A winter's woes

When I was little we used to live in a house without central heating, but we did have the luxury of a gas fire in the front room and an open fire in the back. Therefore, the downstairs part of the house was usually nice and cosy. Bedtime was a bit of an adventure but we used to get undressed downstairs and leg it to bed with our hot water bottles so didn’t really get that cold. It is ironic that all these years later with supposed improvements in living conditions that I am colder than I have ever been, bar perhaps once.

I have a cold, and I am cold. I am feeling sorry for myself and think I deserve a bit of a moan. My circulation is poor and my feet can be chilly even in the summer so at this time of year even wearing three pairs of socks and fleece lined Uggi-type boots seems to make no difference. I am wandering around the house with five layers of clothing on and even have to wear my mittens at the keyboard. A good way of getting my hands warm is to wash up – and then only briefly because although the Raeburn is gallantly heating up the water as much as it can, it has had to be turned down due to the astronomical rise in oil prices. Therefore it no longer warms the kitchen and dining room like it used to and the hot water diminishes after a couple of bowl’s worth of dirty dishes. Then it is time to get the kettle on to supply some hot H2O by way of a different source – which of course then adds to the electricity bill. A well worn Catch 22 situation really.

The only time I can remember being this cold was one Christmas when my father was in hospital after having his gall bladder removed. The central heating at home had broken down. Being that it was Christmas – and remember in those days shops etc did actually close for a certain period of time – we had to wait a week or so before we could get anyone out to fix the central heating to avoid paying extraordinary out of hours prices and wait in a queue of similarly afflicted householders. I seem to remember that it was eventually sorted out a day or so before my dad came home from hospital.

I recall that it was extremely icy outside – whether it had snowed or not escapes my memory – but my mum and I used to go out to visit dad at Northwick Park Hospital in Harrow, which was a good train ride away from Uxbridge. So we walked down to the station, sat on a warmish train for a bit before sometimes having to change trains at Rayners Lane and stand around for a bit more. When we got the hospital it was absolutely stifling and we used to look at each other in despair when my dad used to complain that it was too hot in there for him. It is always so difficult to try to explain how cold it is to someone when that person is lying in bed in greenhouse temperatures. In the summertime you can sit outside in the garden in your shorts and t-shirt and not remember how cold you can actually get just a few months later – the brain is peculiar in its selective memory. They always say that women would never have more than one child if their brains allowed them to remember exactly how painful the whole process is.

Then it would be back home for us in the icy cold. By the time we got indoors our feet were numb and there was nothing to heat us up very quickly as we had no open fire in that particular house. We had a couple of radiators, which took their time to heat up a room. So what, we survived and I will now – we have it a lot easier I guess than some. We have an open fire in our sitting room and although it fills the bottom of the house with a thin veil of eye-irritating smoke it does take off the chill. With doors closed it can get quite cosy in there which is great if you have nothing to do all day and can sit around like a character from Jane Austen and do some embroidery, drink tea, eat seed cake, and then perhaps have a sing song around the piano. The staff would lay the fires upstairs in the bedrooms and bustle around the kitchen preparing the aforementioned hot beverages and cook would be up to her elbows in sponge mixture. The most energetic physical action would be reaching one’s arm out to pull the bell that would ring in the scullery.

Catch up of a snowy week in Woolsery Part 2

Whilst Olivia and Ivan went off to Barnstaple on Saturday to do some shopping for the chinchilla, which they were taking back with them, Shosh, Gav, Biggles and I went off for our tramp through the woods.

We were trudging our way back towards the car when, for the second time since having my camera, I discovered that I had lost my lens cap. The first time I ‘lost’ it (the cap that is, not my marbles – they spilled out of the marble bag and rolled under dense shrubbery a long time ago) was at Drusilla’s Park in East Sussex in 2007. On that occasion I had to retrace my steps across the whole zoo whilst Jon waited for me under cover as it had begun to rain. I returned some while later after an unsuccessful mission only to find the annoying little circle of plastic in one of my pockets (and yes I had already checked upon my person in the first instance, and on several other occasions whilst wandering around looking for the blasted thing).

Out in the cold, wintry wilds of Powler’s Piece, I had checked my pockets with numbed fingers to no avail. Around this time I had also decided that enough was enough and that I would have to answer the call of dear Mother Nature even though she had picked the worst possible time to send out her message of importance. So leaving Shosh and Gav to retrace our steps from whence we had plodded (plus Biggles – he would have been too much to handle in an already delicate situation) I was left to bound over a frozen drainage ditch from the ride into the forest beyond. This was a tricky business for several reasons, not the least being that the snow covered what could be dodgy landing ground on the other side and it would not be until my right foot made contact that I would find out whether or not it was a good place to make that leap of faith. Luckily it was and I scuttled off into the snow-covered boughs of pine forest with urgency in my step, and for the sake of propriety I shall leave the story of Mother Nature’s intervention there.

My point to all this really is to wonder why all cameras can’t have their lens caps on a piece of thin knicker-type elastic so stupid people like me who suffer from severe senior moments can avoid such occurrences when out and about, getting up close and personal with the wonderful world around us. It would also be fun to play with in one of those boring moments whilst waiting for prospective subject matter to move closer into view for example. But alas, on my camera it is a separate entity and I am surprised that it has actually stayed in my possession for as long as it has.

After leaping back across the ditch I was relieved (in more ways than one) that there was no-one there to see me as my stumbling around would have been embarrassing for me, yet highly amusing for them. I lost my footing slightly which led me to have to throw out my arms to steady myself as I veered to the left and nearly tripped as I got my right foot caught in some undergrowth. I felt a bit like the hippo I saw once on TV that had been shot with a tranquiliser dart. By the time I met the others coming back my composure had returned, my hat had been repositioned correctly and any wisps of wayward hair had been tucked behind my ear to avoid me looking like "Bertha Rochester" after an afternoon out on an outward bound course. Thankfully, good ol’ Gav had spotted and retrieved the missing lens cap so all was well.

So, it was back home to hot tea and cake and unfortunately the news that the Met Office had issued a bad weather warning for snow in the early hours of Sunday morning.

It had been intended that Olivia and Ivan would stay until Sunday but because of this warning – and the fact that it was imperative that they got back to Exeter for work on Monday morning – it was thought it prudent that they returned that night after dinner instead. Dinner was late – as ever – and by the time they left it was getting on a bit, but they got back home safe and sound.

As a final word (or two) I know I posted a video of Dean Martin singing Let it Snow a few days before Christmas, but this was not a request, Dean, thanks very much.

Catch up of a snowy week in Woolsery Part 1

Excuse my absence from blog-land this past week. Shosh and Gav have been on a week’s holiday with us and I have been out and about and doing mother ‘stuff’. We have been on long walks with Biggles in the snow and as you will see from Jon’s blogs, we have come across some odd things whilst taking our constitutionals in the woods in the area near us known as Powler’s Piece.

The same day that we came across the odd snow-person we misjudged our return stroll to the car and it became something of a speed walk as the sun was setting. It seemed to drop like a stone rather than descend serenely, but it did make for a great picture as the sky took on a beautiful orange glow merged with the dark ominous looking clouds. The snow-person (complete with the yellow stains left by Biggles earlier) soon appeared in front of us and we knew we would make it back to the car without my having to hold on to Shosh and Gav while wailing that we were done for. The snow-person got another dose of Biggles’ attention as he ambled passed it prompting the query of why he was so interested in it. My macabre sense of humour suggested that it probably disguised a body.

Forests can be eerie at the best of times, but at dusk when the rooks are returning to their roosts it can become very creepy, especially when they all seem to spook and flap overhead as if escaping from some evil afoot below in the dense weaving of boughs. But then that is just my wild imagination getting the best of me, plus a dose of watching too many late night horror films in my youth when in the house on my own and with the lights switched off. There is something about watching old black and white horror films whilst curled up on the sofa that cannot be matched these days.

Then, to make sure no nastiness was lurking, there was the obligatory check under all the beds, plus inside all the wardrobes – I always opened the doors with a flourish – before I retired to my own bedroom. It was the insatiable desire to pull open the curtains that were pulled across the French windows that overlooked the back garden though that were the most compelling – there was always a burning need to do so, accompanied by the obvious tingle up the spine at the thought of some weird contorted face staring back at me. However, this thought never failed to provoke the action and I would always gingerly peek with one eye through a crack in the curtains before quickly drawing them apart.

However, that was years ago and bringing it up here is a symptom of what my mother calls a grasshopper mind. Most of the family seem to possess it.

On Friday night Olivia and Ivan came across from Exeter for a family get together and for the girls to give each other their Christmas presents. The sweet lads and lasses presented Jon and me with a ‘stocking’ each too. Jon became a tad emotional that he had a stocking and I had a tear in my eye when Shosh and Olivia presented me with a framed montage of photos of themselves as babies/children. It will be put in a place where I can see it daily and have a silent ‘aww’ to myself. My girls have grown into such loving, thoughtful young ladies….their respective blokes are pretty cool too.

Max in an adventure with mashed potatoes

As I mentioned in an earlier blog posting, Max (Blake) was with us a week before Christmas during his break from university. He came down for Marjorie Braund’s funeral and stayed with us until the Friday. Whilst he was here Jon got him into the kitchen to prepare the sweet potatoes for dinner one night, and a little secret emerged. Max had never cooked potatoes before, let alone mashed them. I must admit that I have never mashed sweet potatoes before either, but considering the process is pretty much the same – stick masher in saucepan and pulverise the little tubers into submission – I found myself giving an impromptu cookery lesson to the dear boy.

All was going reasonably well until my potato masher started to bend rather alarmingly. This has been going on for some months, but I am used to the little critter behaving in such a recalcitrant manner. I did warn Max that this might happen - just in case he thought it was a sign that his young muscles were impressively strong. I am not convinced that he believed me though so when it did start to bend as if by some otherworldly power he looked a bit askance. Jon, of course, couldn’t resist wickedly blaming the bent metal on him and exclaimed “How could you do that to Corinna’s potato masher?” Well that was the gist of it, even though I must embarrassingly admit that, if my memory serves me well, it was phrased slightly differently and in a way that Max is well used to by now.

Anyway, the sweet potatoes were mashed with a delicate profusion of milk and butter and were absolutely delicious. I think Max actually enjoyed himself whilst preparing this part of our supper.

Yesterday, I received a package in the post. I was completely dumbfounded as to what it could be as I was not expecting anything. Upon opening it out popped a brand, spanking new potato masher.

Thanks Max – you dear, sweet lad.

Next visit I will introduce you to the ironing board and Jon’s larger than average shirts.

Winter in Woolsery

We all awoke this morning to a find a fairly thick blanket of snow covering the garden and large flakes still tumbling silently down.  You always know when it has snowed overnight as the world around becomes silent. A childish glee awakens inside you at the sight of the snow mingled in with the slight panic of whether you have enough milk etc to last in case you get snowed in. 

Biggles, however, has no such concerns.  Whereas last year he paid not too much attention to the snow, this year he loves it and has been out and about bounding around thoroughly enjoying himself.

Even Jon had a spurt of snowy jollity with a snowball:

Yesterday Shosh and Gav came down for a week's visit and a late Christmas with us.  They had had snow in Stoke on Saturday and Shosh had spent just over an hour getting home from work on a journey that would normally take 10 minutes. Yesterday morning we discovered a recurrence of a leaky pipe in our "utility" area which, despite Graham's gallant efforts, decided it would resist all efforts to be tamed and reared its ugly head again last night.  Hence this morning it had been planned for him to go into Bideford to get some plumbing bits to try and sort it out.  So the snow this morning threw a bit of an icy spanner in the works.  However, off he went and Shosh and Gav bravely volunteered to ride shotgun with him.

Well done all three of you..

It is just my magnetic charm

There is this Van de Graaff Generator:


And then there is this one:

Anyone who remembers their science lessons will know that if you touch one of the last of these two examples you get, quite literally, a hair-raising reaction.

Yesterday I was doing some recording with Jon for On the Track and it seems that I am just one lump of static protoplasm without any need for scientific input. It took hours to try and get rid of the static that oozed from my very being - even trying the 'strip off to my underwear scenario' in case it was my clothing that was causing the problem - but to no avail. Apart from getting a trifle chilly that is, but at least you can't accuse me of not giving my all for the cause. Luckily it was a Sunday afternoon and no-one was expected to come a'calling. If someone had turned up then I would have had to perform a delicate petit jeté into the sitting room (just as I did have to do anyway when Biggles ran off with my temporarily discarded jumper like a wolf with a deer carcass).

Then in the middle of our efforts a book threw itself off a shelf, but I am not quite sure that that little incident had anything to do with me .... or did it?

Lang may yer lum reek!

I was going to post a rather sweet picture of two chicks wearing top hats but then I got sidetracked into watching a video of Fred Astaire performing Putting on the Ritz which, although a superb piece of footwork, does not really have anything to do with New Year's Day. And then I thought well neither do two little chicks wearing top hats.

Therefore, I will just leave you with a simple message:

The last page of 2009 has been turned and consigned to our library of memories.

Happy New Year to you all.

PS: the last word of the title of this blog may well be confusing some of you. The translation is long may your chimney smoke. I believe its origin comes from when people had coal fires and if the chimney was smoking it meant that you could afford coal and keep warm.

I am now doing something that I have never done before. I think that messing with my wife's blog would be an unbelievably bad thing to do and probably injurious to our marriage.

However, I cannot let such heresy pass!!! NOTHING says `Happy New Year` more than cute chicks wearing hats. It sums up the entire ethos of the CFZ as we enter another decade JD