A Christmas Theme

I appear to have developed an addiction to glossy magazines. I have read 3 of them in the past 4 weeks and this definitely cannot be normal.

I must confess that I am using the term “read” in the loosest possible sense of the word. What I really mean is that I have looked at the lovely photographs and baulked at the amount of cash that people spend on items to shove in their house at Christmas to make everything feel more festive.

Christmas at the Jodhpurs household consists of a 7 foot fake tree in the lounge and some strings displaying Britney (not her real name)’s Christmas cards.

The Chinese-manufactured 7 foot tree is something of an antique. I purchased it from Argoose 14 years ago; it cost £19.99 and came with a free set of lights.

The lights gave up the ghost many years ago. In fact I seem to recall getting them out one Christmas and despite them working perfectly on the floor, after I had flung them onto the tree from a great distance they refused to work at all. So I merrily cut them up with a pair of scissors, put them in the wheelie bin and nipped to Woolworths to buy a replacement set. Incredibly, the Woolworths set still work but the tree is so enormous that we have another set from Sainsbury’s that are intermingled with them.

Incidentally, I cannot believe that I have just dedicated an entire paragraph to the history of my Christmas tree lights.

Anyway, at this time of year all these fat and glossy magazines are packed to bursting with inspirational Christmas ideas. And from what I understand there are basically 3 different Christmas themes:

Traditional, Contemporary and Scandinavian.

Well how exciting. I didn’t know that we were expected to adopt a theme for Christmas.

I flicked through the lovely photographs again, imagining that my house resembled the ones in the photo shoots and tried to ignore Britney’s pens and toys that were scattered all over the floor in the real world.

Firstly, our house cannot do Contemporary. It’s an old building and it needs to be filled with walking sticks, coats with zips that do not work, wellies and paintings of pheasants. Pictures of VW Beetles and distressed signs informing all and sundry that the household would rather be at the beach, just would not work.

My friend, The TK Maxx Ambassador, has a Contemporary home and I love it. It’s a new build, full of bleached driftwood, inspirational signs, pink fluffy things and pretty lights. It looks beautiful because it is a new house. If you transported her amazing home interior into my house, it would look as though Britney had decorated it with a tenner to spend at Poundland; and a catapult.

A Traditional theme has to be more appropriate for my house. Upon referring back to the glossy magazine that had become my Christmas bible, I discovered that I would need to have a roaring open fire to achieve this look and every surface must be covered with holly and ivy. I tried the greenery thing a few years ago and it frazzled to a crisp on the beams in my lounge within a day. That’s one of the problems with log burners the size of Bristol and the fact that heat rises.

I was also a bit concerned that I might have to kit out the Jodhpurs family in matching jumpers and stand around a piano singing Christmas carols. This is a bit of an issue as none of us can actually play the piano. Standing around Britney’s Karaoke machine singing along to a Little Mix backing track can’t have the same Christmas feeling surely?

So it seems that the only theme available to me is the Scandinavian one. I have to confess that this was my favourite theme all along and I even took the liberty of going and getting my credit card before I starting reading about how to turn my house into a typical festive Scandinavian house.

There is nothing quite like the thrill of buying nice new things and I was ready, plastic card in hand to ensure my house resembled a Swedish Ski Chalet by Christmas Eve.

According to the glossy magazine, if you are adventurous enough to seriously alter your home interior to take on the theme, you need lots of wood.

Luckily when the man converted our house from an ancient, derelict mill there was obviously a very good deal on wood. The deal must have been very, very good, because the entire 1^st floor of my house is tongue and groove wood panelling. This resembles a Swedish sauna as opposed to a Swedish home but nevertheless, it was a very good start.

You also need a log burner to fully embrace the Scandinavian theme. At this point I placed my credit card on the coffee table because I have one of those as well. Unfortunately Dick Van Dyke (The Chimney Sweep) isn’t coming to sweep the chimney until Thursday and consequently the log burner is belching toxic smoke into the lounge whenever I open the door to throw another log in.

I suppose at least I know that I am not in a sauna because I am choking instead of sweating.

Apparently you also need faux fur throws to truly accept the Scandinavian theme. Reading this made me put my credit card back in my wallet because I’ve already got 2 faux fur throws on each sofa.

A Scandinavian Christmas theme also consists of red and white decorations. I do not need any more red and white Christmas tree decorations either; for we live in fear of the tree collapsing under the weight of red and white decorations.

Orange and clove aromas are very Scandinavian. But there’s no point in me ordering any fragrance that can replicate that because I bought a shoot load of Spiced Apple fragrance oil from The Body Shop years ago and I sprinkle it on top of my hot log burner whenever it has smoked us out.

Pine cones feature very heavily in a Scandinavian Christmas. So it’s lucky that Britney and I go and collect them from the wood nearby. Unfortunately, instead of using them to make Christmas tree decorations or table centres, we dry them out and then chuck them by the bucket load into the log burner when it needs lit.

So it would seem that I have created a Scandinavian Christmas without buying a thing.

I am delighted and am playing some ABBA tunes to celebrate. Pint of Aquavit, anyone?

MasterChef

I have nightmares about appearing on MasterChef; which is really rather silly because it is never going to happen.

In a nutshell, I am to cooking what Britney (not her real name) is to motionlessness. Should I ever appear on MasterChef, at the moment when they announce “Let’s cook” I would put my coat on and go to Iceland.

All Mums go to Iceland because they sell Gregg’s pasties ready to chuck in the oven. In the countryside this greatly saves the environment as turning the oven on causes fewer emissions than driving 20 miles to the nearest Greggs outlet.

There is however, a very small part of me that would like to go on MasterChef just to hear the sultry-voiced India Fisher giving my dish its narration:

“Jodhpurs has cooked an American style pepperoni pizza, topped with an array of jalapeno chillies and anchovy fillets, served with French fries, haricot beans in a tomato jus and freshly cracked black pepper.”

It would be a huge advantage to be able to create my Signature Dish in under 20 minutes. It would mean I could have a further 55 minutes to sit down with a glass of wine and read some blogs on my iPad. And while my competitors were chasing their tails trying to plate up, I would have time to serve my pizza on a rustic wooden board and not have to present it on the torn open pizza box.

I would then carefully carry my offering up to the front of the kitchen and stand, fidgeting slightly and chewing my lip as John and Gregg immersed themselves in the complex flavour combinations that would leap from my plate.

John (who looks a bit like my old boss from Miserable Finance Limited, only with more hair) would then exclaim that the pizza was well cooked and that all the flavours had worked really well together. And Gregg would add that it was a pleasant dish but could be improved by serving rhubarb crumble and custard on the side; as he only likes puddings.

Clearly, upon making it through to the next round of the competition and after I had declared that I wasn’t ready to go home as it had all been such an amazing experience; I would up my game. No more playing it safe for me and India would have to give my next dish her most dramatic narration yet:

“Jodhpurs has cooked a thin and crispy pepperoni pizza, topped with extra mozzarella, pesto and jalapenos, served with hand cut (by McCain) chunky chips and haricot beans in a tomato reduction.”

Again John would remark that it was a job well done and suggest that some people would prefer the chunky chips cooked for slightly longer. Gregg would say he was disappointed that there was no apple pie and custard on the side, but all in all it was a good dish.

Then the camera shot would be of me sitting alone in the locker room, with my feet resting on the coffee table made from an old pallet and a sheet of safety glass. With the scene occasionally cutting back to John and Gregg as they discussed how consistent I had been in every round and questioning how much I really wanted to win the competition.

Here would be the point when I would have to remove my apron, put my coat on, shout to John and Gregg that I could bloody well hear them talking about me and head off for a kebab.

I cannot for the life of me think of anything more stressful than being a Chef. I would rather fly an Airbus A380 with faulty landing gear and only one very short runway available, because if I’m going to kill 100’s of people (and this is exactly what my cooking would do), I would rather they knew as little about it as possible.

MasterChef – The Professionals, scares me even more. Monica should have gone to Specsavers, adds tomato sauce to everything and if you told her to sugar coat something, she would be reaching for a pan. I’m surprised that she and Marcus haven’t been hit over the head with a skillet, especially when a stressed chef is stacking food on a plate with shaking hands and they are both whining “You’re 5 minutes over”.

While the amateurs on MasterChef are trying their damnest not to burn anything, these professional chefs seem to want to serve burnt everything. Last week one of them was even serving burnt onions with his dish.

“Chargrilled” is word that features heavily too. I thought chargrilled was what happened to food on the barbecue. If I served something that was chargrilled, people would look at me sympathetically and ask if I had nipped out to the stables and forgotten that I was cooking something. What is the difference between chargrilled and burnt? Or is chargrilled just a polite way of saying burnt?

Last week there were compressed strawberries. I had to ask Google what they were and I found that I needed a Chamber Vacuum Sealer, a High-Speed Centrifuge and they took 30 minutes to make.

Sod that. I mean, 30 minutes to make? What the?

On one plate there was Black Emulsion; which I had always assumed was a kind of paint that you used on a teenage goth’s bedroom walls. There was a black pudding mayonnaise, which is simply wrong and potato cannelloni which made no sense to me at all.

I can tolerate cooking in my slow cooker. It’s not stressful because you prepare it 6 hours before you want to eat it and when it’s ready all you have to do is take the lid off. Thankfully I have no recipes for Black Emulsion with a side of burnt onions. And I’m sure you will agree; that’s a good thing.

Blogger Types

I have been trying to write an “About Me” page for my blog for months. In fact ever since I clicked the publish button on my first post back in April this year I have been trying to write it. Apparently, the About Me page is the most important page on your blog as it allows your readers to connect with you. This worried me further because I don’t actually have any pages on my blog.
How am I supposed to categorise the random rambles that I post? I mean does the last post about Vets’ fees go under Animals or At least Dick Turpin wore a mask? And the post about The Field Decorators, does that go under Conkers, Horses or People Who Can’t Ride In A Taxi With The Door Shut? No, I can’t do that. My blog will have to remain pageless.
Apart from the About Me page of course; if I can ever get it written
To quote a famous line; it’s a little Ironic, don’t you think?

Someone who loves writing has been sitting looking at a blank Word Document for almost 8 months. Every now and again I type a few lines, re-read them, sigh, delete them and suck on my vape stick for a while as I try and think of something else to write.
On Sunday night whilst waiting for I’m A Celebrity (or as it’s now called: Amm A Geordie, Whey Aye Man!) to come on television, I Googled: What kind of Blogger am I? Google obviously had no idea either but gave me a list of suggestions and as we’re mates I thought I would run them past you to see if you can tell me what kind of Blogger I am.
So according to the oracle, there are 7 different types of Blogger.
Number 1 is The Personal Blogger who basically writes about their day. Topics include things like housework, shopping and what they had for lunch.
Crikey, writing about my day would bore you to death. And I hardly think a post title of “Jodhpurs does the school run, some hoovering, hangs the washing out, has a piece of toast, makes a phone call and does the school run again” is going to inspire you to click on it and read it. No, you would be searching for sharp implements with which to end your life if I wrote about my day.
Number 2 is The Business Blogger and they write about things that will attract their customers.
I don’t have any customers and if I did, I suspect they would not be my customers anymore after they’d read my post about owning a totally shit cat.
Number 3 is The Professional Blogger who is offered everything from shoes to cars as a reward for blogging about the product.
I’m definitely not one of those. You can tell by the holes in my jodhpurs. I’d probably be rubbish at being a professional blogger anyway, as any company who sent me jodhpurs to review would receive a marvellous review in the hope that I would get sent some more. It would be the same with any gin company who asked me to write a review. Apart from Lidl’s. They might make caviar affordable to all but their gin tastes like watered down eau de toilette. (You heard it first here and I wasn’t even paid to give you that information.)
Number 4 is the Affiliate Blogger and they write reviews on products that they will then earn revenue from.
Right, so maybe I can aspire to be an Affiliate blogger. As long as I write reviews on gin, jodhpurs, wine and horse equipment.
Number 5 is The Mom Bloggers and already Google has made a huge mistake. “Mom” is American and “Mum” is English, if you’re from the North East “Mam” is the word but not Mom. Not Mom. And there are lots and lots of Mom Blogs.
I am not writing a Mom Blog and you can see this in the post The World According To Britney (Not her real name).
Number 6 is the Guest Blogger who writes content for other websites.
I think I could do this with brilliant execution, so if the Head of PR at Gordon’s Gin is reading this, please send an email to jodhpursontheschoolrun@outlook.com and mark it as high importance.
Number 7 is the Freelance Blogger who does exactly what the Guest Blogger does but without being asked.
I think I may be rather good at this as well. Tomorrow I will write a brilliant and gushing article about how lovely Gordon’s Gin is in the hope that they send me a huge cheque and an ever bigger case of their finest gin.
But none of this has helped me to establish what type of blogger I am.
And as I have never conformed to anything in my life, I will just remain Jodhpurs On The School Run, a random rambling blogger.

A Costly Week

Last week was an expensive week. To be fair, when you can drink gin as well as I can, most weeks are expensive, so it’s probably best if I describe last week as a particularly expensive week. On Tuesday, the best equine Vet in the country (Janey Herriot) was booked to come and rasp my horse’s teeth and to administer his annual Flu booster. Dobbin (Wet-Dishcloth-Horse) is as brave as a lion with everything; apart from the Vet. And as such he needs heavy sedation to keep all humans safe and to make the whole experience less traumatic for him. If I was the proud owner of some sort of horse carrying vehicle, I would simply have wrapped Dobbin’s legs in cotton wool, chucked him into the back of it and driven him to my Vets’ Surgery. This saves the all important “call out fee”; and I am firm in the belief that I could transport Nico Rosberg’s Mercedes from Stuttgart to Northumberland for less than what my Vet demands to come to my house. Nevertheless Janey and her Veterinary Nurse (Florence) appeared on Tuesday morning and had Dobbin sedated, rasped and jabbed in a smartly efficient length of time and were off again before my horse had regained the use of his faculties. I put Dobbin out the field for his drunkenness to wear off and headed into the house for a coffee, satisfied that the job was done for another year.

Unfortunately on Wednesday morning, it was apparent that all was not well with Dobbin. When I came out to his stable at stupid o’clock in the morning, I noticed that he hadn’t drunk as much water as normal and was clearly a bit under the weather. Wet-Dishcloth-Horse had never reacted to his Flu jab before but I was certain this was the problem and so I rang Mrs Herriot & Company. I asked the lady Vet who I spoke to if she could just authorise some pain relief for Wet-Dishcloth-Horse. But no, Lady Vet said that someone would have to come out and examine him. And so an hour later, Boy Vet and Girl Vet arrived to scare the shit out of Dobbin for the second day in succession. And yes, Boy Vet (who was 12) agreed that I was correct with my diagnosis, gave me some packets of equine Paracetamol, a cheery wave and drove off again.

It is unfortunate that Dobbin’s dental examination and Flu booster occur in November, because it means along with the Christmas post I also receive correspondence from my Vet. Sadly it doesn’t wish me a Merry Christmas but instead says: “Dear Jodhpurs, You owe us a huge amount of cash, please pay it all in full or we won’t come and look at your horse again even if it’s about to die and needs put out of its misery. Love, Mrs Herriot and Co.” When I first ventured into the world of horse ownership many years ago, I found this method of collecting money from us horse owners rather odd. On the few occasions that Little Arab Horse needed medical attention, I used to try and force £20 notes into the Vet’s hand as they left the stable yard. I was astonished that your horse could receive treatment to the tune of hundreds of English Pounds and the Vet didn’t once check that you had the means to pay for it.

If I was a Vet I would keep all of my customers’ credit cards in the safe at my surgery. I would also ask for proof of any Premium Bonds held, HPI their car and ask for copies of their last 3 bank statements. Just to be on the safe side I would also ask to keep their eldest child at my home until they had settled their account in full and request that they signed an agreement that should their horse have to be destroyed, I would be in receipt of the horse’s shoes so I could sell them to the scrap man. In addition to these simple requests, I would also ask all my customers for a list of valuable items within their home and for a copy of their life insurance certificates. If any of my customers were late with their payment I would employ the lads from “Can’t Pay, We’ll Take It Away” to loiter outside their home until the account was settled.

I don’t understand this way of invoicing the “large animal” customers because if I take my cat to the Vets there is absolutely no chance of getting out the door without paying what is owed. There are no 30 day terms for small animal treatment and when you leave the consulting room with Felix in an oversized overnight bag, you have to pay immediately. Lovely though they are, the receptionists have a better tackling technique than Billy Vunipola (before he got injured). In fact, if Billy (before he got injured) made an attempt to drive his 24 stone bulk out of the door and into the car park whilst hugging his cat carrier, he would be brought to the floor by an army of Miss Moneypennys. Should Billy manage to get to his feet, bloodied and bruised and collect his cat in its travelling bag, he would then have to crawl through razor wire and laser beams to get to his car. This in turn would give Miss Moneypenny enough time to deploy the Stinger across the car park exit. If Billy was able to make it on to the main road he would find his rear view mirror full of blue flashing lights and his vehicle lit up by the search light of the police helicopter.

There is no escape for the small animal customer. But as we’re mates I’m going to give you a solution to this problem. It’s simple really, just buy a horse. Then your Vet will happily let you add Felix’s yearly vaccination fee onto your account and invoice you 30 days later.

Job Done.

Christmas - The John Lewis Way

What a few weeks it has been. America has chosen the love child of a Lego character to run their country and more importantly, my car has died.

The fuel pump on my faithful Ford Focus chose to give up the ghost after 175,123 miles and so the All Terrain Focus is no more. The Music Teacher’s husband once asked me if it was 4 wheel drive and I replied that it wasn’t but it went over any terrain and hence its nick name. Its replacement has been nicknamed “The Licence Taker” as I felt that “The Widow Maker” was a little macabre. The new car is an incredible machine as it has an engine so big I could use it to power a cross channel ferry.

I have so far driven it with the same respect that I offer a pint of Martini. And I am not referring to the Martini that is poured straight from the bottle but the kind that is a 50/50 mixture of gin and Vermouth, poured over ice into a Martini glass and decorated with an olive on a cocktail stick. The Licence Taker is mighty fast and needs respect. I will continue to respect it until I have been done for doing 35mph in a 30mph zone. Then I will cane it, just to see how fast it can go. And so far, no road in my local area is long enough to find out how fast The Licence Taker actually is.

Aside from my lovely new car, another thing that has happened in the past few weeks is the John Lewis Christmas advert. If you’ve been in the cupboard under the stairs of late, you can click here to watch it.

As I watched the John Lewis advert for the first time, I found myself smiling up until the point where the 2 foxes appear and begin to bounce on the trampoline. “Oh good” I thought, “the trampoline is now covered in ticks, lice, fleas and mange”. As if this isn’t bad enough a badger then clambers onto the trampoline, so there’s also a good chance that the small child will contract Tuberculosis on Christmas morning.

Crickey if I saw a badger on Britney (not her real name)’s trampoline I would be dashing outside with a pressure washer, some bleach and a bucket of antibiotics. The advert then continues with the arrival of the Squirrel Pox Virus in the guise of a jolly giant grey rat with a fluffy tail. If this was happening in my garden I would be reaching for Other Half’s gun. And I am a crap shot. There literally is more chance of Jenson Button enjoying a drive in a Toyota Aygo, than me actually shooting something successfully. I couldn’t hit a barn door even if I was sitting on it.

And this means that in reality should I see a horrible Grey Squirrel on Britney’s trampoline, I would be heading out into the garden armed with an unloaded shotgun and hoping to club the little sod to death. I’ve checked on the Grey Squirrel control website and they say:

“Under the Pest Act 1954 Section 8 and the Welfare of Animals (Northern Ireland) Act 1972 Article 21, it is an offence, in respect of any animal, to use or permit the use of:

1)         an unapproved spring trap (e.g. a gin trap which is a form of spring trap with toothed jaws, banned in 1958).

2)         an approved trap in unapproved circumstances”

No mention of clubbing the little bastards to death so I think it might be alright to do so.

According to Red Squirrels Northern England, it is illegal to release a Grey Squirrel or allow one to escape. And this is why when I saw a Grey Squirrel running along the road a few months back I tried desperately to run it over. I missed the bloody thing and so now I am fully expecting the strong arm of the law to come knocking on my front door.

The Victorians saw the Sciurus carolinensis (Pox-riddled Grey Squirrel), as something of a fashionable addition to their country estates and they began introducing them to England, Scotland and Wales in 1876. By 1931 a National campaign was launched to combat the spread of the Grey and by 1933 it became illegal to import and release them or keep them captive without a licence.

It is now estimated that the Grey Squirrel costs the British Economy £14 million a year.

The Red Squirrel has been here since the end of the last ice age and it seems a bit unfair that the Latin name for the Red Squirrel is Sciurus vulgaris. It makes him sound nasty and he’s not; he’s beautiful, he’s delicate and he’s under massive threat. There are still places where you can see Red Squirrels and in fact the photographs I have used on this post were taken in North Northumberland by my friend The Aigle Welly Wearer. I think she did a marvellous job considering how fast the little buggars move.

Unfortunately I haven’t asked her permission to use these pictures so I’ll probably get sued if she reads this, but I would rather be sued for posting a photograph of a Red Squirrel than be arrested for being unable to run over a Grey one.

The Art of Hygge

The literary bible that is the Collins Dictionary, has released the top 10 words of the year. Not surprisingly, Brexit was top of the list and second was Hygge. For those of you who have been studying the interior of a cardboard box for the past few months, hygge is a Danish word which is pronounced “hoogar” and roughly translates as “cosiness”.

After reading the Daily Mail’s interpretation of the word, I thought I would do what everyone else in the world does when they need to find the real explanation of a word; I asked Google. The Oracle conveniently directed me to www.visitdenmark.co.uk which I knew would explain hygge in a slightly more concise manner than the DM.

Basically hygge means “creating a nice, warm atmosphere and enjoying the things in life with good people around you. The warm glow of candlelight is hygge. Friends and Family – that’s hygge too. And let’s not forget the eating and drinking – preferably sitting around a table for hours on end discussing the big and small things in life”.

I much preferred this explanation as the Daily Mail had described hygge as “cosiness with knobs on” and then given me a recipe for hot chocolate.

I’ve been enjoying hygge for years. I just didn’t know there was an actual word for it. Back in the day BB (Before Britney (not her real name)) and before I met Other Half, me and my friends practiced hygge most weekends. We used to call it “drinking” but I now know it’s actually called hygge. Nothing makes you sit around a table for hours on end discussing the big and small things in life, like 2 bottles of wine a piece and several gin & tonics. Chuck in some local scandal and you will find that the conversation really can go on for hours on end because no-one can remember what was said earlier in the evening.

The house I lived in back then (The Von Trapp Bottle Bank), had no central heating which meant we would sit in my lounge with a roaring coal fire, swathed in huge fleecy blankets and apparently that’s hygge too. This hygge malarkey can become a bit of a way of life and even in the current house I still like a fleecy blanket. As soon as I pull it over my legs it’s like putting the cover on the canary; I am asleep in seconds.

When I think about it, The Von Trapp Bottle Bank has actually set me up rather well because I have the most amazing money saving tendencies during the winter. It is always Other Half who suggests turning the heating on because by the time October is upon us, I have completely forgotten that our house is centrally heated. When I am working from home, I think it is completely normal to sit at my desk wearing a hat and coat.

Anyway, back at The Von Trapp Bottle Bank, we would light candles as it was cheaper than turning on the lights and hey presto; that’s hygge too. If I’d known about hygge back then, I would have renamed my home “Hygge House”.

Apparently the time of year when Hygge is enjoyed the most is at Christmas and that’s not really surprising when you think that Danish winters are long and dark. Unwittingly, I have practiced hygge throughout the festive season for years. This is because Christmas in Northumberland means we are either blocked in by snow or are enduring torrential rain and everyone stays inside.

But hygge can be also be a Summer thing with “picnics in the park, barbeques with friends and bike rides can also be very hygge”. Oh my lord, I was born to be Hygge. In the Daily Mail article it does suggest that the “three wheel cargo bike with a big box at the front to carry anything from shopping to children” is a bit more Hygge than my mountain bike. But the cargo bike is £1,095 and frankly I would rather buy a car which would mean I could get home in less time and thus get back underneath my blanket as quickly as possible.

So Denmark, I want to thank you.

Up until now all you had ever given us was the pop group Aqua and Lego. And I would much rather have Hygge than a rendition of Barbie Girl and tiny piece of plastic that causes such immense pain when you stand on it.

The World According To Britney (not her real name)

Britney (Not her real name) has just done something amazing.

When your child does something to make you proud, it matters not how dark the day is, because your heart fills with sunshine. And I am proud. I feel the same as I did when she wrote her name for the first time. It was like the day we were on the school run and there was a flock of seagulls swirling over a field. I asked her why the seagulls were there and not crapping all over the inhabitants of Berwick upon Tweed as normal and she replied it was because the tractor in the field was ploughing and the seagull vermin were after the worms. I was chuffed to a jelly that she knew that. Anyway, the amazing thing that Britney has just done has NEVER happened before in all of her 8 years.

She has just asked me to turn the television off.

Honestly, she did.

Britney, who thinks it is law that the television is on for 24 hours a day has just asked me to turn it off, as she couldn’t concentrate on her game with her dolls house.

As described in the post about our lawn mower collection, we are lucky to have a large garden; which Britney ventures into when we bribe her with sweets.

For her 3^rd birthday she received a beautiful wooden playhouse. It was on stilts and had 2 windows, a stable door and a little ladder leading up to the tiny veranda at the front. Granny Weatherwax made cute little curtains for the windows and we laid carpet on the floor. It was so lovely that I was severely temped to close the curtains and sit in it drinking gin. However, as Britney grew, she complained that she couldn’t quite stand up inside it and had to duck her head to get in the door. The playhouse had been well used and therefore (with her permission) one day while she was at school, we loaded it onto a trailer and waved it off to its new home.

It was 5 weeks later when she noticed that it had gone and that was only because we’d had high winds the night before and she assumed that it had blown away.

Britney would be happy to sit and watch the gogglebox until her eyes became square, so it’s a surprise that she does like to slap on her plastic colander and get out on her bike. In fact my brother The Sniper and his wife The Verruca Expert, called on their bikes a few weeks ago and Britney went off for a pedal with them. When The Sniper delivered Britney home again with her bike in the back of his jeep he did remark that his “f**king ears were bleeding” which I took as a sign that Britney had not stopped talking for the duration of their bike ride. Apparently at one point in an attempt to keep his sanity, The Sniper had suggested that if she closed her mouth the flies wouldn’t get in to it; to no avail.

Britney does seem to have a tendency to chatter incessantly. When she was younger and still sat in the back of the car, sometimes I would have to turn the radio up to drown the constant stream of one-sided conversation.

A little while ago, I started keeping a note of some of her more taxing questions and I thought I would share them with you, because we’re mates. If you can answer any of them, then please do let me know because not even sodding Google can assist me in giving her a reply.

1. If I get hot, which bit of me gets hot first?

2. If an apple fell into some wet cement, what would happen to the apple?

3. What’s cleverer, a wolf or a lion?

4. Can you kill a zombie if it’s already dead?

5. What would happen if the world got bigger?

6. Is a Doctor allowed to run in a hospital?

7. If you eat too much will you die?

8. Why do we get itchy?

9. What would you do if you were allergic to dogs but needed a Guide Dog?

10. Why don’t cats eat slugs?

11. How do you do Guided Reading by yourself?

12. If you’re blind, how do you go shopping?

I think this gives you a rather good insight as to how Britney’s fast revolving brain works, although I’m not sure I quite understand it myself.

She has made a swearbox that sits on the coffee table in the lounge. I asked her if in return, I could make a “I am sick of picking things up” box, where Britney has to put 10p into it, everytime I have to pick one of her possessions up from the floor. Her reply was “I like Monty Don because he doesn’t swear”.

Which I have to admit, I don’t fully understand either.

Hunter Wellies by Royal Appointment

What in the name of bloody hell has happened to Hunter Wellies? Back in the day when I was about to become a teenager and all this was still fields, Hunter wellies were the wellington boot to have. They were popular because they were the first welly that was allegedly safe to ride in but they were darned expensive too.

The cheaper, hard rubber wellies that you could buy in your local shoe shop for a fiver were somewhat lethal in the stirrup. They were too wide, both across the foot and in the leg and being so rigid if you were in the process of falling off, there was a real risk that the boot would remain stuck in the stirrup and you would get dragged along the road with your head bouncing off the tarmac. In comparison, the Hunter welly was smooth, flexible and very comfortable to walk or ride in.

When I was 11, my friend The Train Organiser had a pair of Hunter wellies that had been passed down to her when her sister outgrew them. To her, being hand-me-downs, she treated these wellies without regard; and it broke my heart. In those days, you could have any colour Hunter welly you wanted; as long as you wanted green. They were the first wellies to have those lovely little silver buckles on the side that gradually worked themselves loose and made a lovely tinkly noise as you walked. These buckles were meant to adjust the width of the boot; they didn’t work at all but they looked lovely.

When I was about 15, I went to a saddlery shop and bought myself a pair of navy blue Barbour wellies. I bought them because the saddlers in question didn’t stock Hunters. The Barbour’s were very comfortable and cost more than Hunters; but to me they weren’t the same. They did however last for years and I finally had to buy another pair of wellies when I was 18. By this time Hunter wellies had been copied madly and you could buy some really good, similar wellies for half the price of a Hunter set. I was very proud of my “Yeoman” wellies, until the day when the boss and I were riding side by side along the road and her horse chose to spin around and crush my leg. It ripped the buckle off my right welly and left me with a bruised knee and a welly with a flappy strap. Despite this, I wore them until the rubber perished and they leaked so badly that I had to place each foot in a carrier bag before putting them on, if I was venturing anywhere damp.

When I was mid twenties, I was gifted my first pair of Hunters by a lady who got cramp when trying to put them on. They were navy blue and lasted me for years. They were the perfect example of what Hunter call the “Original Boot”, they were freezing cold and as slippery as a slug when you were trying to walk on mud.

It was 1956 when the Hunter’s Original Boot was born and apparently today they are still made from the original last and handcrafted from 28 parts. In 1977 Hunter was awarded a Royal Warrant by Appointment to HRH Duke of Edinburgh and in 1986 to HM The Queen.

How does Her Royal Majesty and Highness The Queen cope with the Duchess of Cambridge wearing Le Chameau’s and not the Royal Appointed Hunter welly?

Scene 1

The Palace of Buck.

Her Maj: Philip darling, would you pour me a gin, One simply must make an urgent phone call before Eastenders begins. (She picks up the telephone and begins to dial)

Phil The Greek: Of course my little cupcake, I will do it straight away. (He hums the tune “I Vow To Thee My Country” as he exits stage left)

Her Maj: (Slightly under her breath) Come on, come on, answer the bloody phone, One hasn’t got all bloody night. (Slightly louder) What is it about young people? Too much time playing on their bloody X Boxes to……Ah William darling. Is Kate there?

Scene cuts to “Norfolk Hall”, the home of the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge:

Wills: Oh, hi Granny. No, no, I’m afraid Kate is watching Emmerdale and she said that she is not at home to guests. She said that if I disturb her, I won’t be allowed to play polo on Friday.

Palace of Buck:

Her Maj: One is terribly sorry about that William, but One really needs to speak to her. Do they have a reserve player they can field on Friday? One can send Harry if they are going to be short of someone?

Norfolk Hall

Wills: Oh, well yes, yes, I suppose, Pippa will be there after all. I’ll give her a shout. (He presses the receiver into his shoulder and shouts loudly towards stage right) Kate! Granny’s on the phone for you!

(Inaudible shouting from stage right)

Wills: (Shouting) I know that you said you were unavailable for consultation but for fuck’s sake Kate, it’s Granny! Get your arse in here NOW!

(Kate enters stage right, she is wearing a onesie and her hair is in rollers. She snatches the telephone from William, gesticulates angrily at his polo sticks which are leaning against the wall and then draws her index finger across her throat)

Wills: (Whispering) She could have you killed, you know.

Kate: (To William) Whatever. (In a bored voice) Hi Granny.

Palace of Buck

Her Maj: Kate, darling, One is so sorry to drag you away from your common soap opera, but One simply cannot believe that you have been photographed again by the Daily Mail wearing those bloody foreign wellington boots.

Norfolk Hall

Kate: Oh yar, my Le Chameau’s.

Palace of Buck

Her Maj: (Sighing) Kate, darling, we have discussed this before. Hunter wellingtons are by Appointment to One, please make an effort to wear the free ones that One gave you.

Norfolk Hall

Kate: But Granny, my Le Chameau’s are just so great. I mean, they are so cosy and warm with their neoprene lining and the soles are so grippy. I mean, they are just so the best wellingtons ever.

Palace of Buck

Her Maj: Kate, darling, One hears what One is saying but Hunter wellingtons are by Royal Appointment. Would it help if One got you another pair in pink?

Norfolk Hall

Kate: Not really Granny because Hunter wellies are shit.

Palace of Buck

Her Maj: (As she replaces the telephone receiver) Buggar.

Phil The Greek: (From stage left) I bloody told you, cupcake! They really are shit wellies!

I came across an American blogger the other day who advised me of 5 ways to wear Hunter wellies. Rubbish, I thought, I can think of at least 10 ways to wear Hunter wellies, for example:

1.         With jodhpurs

2.         With jeans

3.         Under waterproof trousers

4.         With jodhpurs

5.         With jeans

6.         Under waterproof trousers

7.         With jeans

8.         With jodhpurs

9.         With jeans

10.       Under waterproof trousers

But no, it turns out that Hunter wellies can actually be worn with shorts and most shocking of all, they can be worn with dresses. Crickey Moses, if I ventured out in a dress and my Hunter wellies there’s more chance of me being sectioned than noticed.

Back in the day, Hunter was founded by an American bloke, Henry Lee Norris. He started the North British Rubber Company when he arrived in Scotland and later this company began trading as Hunter.

There were just 4 employees to begin with but by the mid 1870s the company had 600 staff members. At the start of World War I the production at the factory in Edinburgh rose dramatically as the War Office ordered sturdy rubber boots for the soldiers in the trenches. The production ran 24 hours a day to keep up with demand and they supplied 1,185,036 pairs of boots to the British Army. They did such a good job that they were called upon again in 1939 after the outbreak of World War II.

The Hunter welly is unrecognisable these days. There are tall boots, short boots, Chelsea boots, ankle boots and a whole page on their website dedicated to how to look fab at a Festival.

But I suppose this is genius of Hunter; for they have moved with the times and their market place is now vast.

Real and proper country people wear Aigle wellies. They are the wellies of champions that can be worn all day, everyday and they last for years.

I can’t afford Aigle wellies, so I am reduced to trawling the internet until I find a company that is selling Hunter seconds. They are a fraction of the price of the “unblemished” ones and once they are covered in mud; you can’t see their imperfections. My faithful Hunter Balmoral wellies are lined with bamboo carbon fleece and have so far lasted me 6 and a half winters. They are sadly not a patch on the 5mm neoprene lined Seeland wellies that I had (briefly) before them, but the lovely Seeland wellies didn’t even last 2 months before the lining came away. I also have a “Summer” pair of Hunter seconds. I’ve had them for 9 years, the rubber has now perished and they leak over my toes when I walk in wet grass. I should throw them out because wellies that leak are simply shoes, but I can’t quite bring myself to put them in the wheelie bin just yet. Because I know that I will have to hold a minute’s silence when I close the bin lid, honouring my faithful Hunter’s that are lying in silence, with just each other for company in the dark. I might even have a Wake for the summer wellies before I start surfing the interweb to find a replacement pair.

You can become attached to your wellies; you know.

Should Her Royal Majesty and Highness ever get around to reading this; well Mam, I hate to break it to you, but Hunter wellies are no longer made at their birthplace in Edinburgh, but are now made in China.

Shame.

Conkers and Decorations

On Monday afternoon, Britney (not her real name) and I went conker stealing. We went off on our bikes with our plastic colanders for protection and spent a happy hour and a half breaking open the green and brown husks of the Horse Chestnut tree.

When our backpacks could hold no more we cycled home with the company of the setting sun, thinking longingly of the hot bath that would thaw out our fingertips. Later Britney lovingly polished each of the 187 conkers with an old sock and put them on display in a wire basket that is meant to hold eggs in my kitchen. After Britney had gone to bed, I sneakily removed a few of the smaller conkers and placed them strategically around the house. The conker is meant to emit some kind of noxious substance that wards off spiders and after I threw a large glass of Shiraz all over my sofa when an enormous arachnid landed on my foot a few nights ago, I am willing to try anything. So yes, I had a bit of an ulterior motive when I suggested that Britney and I go conker stealing.

This week is half term (hence the conker theft) and this Saturday marks the end of British Summer Time.

It means that it’s that time of year again.

I’m not referring to the time when the Autumnal chill creeps into the air once the sun has begun to set or the onset of Christmas adverts on TV; it’s the time of year when those bizarre people who own a “Field Ornament” suddenly develop an interest in riding it.

I refer to these people as “Field Decorators” and once you get your eye in they are fairly easy to spot. They are the people who wear clean, non-holey jodhpurs in Sainsbury’s and can’t ride in a taxi with the door shut. They usually own more than one Field Ornament, often one of them is at least 105 years old and is still not broken to ride and the other is an unsuitable pony who has bucked off everyone in the County under the age of 10 and therefore has not been ridden for over 15 years. They talk loudly at parties about their Field Ornaments and always tell the entire room that they unfortunately have to go home early to muck out.

Good God, if I haven’t mucked out by 9am I am so ashamed that I don’t tell anyone. I even lied to Other Half last Saturday as I was quietly trying to finish mucking out my stable at 2pm without him knowing. “Are you just mucking out now?” he asked incredulously, forcing me to cough and reply breezily that I was just “tidying up”. If I’m at a party I’m the one whispering “I shreally sshood go home ash I haventsh gosh the fecking horsh in yet” but at least I am safe in the knowledge that my stable is clean and ready to receive my horse when I bring him inside in a slightly intoxicated fashion. Why brag that you haven’t bothered to muck out yet? In horsey circles that’s about as popular as a dusty cat at an allergy clinic.

It puzzles me as to why the Field Decorator suddenly develops an interest in riding when British Summer Time is about to end. From May to September we have had some incredible riding weather, some days you could have ridden in daylight anytime between 5am and 8.30pm. So why does the Field Decorator rush out in October purchase a high visibility jacket, a flashing red light and proceed to imagine that they are shortlisted for the British team?

On the plus side, you can rest assured that you won’t meet the Field Decorator on the school run, because they choose to ride their horse on the public highway once everyone is home from work and having a gin & tonic. Yes, that’s correct, in the dark. And I can’t think of anything more dangerous. If I can’t see where I’m going, I’m fairly certain that Dobbin can’t either.

The Field Decorator also rides their Ornament everywhere at a snail’s pace. There is no trotting and definitely no cantering for fear of falling off. Going for a ride takes a very long time if you walk everywhere and if you are short of padding in the arse department it is excruciating. You will return to the yard with your seatbones on fire wishing you had one of those gel seat covers that I use on my bike.

Aside from the excitement when he is trying to see where he is going during his evening hacking, The Field Ornament has a slightly dull life. Yes he has the luxury of being able to eat as much grass as he wants, but he has no job and most horses thrive on routine and work. This Field Ornament does absolutely nothing but eat and have shiny new shoes fitted everytime one falls off. In the winter when I find that I am mostly riding in the gloom, I tend to ride off road as much as possible. It is during this time that my Farrier will examine a shoe that he has just removed from my horse’s foot and utter the biggest put down in the world: “Not doing much with him at the minute, are you?” This is my Farrier’s way of politely saying: “You haven’t worn the fecking shoe down. You are clearly not riding this horse at all because real horses trot around the roads for hours to harden their tendons and keep them fit; and don’t ponce around the field margins for 40 minutes every morning before the school run.” This makes me wonder what he says to the Field Decorator. Or does he just smile, remove the unworn shoes, shave a bit of hoof off, slap them back on again and carefully put the cheque in his pocket?

Another common trait of the Field Decorator is the vivid colour of all their horse’s garments. I am an old fashioned horse owner, which means my horse’s clothing consists of 3 colours: black, brown and navy. White is acceptable on some occasions but purple, yellow, green and sodding pink are most definitely out. The Field Decorator’s Ornament could bring on an epileptic fit. Stars, stripes, hoops, primary colours and glitter are all there in abundance.

The Field Decorator’s own wardrobe is crammed will all the latest riding gear and possibly the same brand of riding hat as the most recent Olympic dressage champion; which comes in handy and keeps them nice and safe when they leave it on the parcel shelf of their car in Sainsbury’s car park.

You can also spot a Field Decorator as their horse will be wearing a rug to keep them warm when the temperature is warm enough for us in Northumberland to be wearing shorts. And in the November their horse is probably still wearing a mesh rug that is designed to protect the creature’s skin from the biting flies that disappear at the end of August.

I would love to tell you that the Field Decorator continues to ride all winter, but they don’t. This mad, high octane form of riding only lasts a few weeks and then the horse is out in the field again wearing a rug that it will continue to wear until Easter.

The Field Ornament is a bit like the conkers. Carefully selected, lovingly polished at first but forgotten about as soon as they become old and a bit shrivelled. 

The Professionals

My friend, the Native Pony Professional has been and clipped my horse. Native Pony Professional clips at the speed of light and it took no time at all to shave my orange pony and leave him bald with a shocked expression on his face. He now looks like a proper grown up horse. Gone is all the half bred welsh pony hairiness and now at least he won’t get overheated just from walking and trotting around a field.

I bought this wet dishcloth of a horse when he had just turned 5 years old. I was the 6^th person to own him and gaining his trust took time. He’s a very sweet and loving character but he’s also a bit odd as he absolutely adores children. He has on more than one occasion scaled a heap of split logs like Bambi on ice, to get near to Britney (not her real name). Britney is a bit unsporting as she happens to be allergic to all things equine but before her sneezing and red eye became really horrible, she used to stand on a step stool and put hair clips in his forelock and he loved it.

Despite this horse being terrified of any person he does not know over the age of 12, once you are on board him he resembles a giant guide dog. He doesn’t care about tractors the size of houses towing trailers full of sheep and he is the only horse in the world to have no fear of those sodding England flags that people attach to their cars during major football tournaments. He’s astonishing. He is the most sensible horse that I have ever ridden. But if I ever ask you to hold him while the Vet gives him his flu booster, just say that you are busy. I quite understand.

He isn’t however, what we call in the trade a “Granny Bike” and last winter he developed a nasty habit of trying his damnest to buck me off. This is not a fun pastime and if anyone tells you that they like a horse that bucks; they have clearly NEVER sat on a horse that can really buck. The sharp, violent buck is a horrible action, firing the rider up in the air and if the horse twists to the side while you are still in mid air, it only leaves the ground underneath to catch you. By some luck each time Dobbin tried this, I managed to land back in the saddle and regain my composure with my knees shaking slightly against the saddle. In the perfect world, when a young horse gives a cheeky buck, you should wrap your legs more tightly around him and give him a smack behind your leg with your whip to encourage the horse to move forwards and not upwards. In the real world however, as soon as Dobbin finds he’s being whacked he will buck again and after a few more buck/whack exchanges, you’ll find yourself saying “You’re very naughty” in a high voice and waggling your index finger at the back of his ears.

Anyone over the age of 19 is too old to fall off and knowing that if this clever horse bucked me off once he would do it again and again, I sent him to my friend the Problem Horse Expert to sort out. After a week and a half I went and rode my reformed character with Problem Horse Expert who said “If you have this bucking problem again, I think you’re going to have to belt up and sit on him”. To Problem Horse Expert, Dobbin was probably about as exciting as sitting on a bean bag in the cupboard under the stairs listening to the Jeremy Vine Show.

Back in 2012, Scottish Moose Friend and I went to watch the Cross Country at the London Olympics. It was an amazing experience but left me feeling quite depressed. A year later we went to Burghley and again I felt slightly downhearted watching the pro’s jump fences that were so big you couldn’t quite believe they were real. The Burghley course designer should have just gone the whole hog and covered the fences with broken bottles, razor wire and wired them into the mains electric. How on earth do you get to the point where you can trust a horse to jump a fence that’s the size of a 4x4 and make it look easy? It made me wonder if I should bother riding at all as it made the fallen tree in the wood that Dobbin and I pop over in the mornings look a bit feeble.

Last week I visited a racing yard. It with a stunning, purpose built yard with the most incredible facilities, a horse walker, a covered gallop and an equine swimming pool. I fell in love with a lovely 4 year old and I watched him work with his stable companions on the 6 furlong gallop high up in the hills. The Thoroughbred is the king of the equine world and watching these equine athletes gave me a familiar feeling of despair.

This feeling disappeared the very next morning when I was out on Dobbin. We were standing at the railway crossing as the train sped over it, sounding its horn as it went. I nearly died; Dobbin didn’t move.

I’m willing to bet my horse, house and car that the 4 year old racehorse that I had lusted over the day before would have gone into orbit if that had happened to him. Horses for courses, I suppose.

 The difference between the professional and the amateur can be small or it can be great. I’m glad the pro’s are here because we amateurs need all the help we can get.

Gardener's World

The garden that came with my house is my Other Half’s domain. I am no gardener; I don’t have the patience to wait for a kettle to boil so there’s no way I can possibly wait for something to grow. If it was up to me our garden would consist of Astroturf, bark chippings and enormous plastic plants. I can’t even be arsed with planters on the patio as you actually have to water these stupid things in the summer. Clearly after a long day in the office the only thing I want to do is stand outside holding a hosepipe trickling water into a wooden planter full of flowery things. You could argue that with a watering system in place all I have to do is walk outside and turn the tap on, but this interferes with “wine time” and frankly I cannot be bothered to even do that.

As there is more chance of me paying a subscription to the Royal Society for Waiting & Patience than actually planting something, it is strange that I love Gardener’s World. It is my weekly aim to be in my pyjamas and on the sofa by 8.30 on a Friday evening, ready to see Monty chuck a tennis ball to Nigel and watch Carol (clearly on Valium) adding grit to the bottom of her plant pots. I have absolutely no interest in gardening so I can only conclude that I enjoy lying on the sofa on a Friday night with a pint of wine watching other people work.

If the garden was left to me I would buy full size artificial trees and have them lowered into place with a crane. A gardener can never sit in a deck chair in their garden and think “There. I’ve finished it.” because the job is never ending. The only part of the garden I take an interest in is the growth rate of the lawn and this is only so I can gauge how much grass my horse is guzzling in his postage stamp of a paddock.

This disappoints Other Half as he appears to have something of an obsession with grass. I have checked this theory with my friends and we are all in agreement. The men-blokes are fanatical about their grass and are only content when their lawn resembles the Old Course at St Andrews.

Before I became aware of this “Man-Mania” regarding grass, I made the terrible mistake of allowing my horse to walk across our lawn. It was December, the lane to the field was sheet ice and I chose to take my expensive, spindly-legged equine up my garden to his field, rather than risk a Vet’s bill by allowing him to skate up the road. Good God, Other Half spent the next 4 months filling the 3 inch deep hoof holes with sand and sprinkling them with grass seed, with a very cross expression on his face.

This moment was surpassed when the current horse took fright at the new Farrier and galloped off across the garden. By the time he had calmed down and I was able to catch him, he had performed something that resembled a Strictly Come Dancing routine on the lawn. I knew this was bad as Newcastle Racecourse have less damage after a full day’s racing when the going is good to soft.

As a result; I have learnt to respect the lawn and I have also noticed that we have a considerable and frankly elaborate, Lawn Mower Collection.

When we first moved to this house we were mowerless as our previous houses had no gardens. And it was apparent that despite the garden being somewhat undulating there was a fecking ton of grass to cut. For a while we had the most expensive law mower in Northumberland as the expensive, spindly legged equine roamed freely. It was only when he began pruning the roses with his enormous teeth that Other Half went out and bought a strimmer. Then Artist Friend gave us an old lawn mower as a moving in present. Old-Mower did a marvellous job but didn’t propel himself and so took a lot of effort to push it up the steep slope in the garden.

Then we acquired a second more modern self-driven mower from my Father’s friend, who no longer required it to cut his town garden that was the size of my bathroom. I thought we could then get rid of the Old-Mower, but Other Half insisted that Old-Mower would be used to cut the rougher areas of the garden and Self-Driven-Mower would cut the neat sections of lawn.

Then Teacher Friend invested in a new ride-on Mower and asked if we would like to buy her old ride-on mower.

“Tremendous,” I thought, “Now we can get rid of all other mowers and just have Ride-on-Mower. It will save Other Half so much effort.”

But there are places in the garden where Ride-On-Mower cannot be used. Some of the garden is too steep and having once witnessed a near calamity, I agreed that Ride-On-Mower should not be used on a gradient. Even slight gradients are a bit of an issue with Ride-On-Mower, as he continues moving forwards even when he is in reverse. It was during one of these gradient sliding manoeuvres that Ride-On-Mower turned 5 Playmobile Unicorns and 4 Playmobile Princesses to small gravel sized chunks.

Ride-On-Mower has managed to redeem himself after the Playmobile attack as he can pull a modest trailer behind him. In the winter the trailer goes up to the paddock full of horse poo and returns full of logs to fuel the burner in the lounge.

Then Other Half had a great idea. Why not buy a Fly-Mower to cut the dangerous slopes? This was indeed a brilliant idea and Fly-Mower now cuts all the banks in the garden without the danger of Ride-On-Mower.

In turn, Ride-on-Mower cuts the easier flat bits of grass, Old-Mower cuts the rough areas and Self-Driven-Mower cuts the flat but more fiddly areas around the square lawns that Ride-on-Mower cannot get to. Strimmer does the really, really tricky areas that no mower can reach and also cuts around the legs of Britney’s (not her real name) swing and trampoline.

Consequently, due to the size of our Lawn Mower Collection we are contemplating constructing some sort of building to house it in. Perhaps incorporating a little viewing gallery, coffee shop and a parking area for coaches.

Visitors by appointment only.