FLOWER GIRL

The radio woke me this morning at 6.30 am with an announcement that there had been an earthquake. Well, the earth didn't move for me last night. I slept like the proverbial log. I've felt shattered these last few days. Partly, it's been my long battle with the 5am awakening conspirators. First it was the smoke alarm beeping, next day two starlings had a quarrel, then my mobile battery alert awoke me because I forgot to turn it off - again. Then Mr Inconsiderate stole all the duvet. The next day he piled it entirely on my side so I woke up feeling like I was being crushed.

I never used to have this problem. Is it the insomnia waves that are being emitted through blogland? More than likely it's been pressure of work these last three weeks. That dreaded 'got to get everything finished before I go on holiday' stress.

I need a holiday. Which is spooky, because I am going on one tomorrow. Hurrah huzzah. I'd dance a little jig of excitement if I had the energy and if Dog wasn't sitting on my feet, exacerbating my guilt at her impending trip to the kennels.

So this is my last night at home for a while. Sorry I haven't kept up with everyone's blogs these last couple of weeks. I'll try and catch up with some before I stagger off to bed.

Good luck to everyone in the Bloscars. Even my three friends who are my rivals, to whom I say 'Break a leg, darlings' - in the nicest possible sense of course. As for me, I shall be - hopefully - good lucking instead of a ski slope. So just be careful what you say or think if you read this - I'm superstitious!

I read recently an article lauding Beethoven's Piano sonatas. So great that apparently Lenin used to prevent himself from listening to them, lest they made him falter in his task of crushing his enemies. So great, that the pianist, Louis Kentner said that if Martians ever landed on Earth, we would immediately hand them the Beethoven sonatas, saying "Here, friends. This is the best of us".

This has intrigued me for a few days. Apart from wondering if the Martians would bring CD players or MP3 players with them in their invasion/tourist luggage, I'm fretting about the consequences of them meeting the wrong person. Just supposing the first people the Martians meet isn't a person of culture but someone who couldn't tell a Beethoven sonata from a beetroot. Or if they were unfortunate enough to bump into the person who bought Tracey Emin's unmade bed. Or they were introduced to George Bush.

Then I got to thinking but what if they bump into me first. Not such a remote possibility as you might think, as there have been reports of UFO sightings over the island in the last few weeks. (Although I cannot help wondering if Mr McFarlane and his pals have now realised that they were staring at the sun).

Now I am wondering how I will present myself to the Martians as the 'best of us'. It's a fearsome responsibility. Had I met them yesterday, when I had a bad hair day, I would have caused them severe shock. Had I offered them yesterday's dinner, they would have responded by enslaving all humans on a Martian Masterchef course.

Anyway, I'm now prepared. I've defrosted some Mini Dundee Cakes. I've washed my face. I've charged up my ipod and practised sign language for 'you choose the best one'. I've shut Dog in the kitchen. And I've put an extra chair by the computer so they can take a look at everyone else here in blogland.

If they try and zap the planet after that, it's clearly all your fault.

I'm feeling a bit guilty about the lamentable dinner I got together tonight. It was fast. That's all that can be politely said about it. Garlic bread, prawns, onion bhajis, corn on the cob. Basically anything that was in the fridge/freezer and could be cooked in 10 minutes. I tried to pretend we were having a picnic in front of the TV (we watched 'The Blue Dahlia')

My Man wasn't fooled. And I have to admit it wasn't the greatest culinary experience of my life. And now I've got a rare craving for a pudding. And there's nothing I can think of to fit the bill.

Although: stale muffin = mooofin = doughnut.

I so want a doughnut and I want it now!

Yesterday I had a red-letter day. Did something I thought I'd never have the courage to do. Met some lovely new people. Overcame my shyness at talking to strangers. Finished reading 'The Blessing' by Nancy Mitford. Ended it with a nice glass of red. Thought I'd finally cracked the work projects that have been dominating my life for a couple of weeks.

Today, I had a blue-letter day. Woke up with a headache from too many glasses of red and too much excitement the evening before. Got a cricked neck like a turtle from spending too many hours over a drawing board. Sprayed ink over myself. Made a mistake and had to start a project again. Ran out of wine.

But I feel good - still - just - almost - well, good enough to dance like this

Er, not like James, by the way. More like the woman with the headband behind him.

Grief is grief is grief. But grief when someone dies suddenly, unexpectedly, in an accident or crime is compounded by shock that never ever entirely leaves you. At least in my experience. And when the facts of the accident or crime are aired all over the newspapers, for weeks or months, I can fully understand how difficult family and friends find it to move on. I can't blame them for calling for the death penalty or seeking someone to blame.

But in the case of the Diana and Dodi inquest, I really wish Mr. Al Fayed had spent his millions on bereavement counselling, as I cannot see that this circus is doing anything but causing more pain for the families involved, and putting people like Paul Burrell back in the limelight with the opportunity to cash in yet again.

I've just watched Masterchef. Now I want to eat scallops. Or maybe lamb with a rosemary and redcurrant jus. Or lobster stir-fry. What I don't want is to have to work in a restaurant with a bunch of people who look like they are barely out of nappies, or be shouted at by a just about potty-trained bully who demands to be known by the name of 'Chef' or be a Jabba the Hutt restaurant critic.

But in the absence of all those, I am going to watch 'Cold Case' and cry my eyes out like I have every time I've watched it.

When I was a girl, one of my favourite stories was Scheherazade and The Book of One Thousand and One Nights. I used to imagine myself drinking sherbet, trekking to a romantic oasis on a camel and generally having a jewel of a time.

Sadly, life rarely takes us in the direction of our childhood dreams. My one experience of riding a camel was nothing like the journeys that I believed Scheherazade would have gone on nor was I swathed in filmy veils or encrusted with jewels. The photo that I have to commemorate this uninspiring and unromantic event shows a vision more akin to a whale perched precariously on a camel - it was during my fat period - rather than a Persian Princess.

Even the prospect of trekking across the desert in a camel train now leaves me cold. In fact, I'm crossing that one off my list. I'm betting it's an awful lot like my trip to Newport today, albeit a bit faster and, no doubt, hotter and smellier. Driving to Newport in a sloooow convoy led by a learner driver in a double decker bus, followed by a dozen elderly people too scared to overtake someone going 30 mph on a 60 mph road, would make a camel trek seem like taking part at Epsom Derby (another childhood ambition) by comparison. Nor have I yet seen an oasis - the one opportunity that I had to see one to date was thwarted by vandals - who burnt it down the day before I got there. On the plus side, I did buy a Sherbet Fountain whilst in Newport.

So, that's that childhood ambition dealt with, so it's on to the next one. Now all I've got to do is figure out whether Oliver 'Arthur of the Britons' Tobias has ditched Rowena yet and would like a new female leading lady.

I've been a bit fed up with blogging lately. Well, more accurately, I've been fed up with not being able to blog so much because of work and life commitments. And my longer absences are making me rather paranoid. I think my blog is punishing me because I haven't been making such a fuss of it lately. For the past fortnight,it has been making life difficult for me. Every time I try and comment it tells me something like 'You can't do this - you can only post a comment every ten seconds." At which point I yell back, "Listen, pal! A comment every half hour would be nice."

But I'm guessing that my blog didn't get any Valentine's Day cards because, all of a sudden, it is being nice to me. I've managed to comment on three blogs in a row without getting a sarcastic comment. Well, if it thinks I'm going to come running at the mere click of a comment button, it has another thing coming. I'm off to read about everyone's 100 facts. Far more interesting that anything myblog has to say for itself.

Boy rabbit goes out for a stroll, hoping to meet single lady rabbit. Finds one, gets well into his chat up routine. Things look promising, tries it on with a couple of bunny hops. Things look even better, gets within six inches and leers - then a black and white dog tornado appears from under the hedge. Boy rabbit dives into the nearest hole, his girlfriend runs up the hill. Dog follows lady rabbit, dog tries to dig out lady rabbit, dog tries to excavate entire downs whilst owner bawls head off.

Yep, it's that time of year when dog walking becomes dog disappearing and dog ownership becomes a crawling and bawling activity. I thought I'd have to go home in the dark without her tonight. I've told her sternly - "No chews for you tonight" but she just grinned. Now she is driving me bonkers by scratching the fleas she has collected from the burrow.

Next time, I'm going to have a cat - or a canary - or a guinea pig. Maybe even a rabbit. Perhaps two.

My day went downhill after this morning's walk. So downhill, in fact, that I'm feeling a bit narky. So steeply inclined, in fact, that I want to make use of one of the new words I learnt today. In fact, I learnt several new words today, as I spent most of the afternoon on a building site. But none of these new words about drainage systems quite fits the bill (well, maybe one of them - no, I am not going there).

My new word is shivaree. It sums up nicely how I felt after plodding around on a frozen muddy site for a couple of hours. And it also provides untold opportunities for making myself feel better.

Shivaree: In the Middle Ages, one way to express displeasure with a neighbour was to hire a band of urchins to stand before the neighbour's house to bang on pots and pans, making a ruckus that the French called a "charivari". It was so common a disturbance the Council of Trent banned it in 1563 under pain of excommunication. In England, where it was also practised, it was called "rough music". The custom survived in the Appalachians, where a newly wed couple would be treated to a "shivaree".

So, if my neighbour's interpretation of "rough music" is my fledgling attempts to teach myself the piano, my interpretation of "rough music" is to stand outside his house at midnight, banging a frying pan with a soup ladle.

If one of you has had a rough day, feel free to grab that saucepan and kettle and join in my shivaree.

I didn't want to stop walking when I took Dog out this morning. It is so beautiful. And quiet. The island celebrates half-term a week after the rest of the mainland, for some unknown reason, so everyone appears to have gone away. We have had one of the hardest frosts in memory here - I am now regretting my cavalier attitude to protecting tender plants. But I love the crystals.

On the downs, I took a photo of some gorse that is already in bloom. This always reminds me of my childhood, when I used to take myself and a book to a hill covered in gorse, and lie in a sheltered hollow reading for hours. Back then, I seem to remember that gorse smelled like coconut when the sun was out. But I can't seem to smell anything these days, so perhaps I was simply reading "Biggles in the South Sea" at the time.

I'm having to prop my eyes open with matchsticks today. A bad night full of crazy dreams. This is what happens if you forsake your nightly glass of wine and opt instead for tea. That is the thanks you get for nobly forbearing to settle down in front of a drippy movie with a bottle of wine and a large bag of Walker's Sensations, having offered to fetch your husband from a party at one a.m. A husband whose gratitude, whilst genuine and heartfelt, extends to telling you when to change gear and pointing out the entrance to the road in which you have lived for five years, then hogging all the duvet and snoring loudly.

But am I bitter? Do I forgive him? Well, obviously. Because he left me alone with our Valentine's "joint" box of Hotel Chocolat pink champagne truffles. And whereas I would normally avoid chocolate because it ruins a perfectly decent Sauvignon blanc, I discovered that they go rather nicely with a cup of tea. I'm not selfish, though. I've let him have the pretty box.

The sun certainly went to my head yesterday. In a fit of retrospective madness, I changed the winter duvet for a summer one. It's a wonder any of the neighbourhood slept - my teeth were chattering so loud when I woke up this morning. I think I have just about succeeded in defrosting myself.

So now I am sitting here debating whether I can face the struggle of changing the duvet cover yet again. Or whether I should be lazy and just test my man's love by hunting out those lovely thermal pyjamas that I was forced to buy on an ill-fated camping trip.

I just been drooling over Rubychoo's Perfect Valentine's Menu - somebody please give me a recipe for Rosewater Sorbet with Chantilly Cream - what bliss.

And I smiled nostagically at her request for an diamond ring in a glass of champagne. How could any woman not fall at the feet of a man that arranged that charming gesture?

Well, I'll you who. It was the Tangoed Tart, that's who. One evening, I was out with a couple of girlfriends at a posh restaurant. The head waiter turned up with a couple of minions and proceeded to pour two glasses of champagne and placed them on the next table. He then produced a ring box from his pocket, and carefully deposited a ring in one of the glasses. I can't tell you how many carats - but I was temporarily blinded by the flash as it caught the candlelight.

Seconds later, a youngish couple came in and sat down at the table. She came from the Footballer's Wife Debutante Academy and looked like she had applied her foundation with a trowel. He looked like a banker. The waiter handed her the glass with the diamond ring.

Naturally, all attempts at conversation between me and my mates floundered as we shamelessly tried to eavesdrop. But somehow, we were distracted for a few moments - I expect the dessert menu arrived. For torn between the rival merits of Tarte Tatin, Delices de Chocolat, Creme Brulee etc., we missed out on an argument at the next table. Perhaps he tactlessly made reference to her orange sunbed glow by asking if she'd been Tangoed; maybe she realised with horror that she had inadvertently nibbled on a lettuce leaf. Whatever, she upped sticks and stormed out the restaurant, having only taken a sip of her champagne, with the banker in hot pursuit.

You know that scene in the spaghetti Westerns, where the about-to-be combattants eye each other up before reaching for their guns? That's the kind of good friends I was with that night. Fortunately, for the sake of our friendship, and the other diners' enjoyment of their Michelin two-starred dining experience, that pesky head waiter swooped in again and removed the glasses of champagne.

Did they make up and she get her ring, do you think? Or is Mrs. Head Waiter the envy of her friends and acquaintances?

Any minute now I am expecting the Obesity Police to knock on the door. Oh, not for me! I can still squeeze into a kaftan, despite unhelpful chocolate companies offering two for the price of one family-sized bars during Lent. No, it's the local bird population that I am worried about. My bird cake is going down a treat - a homemade concoction of lard, chopped peanuts and seeds - that has them queueing for miles.

Last year we bought one of those ready-made fat balls. Whether they took a dislike to the lurid green net bag or whether it was hung in the wrong tree, but they shunned it. It gradually shrivelled away, the victim of wind and rain erosion - not bird beaks. But now we have filled half a coconut shell with lard cake and hung it on the bay hedge, we have seen a much greater variety of birds in the garden.

Today we had a Blackcap here - a female one because it had a brown cap (or maybe I've just mistaken it for something else), a chaffinch, a song thrush, two blackbirds (having a fight), two robins (having a fight), greenfinches, sparrows, great tits, blue tits, long-tailed tits and starlings. A crow has tried to eat it, but can’t balance on the chestnut paling fence. Who knows what will appear tomorrow. The only drawback is I can’t keep up with demand. I made up another three coconut shells this morning, and one has half gone already. And it might be my imagination, but soon the robin will be too fat to have a fight - he's looking distinctly rotund.

Ooh er. I thought I'd just sneak in for a quick peak at what my pals are up to before resuming work and whadya know, I find I've been tagged. Guess I am the last person to do it but - hey, better late than never.

a. list seven habits/quirks/facts about yourself
b. tag seven people to do the same
c. do not tag the person who tagged you or say that you tag "whoever wants to do it"

1. I really was a Flower Girl. When I was in primary school, I used to sell daffodils that I'd picked from my parents' orchard to passing motorists. It was my one and only 15 seconds of fame - my picture appeared on the front page of the local paper. Alas, that entrepreneurial spirit died out.

2. I nearly became a teacher, but I panicked at the thought of standing up in front of a class, so didn't take up my college place.

3. I speak Italian with a French accent.

4. I am a plantoholic. I know the Latin names of hundreds, and have tried to cram most of them in my garden. That's why I am perpetually broke.

5. I am taking dancing lessons and can jive, cha cha cha and foxtrot but can't manage the waltz.

6. I am descended from Spitalfields silk weavers but can hardly sew on a button.

7. I suffer from a chronic lack of confidence when it comes to meeting people and would rather take on teacher training than stand up and speak (let alone sing - *faints*) in front of an audience.

Phew - So now I tag:

Angelwishes
Louidog
Sula36
WorkandBooks
Blacksheep
Wendlane
Mr Flighty

Suddenly you can't set foot outside your house without meeting a beaming neighbour. People who have trekked to the village shop and post office during the winter months with faces that appear to be frozen into an expression of misery can suddenly speak; the air resounds with merry cries of 'Hallo good neighbour - what a wonderful day!'.

Of course, there are downsides to the onset of Spring. Hoards of dog owners have re-emerged. Presumably they all have Doggy Toilet suites in their homes because they aren't seen during the winter months. Now they are all anxious to reacquaint their pets with the public toilets formerly known as a grazing field and footpath. And worst of all, noise levels have suddenly increased as DIY Dan wakes up from his winter hibernation.

I should be used to trying to work against a background of retired person sounds. This area has one of the highest densities of elderly people in the country. Presumably they all couldn't wait until the day they could leave the routine and drudgery of work. But they all seem to have replaced the work drudgery with a dull domestic routine that you can set your watch and calendar by. Powerhose Pete has not ceased his weekly car wash all winter. Mower Malcolm has attacked his lawn on four occasions this year already - and the lawn edge that has grown all of a quarter inch has been attacked with a strimmer twice.

But they are nothing compared to DIY Dan whose first thought on noting Spring seems to be "Great! Now I can get on with demolishing that shed!' He has been trying to knock down his shed for two years. The task is made never-ending because he painstakingly tries to remove every nail from every plank. First there is the sound of a plank being crow-barred loose. Then there is 'TAP', TAP, TAPTAPTAPTAPTAP ... for hours ...

I am sorely tempted to locate our sledge hammer and offer to help him complete his task. But, I am very afraid that my self-control would desert me if I came face to face with him. I just know I wouldn't be able to stop myself from demolishing his greenhouse, his conservatory, his car or even his house. Instead, I just cross my fingers and pray for rain.

My past caught up with me today. Oh, not THAT one. Last October's past, when I got over-familiar with a few seed catalogues. I couldn't put off going into the potting shed aka the garage aka the bike store aka the log pile any longer. And after fighting my way through cobwebs that had clearly taken early retirement from the Indiana Jones movies, I found the fruits of my love affair, lurking in a box together with an opportunist snail.

Did you know that if you put a bowl of baked beans in the microwave, forget to cover them and then cook them for a minute too long that they explode? And were you also aware that if you attempt to clean the dried-on bean shell residue of your lunch whilst cooking dinner, it is very easy to realize that you have forgotten to start cooking the duck breast even though the vegetables are nearly ready? And, furthermore, that if you attempt to rescue the dinner by speeding up the cooking of the duck and you put it in the microwave, it is very easy to redecorate the newly cleaned microwave with a brown sludge?

You didn't know any of that? Because you are not a cretin?

No. Neither did I until last night.

*sound of Masterchef application form being torn up into tiny pieces and being stamped on.

You go away a few days and look what happens. New tabs start springing up on your blog like spring bulbs. Groups are lurking in the bushes waiting to grab hapless bloggers. So I allowed myself to be grabbed. What next I wonder?

No pancakes for me on Shrove Tuesday – I was too scared to venture into the kitchen and risk turning on the stove, such had been the sequence of disasters and calamities that had struck me all day. ‘Shrove’ apparently derives from the English verb ‘shrive’ which means to obtain absolution for one’s sins by confessing and doing penance. But instead of receiving absolution, I got well and truly kicked in the butt – all day.

First up, a complicated arrangement of driving my husband to work because I needed the car to go to the dentist and then meet up with him in Newport for an evening out. An hour round trip, followed by a dog walk. So I got up extra early to wash and do my hair ready for the evening. As a precaution for any accidents in the car prior to the intended dog walk on the beach, we let Dog out into the garden. Unluckily, a cat happened to be strolling past the back door. Dog took off and returned twenty minutes later - five minutes after we were due to set off for work - panting, muddy, but grinning triumphantly. Relations were a little tense by the time we reached Newport.

So I drove towards the beach for the dog walk – and got lost en route. How the hell I could manage that on an island this size just goes to prove that the evil fairies had targeted me. All this added an hour to my day, so I didn’t start work until 10 am.
Even then I didn’t start work, because the first email was a scream from the person that lives in the flat below a flat we have been trying to sell for decades - the flat which deprives us of our money and sanity. The evil flat. Water was dripping down from our flat into his light fitting. By the time I had sorted out a plumber and an apology, I realized that I was late setting off the dentist – the usual unpleasant experience.

Got home, having done weekly shop en route. Unloaded car, took off coat, put down phone and keys on table. Went back to porch to pick up two shopping bags. Dog squeezed past, determined to check whether that bleeding cat had been back. And the door slammed shut behind us. A double glazed, yale lock door. Matching every other double glazed window and door that the previous owner had installed. All locked, all shut tight.

It started to rain, torrential rain. Knocked on neighbour’s door and asked if they had a spare key. No. Asked if I could phone husband. No answer. Realized then with a sinking heart (1) he couldn’t get home because I had the car and (2) even if he did, a fat lot of good it would do because his front door key is on the car key ring shut in the house. About to ring for a locksmith, when the neighbour has a brainwave. If I crawl through his loft hatch, across an unboarded roof, squeeze through a gap in the wall between our adjoining roofs, find out loft hatch in the dark, and can then survive a 12 foot drop, I can get in my house again.

He went to fetch his ladder and I suddenly remembered I had left Dog out in the street. Panicking, I stood out in the pouring rain and bellowed like a loony. Five minutes later, she returned - panting, muddy, but grinning triumphantly. I shut her in the porch, and returned, soaked to the skin, to my patient neighbours. And I managed the loft - despite claustrophobia, and not being very good with heights, despite having a dodgy knee that is inclined to collapse under me, I got through the roof and back in my own house. I only broke a shelf in the bath room that I used as a foot rest to lower myself down, and only covered myself and the bathroom in a layer of loft dust. And when I tried to wash my hands, the soap dispenser mis-fired and caught me in the eye.

And the day didn’t stop trying to punish me, but lack of time and the fear that anyone reading this is probably asleep by now stops me from warbling on. Suffice to say that I didn’t get any work done, I got soaked again on the evening dog walk, which also involved a dog fight and a stream of abuse from an owner, I had to do my hair for a third time but meanwhile I burnt my dinner, I squirted myself in the eye again with perfume, I set off late to meet my husband, forgetting both purse and mobile, and almost running out of petrol en route. And to crown it all, having locked the car doors for security I couldn’t unlock them again without turning on the interior light first. So when we returned to the car, the interior light was still blazing.

Never, NEVER, have I drunk a glass of wine so quickly as I did that night once home. I am only relieved it didn’t try to throw itself at me, necessitating a fourth shower.

So, to answer my kind friend Jack who wanted to know where I have been – I’ve been trying to catch up on a ton of work, a ton of bathroom cleaning and washing, trying to find my sanity and eating a load of chocolate, crisps and sweets which I normally forsake for Lent. Stuff Lent! It’s Cadbury’s whole nut family sized slabs for me every day from now on.

So, sorry to all my friends that I haven’t caught up with your posts or comments. I’ll be back at the weekend definitely. In the meantime, I've got a load of work to catch up on. See you soon.

Just been reading Usky's post about tree silhouettes. Well, I'm not in his league as a photographer - the only fiddling I do with my camera controls is the on-off button. So no nicely exposed bark in my effort - just a girly pink point-and-click shot that I rushed outside to take the other morning.

But I totally agree with Usky - there is nothing nicer than seeing naked trees at this time of year. Particularly my favourites, the silver birch and beech trees with their ghostly bark.

Yesterday, Tylluan wrote a post that introduced me to the Pagan festival of Imbolg, which marks the first day of spring. It is very noticeable that spring does seem to have sprung all of a sudden, although I feel guilty mentioning this when people have had such atrocious weather to cope with.

I took my camera with me on the dog walk this morning. I wanted to get some photos of snowdrops and wild daffodils in a bit of woodland near here. The woods are tiny, but very pretty. They belonged to Lord Tennyson. He evidently appreciated them too, because he had a rustic footbridge built to enable him to cross from his property into these woods, over a public footpath.

So camera in hand, I prepared to get a shot of spring flowers, when, as luck would have it, two foxes suddenly appeared in front of me. One bolted, but the other stood still long enough for me to take a photo:

I'd like to think it was the sight of the great great granddaddy of Mr Fox padding through the snowdrops and daffodils that inspired Lord Tennyson to write:

O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Yippeeeeee! Ye gods have rewarded me for my noble sacrifice of preventing myself from visiting blogland during the last two busy working days until the evening. Thank you, thank you, thank you to all you kind people who have nominated me for the Bloscars.

Of course, I face very stiff competition from some very nice gals - but that will not stop me from splashing out on a fabulous virtual gown and jewels for the Awards evening, not to mention those virtual Jimmy Choos that suddenly seem to be within my grasp. And for the benefit of snooping paparazzi, my dress may or may not be held together with safety pins; and I may (or may not) be escorted along the red carpet by a 'swashbuckleringly' famous film star; and I may (or may not) have washed off the chocolate that got smeared over my face when my jaw dropped on learning from a pal of my nomination.

Congratulations to all the other nominees, especially my Friends, who I look forward to seeing at the ceremony but not standing beside me on the red carpet if there is a film crew around and biggest thanks to Landers for organising it.