FLOWER GIRL

Earlier this week, stuck in a traffic jam in Salisbury, panicking that I would miss my ferry, a van pushed in the queue in front of me. And instead of screeching 'Not another one!" - or words to that effect, I laughed. Because it had the funniest advertising slogan I have yet come across on a plumbing and heating business.

Nope. Not "we'll get round to you in a fortnight when it's sub zero and your boiler's broken" or even "our spare parts depot is in Timbuktoo - and we're not speaking at the moment", which, in my experience, is the tried and tested service levels of plumbers and heating engineers.

This one said "Don't sleep with a drip again tonight - give us a call instead'. And this has made me giggle on several occasions since.

But the gods of plumbing will not permit cheeriness and joy. So they've wiped the smile off my face by blocking the drain. And now I am up the creek without a drain rod.

And it's not as if I sleep with a drip either. I sleep with a Hero. But a teddy bear is a fat lot of good in situs like this. And my other hero is out.

So I'm going to attempt the caustic soda remedy now.

I may be gone for some time.

And the wrong place is my allotment. Oooh. Ahh. I went off this evening to tackle the weed crisis on the allotment, in an effort to ward off the 'notice to quit' police, and I think I've now got lumbago. Not exactly sure what this is, but I seem to remember that this was an affliction suffered by Enid Blyton characters - or at least those that did menial jobs like gardening, rather than those being lashed by ginger beer or playing lacrosse at boarding school.

The weeds proved to be the easy bit. It was the owner of one of the neighbouring houses that was the problem. The first sign of trouble was when he leapt onto the fence dividing his garden from the allotments, pretended to be amazed that allotments bordered his estate, and then started plucking elderberry flowers. Surely a pretext to gape at us, because he didn't look like someone about to experiment with home-brewed, cat pee smelling flowers. And so it proved when I trundled to the compost heap, which adjoins the fence at the bottom of his garden. Up popped the neighbour, who said "Could you please not put cabbage on the compost heap - it makes out garden smell".

If I hadn't been so hot and tired from weeding, digging and chopping, I might have thought of a suitable retort. Instead, I mumbled 'No cabbage, only weeds'. But I'm betting he'll soon be begging for cabbage, as the pile of weeds is threatening to engulf his garden and his neighbours, and I've only just started.

I managed to stick in a few shop-bought sweet corn plants to accompany my ragged row of broad beans and peas, but bent double and irritated by that man as I am, I wondering if it wouldn't be cheaper and easier just to buy from the farmers' market, rather than go to this amount of trouble just to avert the 'Notice to Quit' wielding Miss NoCanDo (Allotment Section) from the Council.

Except that would be wimpish. Now, where's the Deep Heat? And blister treatment? And insect bite relief? And rotten cabbage-smell repellant?

I woke up full of good intentions this morning. Work, my girl, I told myself sternly. Nothing but work. And biscuits.

But it wasn't raining. Amazing. So I took my mug of tea and went out into the garden.

And sniffed the roses. And did a bit of deadheading. And sniffed again. Then went and found my camera.

Dearie me. It is time for mid-morning coffee. Might as well do a bit of weeding whilst I'm drinking it. Oh no! Dog has stepped on a dahlia in a futile bid to raid the bird table. Nothing for it, emergency plant hospital to the rescue.

Good gracious. It surely can't be lunchtime?

Lunch in the garden? This is a rare treat. I think I'll have a glass of wine to celebrate. And fetch some cushions and a magazine.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whadya mean, it's dogwalk time?

Oh heck. Looks like it's going to rain. Better get some slug pellets out.

Now, what am I going to cook for dinner?

Hmmmm. Completely out of ideas.

I'll just look at blogland whilst I am waiting for recipe inspiration ....

I've been away from the computer for a while. Bizzy bizzy bizzy. Mainly to do with a visit from the family. This involved lots of driving to and from the West County in pouring rain, traffic jams,stuck behind tractors and lorries that could only do thirty up hill, ferry delays and people needing to stop to go to the toilet.

Then there was the preparation. This involved cleaning and tidying the rooms that the family would see and use. But the only way to achieve this was to throw the contents into rooms they wouldn't. So I've come back today and the house looks as if a giant has picked it up, juggled with it and then taken it out into the garden to make a mud pie.

I feel as if I have cooked for England over the last ten days. Whereas we consider ourselves lucky if we get a bag of crisps for dinner when life is busy, parents demand dinner and a 'sweet'- a pudding to those much younger than I am.

And now I face a euro-mountain of washing and ironing, a letter from the Council saying that they have noticed the allotment is a mess and we will shortly get a 'Notice to Quit' if we don't pull our socks up, a series of complaint letters to banks and businesses about unfair charges and unpaid invoices to catch up on, an overgrown garden and I have to take Dog out - a duty kindly undertaken by my mum (she survived!)during her stay.

So, what must I do first given this list? Blog, of course. Catch up on the news and gossip. Sit here glued to the computer, drinking a glass of wine.

Oh, it's good to be back.

It was Walk the Wight Day today. Not by me, though. Oh no. I did something truly tiring. Like weeding. And sitting on a bench eating ice cream wafers when the heat got too much. And a game of footie - just me and Dog, and I got to do throw-ins from the bench. And I won because I didn't spill my wine when I did it.

But I don't want to make it sound as if I am an idle woman. I did saunter up onto Tennyson Down and mingled with the walkers. Where I briefly contemplated pretending I was as fresh as the proverbial daisy and jogging the last few miles to the finishing line. Fortunately, I remembered just in time that I didn't have a number pinned to me. That should teach me not to have a glass of wine at lunch time. Fortunately, I was never one of the quickest learners.

Dog (for it was the necessary dog walk that inspired this output of energy) was a bit perplexed by the crowd. So much so, that she got toilet phobia and plunged into the gorse bushes to do her business. I got a few strange looks from the walkers when I emerged clutching a poo bag.

Luckily, I had taken my camera with me to take a photo of the sudden appearance of masses of yellow flowers that I think are vetch. So here is the evidence of my 'Walk (part of, a very small part of,) the Wight.

And next year, I swear that I will definitely make it to the top of that slope.

Yesterday Dog went on her annual trip to the grooming parlour. She gets a grade 7 chop in early summer to help her cope with the heat. (Naturally, this signals the end of summer). One minute she is stretched out on the patio, snoring, looking like a holidaymaker in the Costa Del Sol who has bagged a sunbed and won't give it up. The next she heads panting into the border, where not content with a shady patch, she tries to excavate a dog-shaped hole to cool off in. It is possibly no coincidence that two of our neighbours are trying to move house, since the oft-repeated scream of 'Get off the bloody plants, Dog!' is not conducive to an afternoon's nap in the garden.

Anyway, I assumed that her appointment would take most of the day and planned my day accordingly. However, the memory of last year's session obviously still shone too glaringly bright for the grooming lady, as she told me that dog would be ready by lunchtime. Dog smirked, because she obviously has rather fonder memories of the prolonged barking battle with the dryer - a battle that Dog continued for two hours after the dryer had been abandoned and she had been locked in a kennel awaiting collection. When I collected her, the staff looked wan and traumatised, and little bubbles containing the words "Never again" and "Once a year is a visit too soon" floated around their heads.

So I abandoned my morning's plans and went to a nearby garden centre. It has a rather good cafė - so good that sitting in it is like watching a procession to Lourdes. A stream of elderly, disabled, and obese people came in for the big breakfast. And it was big: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, 2 bacon, 2 hash browns, 2 slices toast and marmalade, tomatoes, beans and mushrooms for £5.80. How people who clearly live sedentary lifestyles can tuck that away is nothing short of a miracle.

I only intended to get a coffee - it was only 10am. But Greed grabbed me by the ears, marched me to the food counter, and forced my lips to say 'a bacon and egg roll, please'. I've never tried one before. I can't think why not. It was delicious. But next time, I will remember not to bite carelessly into an egg yolk. Not content with covering my chin and T shirt with a yellow stain, it inexplicably managed to glue my plate to the table top. So that when I balanced my cup on the plate to take it to the tray collection area, the subsequent yank to remove the plate sent the remnants of black coffee onto the egg yolk stains.

Add to this tableau some compost from the plants I bought. So when I collected Dog I looked like a Jackson Pollock-obsessed toddler. Dog was sulky when we were reunited. This might have been because the parlour wouldn't let her meet the dryer. Or it might have been due to the fact that instead of looking like a border collie, she now looks like a Pharoah Hound with a tail wig (or a rat according to my husband). Or it might simply have been a deep-felt grievance that I, rather than she, would have benefited the most from a grooming whilst she would have had no problem tackling a big breakfast.

Oh really! I know the Solent area was the hottest place in the country yesterday. I know it was a blistering 27 degrees here. I know it was so hot that a couple of my neighbours went bonkers and decided to take their first dip in the sea this year. And I know I spent most of it in the garden, ostensibly trying to transfer wilting plants from pots to ground.

But for gawd's sake, this is May. Hay fever, sunburn AND an allergic insect bite in one day?

Oh well. If you insist.....

*dons suncream, insect repellant, floppy hat and ventures forth once more into garden*

When we moved into our house, nearly five years ago, the garden consisted of 70% concrete, 30% lawn, and there were just three shrubs. It isn't very large - more of an alley alongside the house with a large front garden that is exposed to the world. And apart from trying to win a place in the Guinness Book of Records for ' a garden with the most number of plants per square metre' (the consequence of obsessional plant buying), we have tried hard to make it wildlife friendly.

Well, the tiny pond is pretty but as I have lamented before, no frogs have been seen. So imagine my considerable excitement when, stepping onto the patio with a mug of tea, I caught sight of movement in the pond. What joy!

What horror! For instead of a nice hoppy frog or a little newt, I followed the bubbles trail in the water just in time to see a slithery tail emerge from the pond - a grass snake. (I shivered even as I typed that). That's certainly put paid to any weeding until I have serpent-proof gauntlets.

Well, Ok. We've had more success with the birds. Too much. Forget Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, we're having an Alfred Hitchcock Nightmare. The bird cake I made has proved so popular that it is like being on a production line. They are now getting through a coconut shell a day. And when the heatwave melted the lard of yesterday's feed and tipped the contents on the ground, Dog snuck in and ate the lot. So when I emerged onto the patio with a mug of tea, there was an eerie circle of waiting birds. A crow and two starlings muttered dire threats from the roof, the blackbird yelled abuse and two fat pigeons looked meaningfully at the newly washed car. I felt forced to abandon my glass of wine and rush indoors to whip up another batch of bird lardy cake. Gordon has it easy.

But ... double joy! The bird nesting box - a semi-detached residence made by my Man at the expense of a lot of skin, blood loss and blue-air turning, has finally got an occupant (or several). A blue tit family have moved in. And as long as I can keep up with bird cake demand, we might get to see the babies take flight.

The Isle of Wight walking festival is now on. For a whole month. This means oddly dressed people going out in gangs, discussing the price of petrol whilst getting in the way of Dog and me. I know I am being anti-social - but when you flatten yourself and a reluctant Dog into a hedge of stinging nettles to allow 20 ramblers to pass, it's hard not to feel invisible or irritated when no-one appears to notice you, let alone thank you.

And, whilst I am moaning, the walking festival was nearly responsible for my early demise this morning. There I was, reading the local paper, when I came across an article celebrating a group of people who had gone on a walk wearing decorated bras to raise money for breast cancer charities. This initiative, the brainchild of the amazing Nina Barough and her "Walk the Walk" fundraising efforts saw a small group wander around wearing pink bras. But the bit that made me cry with laughter and choke on my rice krispies was the news that their numbers included an elderly gentleman who had worn a bra on his head for the whole day.

Little do they know that it was probably just another day in the life of the average Isle of Wight resident.....

I caught the bus today to Newport. It was a very social occasion. I met up with two sets of elderly neighbours at the bus stop. They were taking advantage of their free bus passes to take a bus along the coast to a village pub for lunch. Everyone was in a jolly mood, the words 'weather'and 'lovely' were bandied about as if they were going out of fashion and even the bus driver smiled.

By the time we'd actually got onto the bus, smiles were beginning to get a little rigid. Despite F being asked by his wife 3 times if he had his bus pass - and having taken it out of his wallet 3 times to prove to Doubting Doris that he had remembered it - by the time he got on the bus he had inexplicably lost it. He managed to retrieve it just in time to prevent a group of belligerent pensioners at the back breaking into a chorus of 'Why are we waiting?".

Then it was my turn to have a toddler tantrum. The bus company insists of using a fleet of very ancient double-decker buses in West Wight. This makes the most straight-forward journey exciting as it is the most rural part of the island. All too often, the bus has to brake hard on the narrow roads when it meets an oncoming car because overhead trees either bang into the top deck front windows or force the bus into the middle of the road. And when it is windy, the ride is more hair-raising than a rollercoaster, since it hugs the edge of the cliffs a few feet from the edge. It can be vertigo-inducing. But the views along the coast and into people's gardens are fab and I always head for the front seats on the top deck.

But today, two holiday makers - a couple - had nabbed the seats on both sides. She evidently needed a seat per buttock. So I had to sit in the second row, muttering curses on their holiday. And this wasn't nice, because they were a really happy couple, enjoying their holiday hugely. On the 40 minute journey, they pointed out every church (4), every pub (5), every thatch cottage (100s) and Carisbrooke Castle (1) to each other, not to mention a flock of geese, two newly born calves, a flock of lambs, a strange-looking couple riding a tandem, a quaint tea room (plus speculation about whether it would serve a cream tea that was worth getting off the bus for) and still managed to fit in a running commentary of how every pothole proved that the island roads were far worse than the roads from whence they came.

And the thing that really puzzles me is after listening to all of this, why did I feel so guilty when my Man rang me on my mobile phone (which I answered whilst it was still on vibrate) and then felt compelled to whisper in case I disturbed anybody?

Maybe you have to be on holiday, on the school bus or elderly and deaf to shake off the British preoccupation with being quiet and reserved when on public transport.

For a brief period today (about five minutes, actually), I got well and truly smitten by the gardening bug. First call, last year's newly-erected wall greenhouse. I intend to prick out and pot up the tomato and annual flower seedlings. Except they were no more. A series of seedling stumps, reminiscent of the petrified forest greeted me. It seems that despite the fact that the greenhouse is attached to a smooth brick wall and is standing on a stone patio, snails or slugs have managed to infiltrate.

Well, I got mad. Most gardeners get disheartened by snail and slug pests. I face total humiliation. In a few weeks' time, we've been asked to 'open'' our garden as part of a village-wide, raise-money-for-the-church community initiative. And at this rate, people will pay £2 for the privilege of viewing a weed-infested, flower-devoid alley.

So time to get tough. But it's a dilemma. I can't put down slug poison, because we have managed to persuade a song-thrush to visit the garden regularly. Nor can I sink a slug-pub in the greenhouse floor or envelope it in copper tape.

So I resorted to 'hunt and destroy' plan B. Except I don't like squashing them. So I resorted to Plan C.

"Clear off, slimeball!" I yelled, hurling a slug and two snails over the hedge. And as I gleefully watched their maiden flight take the form of a splendid arc over the boundary, I realised to my horror that my neighbour had chosen this one morning to venture into her bindweed-infested jungle to take breakfast au soleil. A breakfast in which escargots had made a belated appearance on the menu.

I slunk inside, and it will be a few days before I dare attempt any more gardening. Just in case she is lying in wait with the pudding course.

It is always exciting when I log into my email account. Up flashes an obscure Yahoo news headline guaranteed to distract me from work and set me off thinking. I should be grateful. Why fork out for a brain training programme when such headlines provoke so much brain activity?

Take today's brain gym session:

Disney sensation MILEY CYRUS is officially the wealthiest child in the world - she is reportedly set to be a billionaire by the year's end.

Who? What can she possibly do to earn that much? How come I have never heard of her before? Is it a spoof headline for an anagram competition? Is it the winning entry in the 'sheer awfulness of rich people when it comes to naming their child' competition? What will she do with all that momey? How will she ever know if someone loves her for herself, not her bank account? Do I care?

And at that point, my brain went into overdrive and shut down with a rude message.

Tonight's social conversation wasn't about TV. It was about Youtube.

Type in 'Laughing babies", I heard someone say.

So back home, having read the (small number of) friends' posts and tiredness having made me what used to be known as "a cheap date" after a mere two sips of wine, I did.

How unfunny. First, my Man spilt wine over himself. He claimed that the laughing babies made him do it. I suspect it was the cleavage of the mother of babies no. 1. Then Dog got upset - babies laughing evidently sound evil to her paranoid, every-dog-hates-me brain. She tried to squeeze herself under the table, knocking over my glass of wine in the process.

I am just sat here wishing I could adopt baby no. 2. Surely no-one on earth who heard that laugh every day could fail to smile. Better still, can I adopt the someone who is able to incite so much laughter merely by going 'booo'.

I've just yawned so hugely that I think I may have dislocated my jaw. I'll be looking like that bloke on telly if I'm not careful. The one with the lop-sided face. No good asking me his name. I've just recently come to realise that people like me, who hardly ever watch telly, are at a social disadvantage. I went to a drama workshop last weekened - I'm still recovering from the effects of contorting characterising various inanimate objects - and the conversations at tea break had me up the creek without a paddle.

"Oh, I couldn't believe it when granddad was poisoned' , said someone. I opened my mouth to utter sympathy and condolences. Then they started talking about the Tardis - and even I know that Doctor Who isn't real. Then there was a long discussion about a programme that sounded like 'Who's got a talent?". I learned a number of fascinating facts about Simon Cowell, but me and the bloke next to me had to be restrained from shouting "Who cares!"

But, despite the fact that I am busier than I have been in several blue moons, I 'wasted' forty minutes today by finding out just exactly what had happened to granddad, courtesy of computer.

And now I can't wait until next Saturday.

*jumps up and down with excitement*