Notes From a Small Village
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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.
August 4th
We are going to a wedding in Dorset in a couple of weeks time. It’s an unusual affair, because the bride and groom have already decided they don’t want to get married, but they’ve decided to go ahead with the do, because it’s all paid for, and it took such a lot of planning, and the bride wants to wear her wedding dress at least once before she puts it on ebay. Very helpfully, in their latest communication they have said that they are putting all wedding presents given in advance on a trestle table at the venue’s entrance, and asked if guests will just pick their present up and take it away when they leave.
It should be a sad occasion, but no, the not-very-happy couple have asked us all to rejoice with them that they realised in the nick of time that they just couldn’t stand each other, and they have managed to avoid making a terrible mistake. They have warned us that the speeches will now have a different slant, the father of the bride will ask everyone to stand and offer up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the fact that the scales have at long last fallen from his daughter’s eyes. The groom will deliver only the portion of his speech which refers to the bridesmaids, and we must not be surprised if we hear him invite the eldest of these to join him at the bar after the food. However, the best man will make exactly the same speech as he intended to make when the marriage was going ahead, because as luck would have it, it spells out very clearly why the pair should not get hitched.
August 6th
I’ve had a fantastic idea for the plot of a novel, which I’m going to give freely to any budding novelists out there short of a plot twist. The protagonists are a married couple in their forties. The husband, let’s call him Steven, is having an affair which he goes to extraordinary lengths to conceal from his wife, Julia. However, Julia finds him out because - and this is the interesting bit – long blonde hairs are winding themselves round and around the brush head of her vacuum cleaner. She pulls one free after vacuuming the spare bedroom, and measures it to be 46 centimetres long. Her hair is short and dark, so she becomes convinced that another woman is visiting their house...
I’m pretty certain that this is the first time an infidelity has been uncovered by a VAC Tech Pro V15 Cordless Vacuum Cleaner, an unlikely sleuth, but a welcome change from the succession of flawed and miserable sleuths served up to us on our television screens.