through gritted teeth). She spent two days solid fishing unmentionable objects from under beds, separating the Duplo from the Leggo, reuniting jigsaw pieces with their sets and sellotaping broken boxes back together. In those days she pondered many of the great children's-bedroom mysteries, such as where the enormous pile of plastic, pastel-coloured ponies had materialized from, and whether her son's collection of cat-gift bird wings (minus the birds) constituted a health hazard.
She archived winter duvets and aired summer duvets; she stripped, laundered and made up five beds. She washed and dried (in teeming rain) four dog blankets, and seven rag rugs. She ironed for England, including pressing 11 shirts to hot-cotton perfection, 6 of them with fussy French cuffs. She discovered that if the laundry hampers and the ironing baskets are empty at the same time (which they normally never are), she needs 100% more space in the wardrobes than she now has.
Of course, having spent so much time on her own, Mama has a few secrets...a few little sins to confess. She has done things that she should not have done ("Where did that 5-litre jar of two-year-old age-browned pickled cauliflower go, darling?" And "Mama, what happened to that plastic Spongebob Squarepants I had? I've never looked at it before, but I want it - NOW!"). And she has not done things that she should have done ("Honey, did you pick up my suits from the cleaners?" And "Oh Mama, have you designed my party invitations, yet?" And "Why didn't you eat the lettuces before they bolted?").
So as this Monday dawns, and the husband, the son, the daughter, the dog, several cases of Alsatian fizz, rather too much stinky French cheese and hundreds of books make their way south, Mama is left with a vague recollection that somebody at some stage mentioned a holiday...
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Half asleep in polka-dot pyjamas
Six am.
Through the open window comes a squawking and a cackling and a familiar ringing cry from the hen house. Having lost four of my beloved chicks in recent days, I'm out of bed and doing the chicken-house sprint before you can say foxy-loxy. Barefoot in polka-dot pyjamas and still half-blind with sleep.
Could it be the buzzard, perhaps? Yesterday I witnessed an extraordinary sight - a jay, howling excitedly, wheeling and turning in pursuit of a massive buzzard - following the contours of Carmine's terraces and out of sight over the lake. Seconds later the jay was back, without the buzzard, and howling victoriously.
I know, it's the fox! I can't remember closing the chicken-house door yesterday, my skirt gripped to my waist and bulging with eggs. Did I? Oh God! I'm prepared for a litter of corpses and a drift of soft baby down.
As I reach them, the cockerel begins to crow an all-clear. In a corner of the prato, under the trees, next to the wood pile, I sense rather than see a massive, majestic red stag. He is motionless for a moment, eyeing up the polka-dot pyjamas. Slowly bowing his hefty antlers in haughty disapproval, he drifts away into the damp gloom.
I let myself into palazzo pollo, counting as I go. The big guys are easy. One cockerel. Check. Seven fat girls. Check. The flock of youngsters are harder to count as they fly to me from all corners of the enclosure like Trafalgar-Square pigeons to a tourist. Stand still! Okay. Seventeen. Check.
From out of the undergrowth one of the cats stalks angrily and sits herself down to wait with a humph. She's staring at me out of cool green eyes. Still sulking that I evicted her last night and passing judgement on the polka-dot pyjamas.
The netting is down, and I spend a few minutes fixing it back up - adept these days with the wirecutters (who'd have thought?). The chicks surround me, some on perches, some on the ground at my feet. Some try to sit on my shoulders, and I gently brush them away, remembering the several pairs of pearl earrings they've stolen right out of my ears in recent weeks. They're understandably attracted to anything that to them resembles grain.
The out-loud laugh that bubbles up I cut short, with a furtive glance around - am I destined for mad old lady-hood?
As I work I realise my little ones are being more than usually attentive this morning. To my knees.
I look down.
It seems they like the polka-dot pyjamas if no-one else does, and if I'm not careful I shall be bare-footing it back to the village with them in tatters and my mad lady status well and truly confirmed...
Through the open window comes a squawking and a cackling and a familiar ringing cry from the hen house. Having lost four of my beloved chicks in recent days, I'm out of bed and doing the chicken-house sprint before you can say foxy-loxy. Barefoot in polka-dot pyjamas and still half-blind with sleep.
Could it be the buzzard, perhaps? Yesterday I witnessed an extraordinary sight - a jay, howling excitedly, wheeling and turning in pursuit of a massive buzzard - following the contours of Carmine's terraces and out of sight over the lake. Seconds later the jay was back, without the buzzard, and howling victoriously.
I know, it's the fox! I can't remember closing the chicken-house door yesterday, my skirt gripped to my waist and bulging with eggs. Did I? Oh God! I'm prepared for a litter of corpses and a drift of soft baby down.
As I reach them, the cockerel begins to crow an all-clear. In a corner of the prato, under the trees, next to the wood pile, I sense rather than see a massive, majestic red stag. He is motionless for a moment, eyeing up the polka-dot pyjamas. Slowly bowing his hefty antlers in haughty disapproval, he drifts away into the damp gloom.
I let myself into palazzo pollo, counting as I go. The big guys are easy. One cockerel. Check. Seven fat girls. Check. The flock of youngsters are harder to count as they fly to me from all corners of the enclosure like Trafalgar-Square pigeons to a tourist. Stand still! Okay. Seventeen. Check.
From out of the undergrowth one of the cats stalks angrily and sits herself down to wait with a humph. She's staring at me out of cool green eyes. Still sulking that I evicted her last night and passing judgement on the polka-dot pyjamas.
The netting is down, and I spend a few minutes fixing it back up - adept these days with the wirecutters (who'd have thought?). The chicks surround me, some on perches, some on the ground at my feet. Some try to sit on my shoulders, and I gently brush them away, remembering the several pairs of pearl earrings they've stolen right out of my ears in recent weeks. They're understandably attracted to anything that to them resembles grain.
The out-loud laugh that bubbles up I cut short, with a furtive glance around - am I destined for mad old lady-hood?
As I work I realise my little ones are being more than usually attentive this morning. To my knees.
I look down.
It seems they like the polka-dot pyjamas if no-one else does, and if I'm not careful I shall be bare-footing it back to the village with them in tatters and my mad lady status well and truly confirmed...
Thursday, 9 June 2011
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
In the hedgerow
Still showery, but much, much brighter. I have high hopes for hay-raking...tomorrow.
Wild strawberries in flower.
Carmine Superiore.
Monday, 6 June 2011
Rainy day
Warm, but raining hard with the occasional clap of gratuitous thunder. And thems as know say it'll be doing the same all week.
Wave ta-ta to hay-making, bid adieu to raspberry-picking and send a permanent good-bye to the basil as it falls prey to an army of damp-loving slugs. Say hello to permanently wet laundry, buongiorno to muddy wellies, and ciao to those pretty little fungal blooms in the corner of the sitting room where the village well used to be.
I love the sound of it, though, on the great stone roof. I love to sit at our highest window up under the eaves and watch the woods deepen in colour. I love to see the sheets of rain range across the silver lake. And I love it when Carmine is enveloped in cloud, and there's nothing in the world beyond me and the ancient stone.
Wave ta-ta to hay-making, bid adieu to raspberry-picking and send a permanent good-bye to the basil as it falls prey to an army of damp-loving slugs. Say hello to permanently wet laundry, buongiorno to muddy wellies, and ciao to those pretty little fungal blooms in the corner of the sitting room where the village well used to be.
I love the sound of it, though, on the great stone roof. I love to sit at our highest window up under the eaves and watch the woods deepen in colour. I love to see the sheets of rain range across the silver lake. And I love it when Carmine is enveloped in cloud, and there's nothing in the world beyond me and the ancient stone.
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Brooding
Still raining, but with the occasional pause accompanied by a shaft of sunlight, just to lull the unwary into a false sense of meteorological security.
Red sky in the morning,
Shepherd's warning...
Morning view from Carmine Superiore.
Saturday, 4 June 2011
Weather report
Looks like the rain has set in for the next few days. The house is very dark today, and everything seems damp.
A shame for the Pentecost campers.
A shame for the Pentecost campers.
Friday, 3 June 2011
Three-fold curse with postscript
Overcast and humid with occasional shower and hot sunny spells.
To the person who came into my garden in the last couple of days and stole one of my new jasmine plants, I curse you thus:
As the jasmine in other gardens perfumes the air with romantic dreams, may this plant give off the foul stench of sewage and roasting Nescafé.
As the plant takes root and grows vigorous, may your bad conscience take root, grow vigorous and spoil your enjoyment of Gardener's Question Time.
Oh yes, and if you just yanked it out and threw it in the hedge out of pure spiteful malice, may all your own efforts toward beauty in life be hauled out by the roots and hurled into the gutter, there to rot in a putrid mass. Amen.
Now I'm going to take off my pointy hat, make a cuppa and feed Greymalkin and Paddock.
To the person who came into my garden in the last couple of days and stole one of my new jasmine plants, I curse you thus:
As the jasmine in other gardens perfumes the air with romantic dreams, may this plant give off the foul stench of sewage and roasting Nescafé.
As the plant takes root and grows vigorous, may your bad conscience take root, grow vigorous and spoil your enjoyment of Gardener's Question Time.
As this jasmine cost the princely sum of nine euros, may you lose nine times nine times nine times nine euros-worth of tender green things to the slugs, and juicy red things to the birds.
Now I'm going to take off my pointy hat, make a cuppa and feed Greymalkin and Paddock.
Thursday, 2 June 2011
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