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.