First, Catch your Swan

No, not a recipe, you’ll be pleased to hear. But the nature reserve where the other half volunteers was having one of its winter ’swan uppings’ and we both went along to lend a hand. The other half, being the sort to look a swan in the eye without flinching, got to put them in their natty little jackets while I – who once failed to cover myself with glory at a toad-crossing-the-road day by being incapable of picking up a live toad and had to content myself with counting the squashed ones, a job that involved a shovel and a bucket – was writing things down.

Curiously enough, given how famously stroppy a swan can be, the birds were, on the whole, pretty calm about the whole affair and submitted to being weighed, measured, ringed, sexed and swabbed with reasonably good grace. It helps that the whoopers have slightly smiley-looking beaks and a general expression of mild curiousity on their faces, which I’m sure is entirely misleading given how rudely their elevensies had just been interrupted. I know that if I had been lured into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and biscuit and ended up netted, herded, grabbed, strait-jacketed and then – the final indignity – forced to wait in a queue to be weighed, I’d have been spitting feathers. As it was, they simply reserved the right to squirt evil-smelling liquid poo on anyone who got in range. And, frankly, who could blame them?

That Sinking Feeling

We really should know by now that the time to call the Rayburn man is when it first starts to show symptoms of its imminent demise, not after it’s croaked. It’s not as if it doesn’t warn us. The first time it makes that stuttering noise, followed by the gradual, but inexorable, decline in temperature, then nothing – turning it up, shoogling the magic button, waiting for the wind to change, prayer, or human sacrifice – will make the slightest bit of difference in the end. It will take time, a few days, but it will die and no amount of wishful thinking will change that. The only thing to do is summon help right away, because Rayburn man is sure, and Rayburn man is steady, but blimey, Rayburn man is awfully slow in responding to our pleas for help. Come to that, he’s not even terribly good at answering his phone.

And yet, once more, we’ve waited until after it has gurgled and sputtered its last before we start the process of ringing for his aid. When will we ever learn?

Oh Dear

Somebody hasn’t been looking after their Shiny New Bike properly. I’ve been coming home from various slushy, icy, grimy, rainy, gritty, grubby winter rides just too tired and cold and hurried to do more than promise it that, the first fine day that came along, I’d give it a really good clean. The inevitable result has been a slower bike, with skipping gears, that was becoming less of a pleasure to ride – no more than I deserved. But today dawned sunny and glorious and so, as promised, I wheeled it out into the sunshine and started work.

A bucket of hot water and car shampoo soon got rid of the accumulated coating of crud. Some slightly more prolonged work with a toothbrush (an old one, I don’t love it that much) sorted out the cranks, gears, derailleurs and the chain. I even scrubbed and polished the wheels and had a go at poking the worst of the detritus out from under the mudguards (tell me, is there any way of cleaning mudguards without removing them? Short of just sluicing through the nearest puddle…). By the time I’d de-greased and re-greased the chain, the bike was once more a thing of beauty and I was hot, filthy and sweating with hands all black with grease*. Still, it was worth it (and if L’Oreal made bike shampoo …), and, having fortified myself with a peanut butter sandwich, there was only one thing left to do:

Go out and get it dirty all over again.

*In retrospect, it would have been better to tackle this job after I’d done the pastry I was planning to make in the afternoon. And got in the laundry. Still, live and learn.

Village of the Damned (English)

I am at the village choir – or, rather, I am at the radical offshoot of the village choir that has formed among the younger set (those under 65, or those who are under 65 at heart) to do the odd song that was written within living memory without the rest of the choir looking disapproving.

‘What can we do that’s both funky and Scottish?’ the choir master (mistress?) asks. ‘What about the Proclaimers?’

She and her daughter burst into a lively rendition of Throw the ‘R’ Away. Rest of the choir looks blank.

‘Bit difficult for me, as I’m English,’ I point out.

‘So am I,’ says our next-door neighbour. ‘And me,’ says our other slightly-further-away neighbour. ‘And me,’ says the retired policeman from Hampshire (there under the young-at-heart clause) ‘And me,’ adds the choir mistress’s husband, although you think she would have noticed that by now. ‘So we’re the only two Scots here?’ she asks. ‘Well, technically, I’m half-English too,’ says her daughter.

This may go a long way towards explaining the shambles of the village Burns Night Ceilidh, which started with an insanely tall Englishman (or very posh Scot; it’s hard to distinguish them) piping in the haggis, continued with three different versions of the eightsome reel being performed simultaneously and ended with a rousing chorus of ‘Should Auld Acquaintance be forgot and mumble-mumble-mind’ before the band were sent away with enough whisky to blot out all memory of what had befallen their proud culture.

Although, if anyone does know all the words of the latter – from memory, mind, not through googling – Scottish or not, I shall be very surprised.

Those of you Eagerly Awaiting…

… the next book (you are eagerly awaiting it, aren’t you?) may be interested to hear that I have a new short story available FREE (for the Scots among you) at the Writers’ Hub, to keep you happy while you wait*.

Meanwhile, those of you with writerly ambitions of your own – and, after all, who wouldn’t want a career that leaves you impoverished, cold, sedentary, solitary and ever so slightly deranged – might want to check out the Hub itself, which is still finding its feet but shaping up to be a useful source of reviews, resources, poetry, fiction and the rest.

And for those of you hoping for another installment of this thrilling tale of country life: watch this space (‘you haven’t posted yet,’ complained the other half just now. ‘How could I, nothing happened today?’ I replied. ‘That’s never stopped you in the past…’)

*not, ahem, that it’s important at all, but I couldn’t help noticing that the other short story had a few more page views than mine…

Shave-and-a-Haircut

The other half returns from his quarterly haircut to report that the barber in Barbershop Village is thinking of hanging up his pole, and letting out his shop as offices instead. It’s just not making him enough money, apparently

‘Could you not just charge a bit more for a hair cut?’ asks the other half, handing over his £4.50 (having inexplicably escaped yet again the £1 ‘long hair’ supplementary charge)

‘Och no, I don’t want to go putting up prices.’

After all, I suppose, if you already set your tarrif some time – from the sounds of it – shortly after decimalisaion, you don’t want to impose an increase again so soon.

Considerably Harder than Thou

‘Right,’ I said to myself. ‘The minute the snow starts coming horizontally, I’m stopping.’ We were planting trees, you see, in an east wind, and the showers had turned wintry on us. The ground was almost frozen, we were frozen, even the poor little trees we were planting were half frozen and the clumps of roots had to be hacked apart with a spade. In short, not exactly prime tree planting weather. ‘Who the hell plants trees in the snow?’ I was muttering to myself as we went. ‘I bet we’re the hardest tree planters in all of Scotland.’

And then we did stop, and went into a nice warm room for a reviving cup of tea and our lunch, and I read about these people, who are recreating the wildwoods of the Southern Uplands. And had a look at some of their volunteering activities and decided that – when it came to tree planting – we’re still with the Southern Softies.

What a project, though. Well worth a little frostbite, don’t you think?

Its Own Reward

It struck me, as I walked up to the garden this morning to help feed the landlord’s chickens, that they make the perfect pets (chickens, that is, not landlords. Landlords will make a terrible mess of the carpet). I’m chicken-sitting at the moment (I did warn them that, as a family, we don’t have a great record on this…) and it was quite pleasant – a good excuse to be up in the garden first thing in the morning, plus my very own daily easter-egg hunt (hens are rubbish at hiding them though. The nest box was the first place I looked). They’ve got a low carbon footprint, they eat slugs, they’re reasonably attractive – what’s not to like? And you shouldn’t have much difficulty finding someone willing to look after them whenever you’re away. No need to find that last minute naff ‘thank you for looking after my pet’ gift at the motorway service station. Because the chickens will generally have handled that side of it for you

Now all I need is a recipe that requires two very fresh eggs.

Is it a Bird?

Is it a plane?

Or is it just the charming – and only faintly disturbing – haggis table decorations made by the village primary school kids for the Burns Night Ceilidh last night?

Obviously, we released ours into the wild once the evening was over – they’re getting quite endangered in these parts, due to the local habit of putting haggis in absolutely everything. I just hope the local shoot don’t mistake it for a pheasant…

Legend in my own Lunchtime

Did I say this?

Foolish, wasn’t it?

Yesterday, before all that, I cycled down to buy our tickets for the village Burns Night ceilidh.

‘Did you come on your bike?’ asked the woman in the school office as I handed over the cash.

‘Yes,’ I said, a little surprised because I wasn’t wearing anything particularly bikey, and I didn’t even have my trouser leg tucked into my sock for once.

‘It’s just, I see you madly pedalling about everywhere,’ she explained. ‘And jogging too.’

I suppose there are worse things to be than the village eccentric.