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Okay, so this isn’t the best picture I ever took – even I can see that the light levels are all over the place – but this was a lovely, chance finding.
I had been to an antenatal class reunion in Flockton when I came across this flower festival at the parish church of St James the Great. I went up to the door to peer inside, and the parish ladies were still there and said I was welcome to look around, and would I like to buy a programme. So I did.
I love church flower festivals, mainly because they remind me of my Nanna. She was a stalwart of St Mary and St Michael at Whitley Lower and we would often go with her to clean church, or tidy up flowers, or get ready for the church bazaar – I still get very excited at the prospect of a church bazaar. When you grow up in a teeny tiny village in the 70s, the church bazaar is one of the highlights of the year.
My Nanna cannot speak any more, or recognise anyone. She has dementia. Unfortunately for her she is ‘a creaking gate’ – doesn’t appear that physically strong but with amazing powers of recovery from accidents, operations etc. So she lives in a nursing home with constant care, away from the house of which she used to say “they’ll only take me from here in a box.”
It’s raining outside. Miserable, dull, damp weather, which started a couple of weeks ago and just won’t go away. Slimey, squelchy mud underfoot and no prospect of it going away now (bar the odd day of frost) for five or six months. Yuk, yuk, yuk.
So I dug around in my pictures file, and found these of harvest.
I love to see a field of corn, freshly cut, with the golden straw in heaped lines.
Then, as I walked up the track I heard a sound and saw the combine harvester come over the brow of the hill. “A combine! It’s a COMBINE HARVESTER!” Very very exciting, for when we were kids the combine arriving in the fields around our house was the declaration that a new playground would soon be opening. Once the straw was cleared we would have a few weeks of being able to run around the stubble, building jumping courses for ponies and dogs, and raking up bits of straw for the rabbits.
However on this occasion I was accompanied by Firstborn who, being a town-brought-up boy, looked at me with a combination of confusion and oh-my-god-what’s-my-mother-on-now and shuffled off so he could try to deny all association.
We walked through Lady Wood, then came back down to see the corn trailers at the bottom of the field. More excitement from me; Firstborn’s response could best be summed up with “Sheesh.”
And then another look at the lovely, lovely combine.
Firstborn: “Unnh.”
He definitely prefers the dog to his mother on these occasions.
I must confess to my addiction. My sons and husband have been hinting at it for some time, but I brushed their concerns aside. However today, when out with a friend, we spent the first 15 minutes discussing our Farmville farms on Facebook before Anna said: “And how is life in the real world?”
I’m up to Level 27 on Farmville, with a Big Family Farm, a manor, two cottages, three tool sheds, two workshops and a Big Red Barn, and I’m desperately waiting for Farmville’s creators to get a move on and release the Mighty Plantation as I need more space for all my trees, crops and animals. I have to fit in another 13 buildings before I can get the Architect Blue Ribbon, and I could also do with more neighbours – anyone else want to sign up and friend me? – so I can get the big duckpond. My ducks, swans and turtles are looking a little crowded.
After discussing it with Anna I came to the conclusion that I’m hooked because I would love to have more space around my house, so I could at least have chickens, if not a pig or two and a pony. I miss not having animals around – dogs, cats and guinea pigs, while lovely, are not the same.
Never mind. Things could be worse. I have started with Island Paradise, but am determined to keep things small. I’ve earned enough Island coins for a beach chair and a sandcastle, and I can leave the application playing in the background to my other work as I listen to the sounds of the sea. I am resolutely refusing all invitations to Cafe World, Fishville, Mafia Wars, etc.
But Farmville has got me forever.
When my babies were toddlers I longed for the teenage years. They would be able to make their own food, I wouldn’t have to get a babysitter, I would know what I was doing and I wouldn’t have to wipe their bottoms.
Well, all three of them are teenagers now and let’s see:
Making their own food – Kinda. If I’m happy to see them survive on toast and 9p noodles from Sainsbury’s, then we’re sorted. Fruit and vegetable consumption is zero, unless cooked by me (and hidden in soup or thick gravy). They can even be a bit dicky on the toast. Rather too much of the “Muuuum… if you really loved me you’d make me some toast” going on. Get a grip, fellas.
No need for a babysitter – Hmmm. In theory, no need. In practice… well, let’s just say I don’t like to go out and leave them for too long. And if, by any chance, I have to go off for the day leaving Firstborn in charge, I leave a list of phone numbers as long as my arm, to cover all eventualities, taped to his forehead.
Knowing what I’m doing – No, not really. Working blind here, in many ways. I trust my instincts more than I did when they were babies, and I’m better at shutting out unwanted advice (spoken or implied) than I was. But that doesn’t stop many many people from saying You Must Put Your Foot Down, or He Needs To Learn That Actions Have Consequences. It’s doing my head in, to be honest. Why can’t people have more faith in my babies? I have faith in them. I don’t think Firstborn is a total dropout, even if he has left Sixth Form too early for my liking. None of them are stupid – I don’t breed stupid children – so I’ll have a less of the YOU MUST, thank you, and a bit more of You Poor Love, Let Me Hold Your Hand and Feed You Biscuits While You Rant It Out Of Your System.
Wiping their own bottoms – Thank God. That’s one thing I’ve got right as a mother.
I am not a fan of Halloween. Pumpkins, dressing up and trick or treating leave me cold. My children were at first appalled, and are now resigned, at my attitude. They were desperate to go trick or treating when little, but I would shout: “No! It’s an American thing, it’s not English! It’s like begging! And we don’t do pumpkin lanterns in Yorkshire, we do turnips!”
Quite often I persuade m’husband to take us all out for a late tea so I can avoid trick or treaters, but this year he’s away for the weekend. I spend so much time out of the house I was desperate to stay in, for once, so I begged a couple of sons to hang around and hand out sweeties. They mumbled acquiesence, but then slunk off with friends leaving me to juggle sweetie tin, front door and a couple of excited dogs (Pippa is here to stay for a few days).
The first knock came from a little boy, about four years old. I picked Pippa up, told Sparky to shut up and brandished the tin. Unfortunately Sparky took exception to Little Boy’s painted face and ghostly costume and barked at him with great vigour. I ordered her back inside, apologised profusely and handed over extra sweeties in compensation. A few minutes later I was out in the back garden, fetching in the washing, when I saw Little Boy being taken next door. He steadfastly refused to approach the door, say “Trick or Treat” or touch any of the sweets. I’m assuming his Sparky experience will put him off Halloween for life.
Anyway, in a few hours Halloween will be over and done with, and hopefully Farmville on Facebook will swap those ghastly spider, jack o’lantern and scary mansion gifts for lovely Christmas things. I am a big big fan of Christmas. I could be the Ghost of Christmas Present. I decided to get in the mood this week by playing some of the Christmas songs on my iPod whilst driving along.
Favourite Christmas tracks:
I believe in Father Christmas – Greg Lake
Silent Night – as sung by Sinead O’Connor
Stop the Cavalry – Jona Lewis
What’s yours?
I had a stomach bug this weekend. I actually cancelled a class, which I have never ever done for illness. Spent the day curled up in pain, in bed or on the sofa, then got myself on my feet for the following day’s work but staggered round with backache due to all the lounging the previous day. Now trying to work out how to reschedule the cancelled class, or else no pay.
And then, Of Course, m’husband came down with bug shortly after eating chicken pie, mashed potatoes and carrots. And, OF COURSE, he had to have it so much worse than me and is currently on his second day off work and thinking about a third if he doesn’t manage to eat anything today. Is he going to lose any money? No.
It must be lovely being employed.
I made a batch of blackberry and apple jelly. Usually this is a simple task for me. I simmer my fruit for an hour, then strain it through the jelly bag.
I never, ever squeeze my jelly bag, but this time the darned stuff came out cloudy. Why, I shall never know.
Then I filled up my jam pan, added sugar, and brought it to a rolling boil.
But on this occasion I got overambitious and overfilled the jam pan. Result, hot sugary liquid all over the cooker top which took me bleeding ages to clean off.
I’m taking a break from blackberry and apple.
Cute Nephew tries out his badminton skills at our annual August Bank Holiday picnic.
Playing aeroplanes with grandma out in the field.
SIL wanted to play too, but Baby Brother was having none of it.
All a boy needs – a stick and an adoring grandma.
Onions have done well this year, apart from the silver ones which didn’t grow very big and, in many cases, went mouldy in the ground. Note to self: next year write down the varieties so you know what to avoid in future.
I need to pick that onion flower and save the seeds for next year.
Both runner beans and Italian beans have scrambled eagerly up the canes.
The Italian beans look beautiful both in and out of the pods.
Sparky has a rest while a son and I pick blackberries.
The view would be better without the industrial pipe bridging the water, but it’s not bad.
Son and dog admire the poplars between playing fields and river.
