Notes From a Small Village
July
Sunday 20th
Apparently, from time to time, people look at this website, so while you’re here let me tell you what’s happening today.
My husband has bought a chain saw, and now, nothing outside the house over six feet tall is safe. He is roaming around the garden, eyeing up anything taller than him, and considering whether to chop it down. He’s calling it pruning.
I told him that when something is six foot tall and you chop it down until it’s barely visible above the ground, that’s not pruning.
He shrugged, and said he thought that was a matter of opinion.
I’m concerned because he came into the kitchen half an hour ago to tell me he was considering chopping down a fir tree in our garden which had grown too tall. The fir tree towers about twenty feet above our house, so I told him that on no account had he to go anywhere near that fir tree with his chain saw.
He’s mystified, and cannot understand my objection to felling that tree. He said it would let more light into the garden.
I said it would let light in to roof of our house, and probably also into the inside of his head, and possibly the inside of mine too. I insisted that he not go near that tree.
But he pointed out that after being for several years, or months at least, in the boy scouts, he knew how to cut down a tree so that it would fall within an inch of where he wanted it to go.
I said that was wonderful, truly miraculous for one who had had only a glancing acquaintance with the scouting movement, but no, he was not to attempt to cut down that tree.
He says I’m a spoil sport.
I said be that as it may.
We are at a stalemate.
Tuesday 22nd
We bought our motor home twelve years ago, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. You can, after all, trundle about like a snail with your house on your back, and have the kettle on within twenty minutes of pitching up on a campsite. What’s not to like?
Well, for a start, you can’t go anywhere without striking camp and trundling off again lock stock and barrel, because the home that you have just put down on a campsite is your only means of transport.
In our early days of motor homing we used to take bikes with us, but you can’t use a bike in the rain, or if it’s dark, or if one of you is drunk, or stupid, or weak kneed or let’s face it, over seventy.
The only time I ever rode a bike was when we were away in the motorhome, and on our last outing I got grass caught in the spokes of my front wheel, which jammed, and the bike keeled over to the side and dropped me in a ditch. Naturally this was hilarious for my companions, who enjoyed a chuckle over the incident for years afterwards, but I still remember the anxious few seconds I endured wondering what lay in wait for me at the bottom of the ditch.
So what with one thing and another, we have decided to sell our motor home and invest in a caravan.
Hurrah. Good sense prevails. I’ll keep you posted.
Friday 25th
It turns out that wheat germ is incredibly good for you. It looks like sawdust when you buy it from Holland and Barrett and it tastes a bit the same, but it is a superfood. It slows down ageing, it’s good for your skin and hair, your heart, your brain, your digestive system, your immune system, your blood sugar regulation, your energy levels, and your menopause. It’s high in protein, iron, magnesium, zinc, vitamin B, fibre and phosphorus.
It’s heat sensitive, so I assume it’s of maximum benefit when eaten uncooked. All you have to do, is think of a way of consuming it. Obviously, you can’t chew on it straight out of the bag, because you’d choke. You could try stirring it into your tea if you don’t mind your tea being lumpy and textured. You could sprinkle it over fruit, if you don’t mind eating fruit which looks as if it’s rolled about on a stable floor. You could mix it into yoghurt if you don’t mind your yoghurt being gritty and chewy.
Any ideas?
August 1st
August already, and I want July back..
We have a Co-op in the village. It’s not a great place to shop, but it is a great place to meet people.
I met Mandy in there this afternoon. Mandy is not her real name, I am protecting her identity. I could call her by her real name because it’s highly unlikely that anyone will read these diary entries, but just on the off-chance, we’ll call her Mandy.
Mandy told me that her husband, let’s call him Norman, is having terrible trouble with his prostate.
To be honest, before I reached the age of sixty, I don’t think I realised what an important bit of kit the prostate is. I had only a sketchy idea of where it is or what it does. But now I’m hearing the prostate spoken of more and more, because it seems that once men reach a certain age, their prostate rears up and turns against them.
Mandy told me that Norman’s prostate is enlarged but benign, so I take that to mean it’s big and friendly, but still, it’s a terrible nuisance. It means in effect that Norman needs to pee about once every half hour, which is a terrible pain in the neck for Mandy. I sympathised of course, because Mandy told me she is woken up four times a night when Norman goes to the loo, and she says they can’t leave the house together without factoring in multiple loo stops. I mean, obviously, it’s not great for Norman either, but I’m speaking from Mandy’s point of view because I’ve just been talking to her.
Anyway, I’ve offered to take Norman to the doctors in our car, because he says he would need to pee at least three times if he walked round to the surgery, and he’s worried about getting arrested. They can’t go in their car because it’s having injector trouble. Don’t worry, I said to Mandy, just let me know when the appointment is, and I’ll pick you both up.
August 2nd
Norman rang to tell me when his appointment at the surgery is, and to ask me if I minded him bringing a bottle.
I said Norman, that’s very kind of you but there is absolutely no need to give me a bottle. I said I was more than happy to give him and Mandy a lift and I certainly wasn’t expecting anything for it, I was simply glad to be able to help out. You and Mandy drink your bottle tonight, I said.
Norman said, actually, he didn’t mean that kind of bottle. He meant a bottle in case he needed one for emergencies.
I said, yes! Of course, no problem, bring a bottle, that’s absolutely fine. Which it is of course, but what is less fine is how much the meaning of that phrase ‘bring a bottle’ can change over a life-time.