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.

Don't Touch The Blackberries

Autumn is finally here. The X Factor is on television which means it’s nearly Christmas, Britney (not her real name) has already chosen her Halloween outfit and I have a hankering for shepherd’s pie and leek and potato soup. It’s dark by 7pm, the log burner is lit every night and the mornings are crisp and dewy. These days as I totter between the trees with my saddle balanced on my hip, I have to stand on my tiptoes to select an apple for my breakfast as the icy cold plum selection is no longer available. The leaves on the trees are changing colour and beginning to float to the ground. My 6 sloes are turning a beautiful bluey colour and Dobbin is able to sneakily nibble a Blackberry from the hedge as he stands at the mounting block waiting for me to clamber on board.

I can’t recall where I read the important piece of information I’m about to share with you, but here it comes anyway: Apparently you shouldn’t eat Blackberries after the 1^st October because the Devil has urinated on them.

Oddly enough as the Devil was completing peeing on all the Blackberries in the world, the Canadian company Blackberry announced that they would no longer be making mobile phones and would instead be concentrating on making software. The demise of the Blackberry brand is a bit of a shocker really. As recently as 2011 Blackberry were shifting 50 million phones a year. In the old days when most mobiles had a number pad and a star and a hash button, the QWERTY keyboard of the Bramble made emailing a breeze. Regrettably Blackberry couldn’t keep up with the touch screens of the other market leaders and hence after 14 years, Blackberry handsets are no more.

Blackberrys are like Marmite, you either adore them or you hate them. Sometimes people hate them more than they hate Donald Trump, but I loved mine as it did so many amazing things. I mean I could actually use it to make phone calls, I could send people text messages and I could surf the internet with amazing regularity. I could email people from it and I could use it to take great photographs between my horse’s ears. Yes, it didn’t talk to a multitude of Apps that would have been handy to have, but for me it was a phone that did everything that I wanted it to do.

Last Tuesday my faithful Blackberry Z10 winked at me, warning me that there was only 20% battery life remaining. I checked the phone 5 minutes later and it was flat. I plugged it in to the laptop that I was working on. Nothing. I plugged it in to the desktop in the office downstairs. Nothing. Frantic in the knowledge that I had lost all contact with the outside world and being unable to look at Facetube, I raced home and plugged it in to the mains charger. Nothing. It was completely dead and frankly after almost 3 years together I expected a little bit more from my beloved Z10. There was no “Sorry, I’m not feeling all that well today” there was no “Ooooh dearie me, I can’t let you send a text today as I’m feeling a bit under the weather”, there wasn’t even a “I’m sooooo sick, plug me in and back me up pleeeeeese”. There was no warning at all, the sodding thing just gave up and died. And as if that wasn’t bad enough the Z10 took all her secrets to the grave as well, all my contacts went with her and all my text messages too. The Z10 left me without an alarm clock, without any friends and with no way of looking at my Instaphoto account. I was faithful to the Z10 for so many months after my contract had ended I expected it to try a bit bloody harder than that. On Tuesday evening I left it in the kitchen to charge overnight thinking that might teach it a lesson, but no, it was still dead the next morning. It was also stone cold after a night’s charging. In short, it didn’t even have the bloody common decency to get hot enough to burn my palm when I picked it up. So I chucked it into the depths of my handbag while I looked online to see what its replacement was going to be.

This was when things took a definite turn for the worse. My mobile provider’s website said I had no account with them and to add insult to serious injury, they also said my number was not a customer’s number. The lovely Paula who I ended up speaking to for almost 2 hours, said it was to do with my account being set up in 1998. Ah yes, when life was simples. The year of my first ever mobile phone that was the size of a house brick and only made phone calls, as text messaging hadn’t yet been invented. Consequently, while O2’s IT Department was trying to sort out why their website refuses to recognise one of their oldest customers, I drove 30 miles to the nearest shop to collect my shiny new gold Samsung upgrade. The nice people at the mobile phone shop looked at the Bitch-of-a-Blackberry-Z10 and when they pressed the “on” button it had the cheek to flash a red light, as if it was trying its hardest to restart. After 40 minutes the nice people in the shop had managed to scrape 6 contacts from my knackered SIM; and guess what? They are all for people that I have either spoken to once or for people who I don’t like. The Bramble is now packaged up in its special envelope ready to go for recycling. And the very worst bit? I’ve just found the sodding new battery I bought for it back in June so I’ve shoved that into the recycling envelope as well.

That’ll teach it.

Living with Ebay

Earlier this week as I scrolled my way through Facetube to see what my friends had eaten for lunch, a suggested post popped up. It was from Ebay of all people, offering me 5 tips for getting the kids ready for school in the morning. (Clearly they haven’t read my blog post about the school run or they wouldn’t have felt the need to write it.) Firstly, what in the name of bloody hell is Ebay doing telling me how to be better organised? Shouldn’t they just stick to letting dubious individuals sell tat to people who’ve drunk too much wine and have a Paypal account? Curiosity is a powerful thing and before I knew it, I had tapped the screen and was reading about how to organise the morning bedlam in a more “streamlined” manner. I thought the article would just say “Drink less wine and go to bed earlier. The End” but no, there were indeed 5 real tips for me to implement. So here goes, I am going to share these tips with you because after all, we are mates.

1) Take Baths and Showers at Night

Crikey, is that not an obvious one? Who has the time to bath or shower during the hours of daylight? This is a rubbish tip.

2) Pick out clothes once a week for the entire week

And put them where Ebay? Oh wait, it is suggested that I “keep them organised in a hanging closet organiser”. Isn’t that just another name for a wardrobe? I think Ebay is tactfully telling me to put all clothes away instead of leaving them in a towering heap in the airing cupboard.

3) Prep lunch box items ahead of time

Now, I was totally with this one until Ebay suggested that I “wash and prepare vegetables and fruits into single serve containers and divide snacks into individual servings” before placing them in a snack bin. Then I must “label each bin and allow the kids to pick something from each bin and build their own lunch”. What the hell? I can just see Britney (not her real name) having the mother of all tantrums when she can’t choose between a packet of Skips and a packet of Monster Munch at 20 past 8 in the morning.

4) Choose easy and fast breakfasts

Absolutely. I wasn’t convinced by Ebay’s suggested “freezer breakfast sandwiches that can be reheated and eaten on the go”. Surely Lidl’s breakfast biscuits are a more nutritious and tasty alternative? The very thought of a frozen sandwich makes me want to develop an eating disorder, who on earth would want a defrosted sandwich first thing in the morning? It’s hard enough to get Britney to eat a Pop Tart; if I offered her a reheated sandwich she would be ringing Childline in seconds. Ebay finishes this tip by telling me to “Plan ahead so you aren’t scrambling in the morning over the stove trying to cook a full meal for your kids”. Believe me Ebay, scrambling over my stove cooking a full meal for anyone in the morning is never, ever, going to happen. To be fair it hardly ever happens in the evening so the chances of it happening before 8.30am are absolutely nil.

5) Keep the television turned off

Finally; a great tip. It’s much easier for Britney to get dressed when she isn’t being hypnotised by the child narcotic that we call CBBC. Unfortunately Newsround is on CBBC in the morning and it’s a fabulous programme. It tells Britney what is going on in the world and she is then able to brief me during the school run. This in turn makes me look as though I actually pay attention to current affairs when I’m chatting with the other Mummies at the school gate.

I think my “Drink less wine and go to bed earlier” is far better advice and Ebay should stick to what they do best. And allowing many traders to offer their wares for sale on their website is indeed what they do best. I love the whole idea of bidding on an item. It’s a way of satisfying your gambling addiction with the added bonus that you won’t lose any money if you don’t get the thing that you want. How clever. And another amazing benefit is if you have a few glasses of wine before going on Ebay, you also get a nice surprise when the item lands on your doormat. Because you have absolutely no recollection of purchasing it.

Pedal Power

My friend Alex Polizzi, is a keen cyclist and proceeds to cycle miles and miles clad in Lycra. When I first met her I naturally thought that she hadn’t got a car, or if she had one, I assumed it must be broken. I would often see her and her other half, cycling along the road, smiling as though they were enjoying themselves, giving a cheery wave, eyes bright behind those bonkers sunglasses that cyclists wear.

It was quite a shock to find that Alex has a fully functioning vehicle and she simply chooses to cycle to keep fit and enjoy the scenery.

It was also quite a shock to find that I am now the proud owner of a bicycle. No, there’s nothing wrong with my car, but I’ve got a bike. It happened quite suddenly this shift into the world of all things Lycra. When I was bikeless, my daughter Britney (not her real name) had one of those crap pink bikes with white tyres and tassels on the handlebars. Although she loved the basket on the front of it, the bike weighed slightly more than my horse and therefore it was, in fairness a bit of a challenge to ride when you’re only 7. Looking at the corner of the shed where all Britney’s old scooters, flickas and bikes were, we realised that everything had been second hand. So with Britney’s birthday looming we headed off to Halfords to purchase her first real bike. In my day you were given your cousin’s old bike and you got on and rode it. When you grew to the point that your knees were hitting the handlebars, Dad got a spanner from his tool shed and raised the seat higher so the bike lasted you a bit longer.

Good grief, I had no idea about children’s bikes today. Apparently, girls tend to be longer in the leg and shorter in the torso and that’s why the only bike than fitted Britney cost more than our kerosene bill for the entire year. And then there was the cycling helmet to purchase. Being a horse rider I’m used to wearing my skid lid and therefore we were not leaving Halexpensivefords until Britney had a correctly fitting helmet. My riding hat has an outer shell made from glass fibre with a thick polystyrene layer, padding on the inside and a strap to fasten it that is so complicated not even Stephen Fry could work out how to unfasten it. When I was much younger and hats were nowhere near as safe as they are now, I managed to bounce along the road on my head, crack my hat and avoid concussion. So I was more than a little dubious when Britney was standing in front of me wearing a holey piece of plastic lined with polystyrene, held in place with a nylon strap.

Crikey, if my child is going to be on the public highway without a metal cage to protect her, I want her wearing a full-face crash helmet and some body protection that resembles that of an American football player. Not a plastic hat, a pair of Lycra shorts and some fingerless mitts.

Undeterred; and with my other half’s credit card glowing red we marched from Halpriceyfords with a shiny new bike in a box and a plastic colander for protection.

The next day we kitted Britney up with her colander and headed off; Victoria Pendleton Jnr on her new bike and me and the other half walking casually behind. When we returned home two hours later, red in the face and our clothes soaked in perspiration my other half declared that we too, must get bikes. It made sense, running along the road screaming “Stoppppppp!” at a madly peddling child was only going to get us arrested. Luckily, Sporty Friend had 2 bikes she wanted to sell and she kindly said we could even have his and hers colanders as well.

The first afternoon we ventured out as a family on wheels was something of a success. We cycled to my brother’s house, had a gin and tonic, cycled on to my parents’ house, had a gin and tonic and cycled home. It was lovely. The ride home was particularly lovely. So after one bike ride, I obviously had to buy all the Lycra in the world and a couple of high visibility jackets to ensure that speeding locals don’t knock us down. I also had to buy some mad sunglasses as we got sick of getting flies in our eyes and a bag to fasten onto the bike frame to put my vape stick in. One thing I have discovered is that a gel seat cover and padded leggings should be sold as standard with every bicycle purchased, in fact if I were Prime Minister I would make it law instead of worrying about Grammar schools. The padded pants do feel as though someone has stuffed a large Pampers nappy into your knickers but once you are sitting on your bike, they are wonderful.

I also took the liberty of asking our local friendly policeman if there is any law about riding your bicycle whilst under the influence of alcohol. I told him I was asking “for a friend” as I didn’t want to arouse his suspicion and here’s the best bit: there is no law regarding riding a bicycle whilst over the limit, as there is no limit. He did advise me that if I was swerving across 2 lanes on the A1 he would chuck me and my bike into the back of his police car and take me home. Well, I could think of worse ways to get home, I mean in a Skoda Yeti for a start. There is also no speed limit for cyclists although you can be done for “Pedalling Furiously”, so maybe I should make it my aim in life to get done for that. Perhaps downhill and with a following wind I might be in with a shout.

If you’re out on your bike this weekend in your plastic helmet, wear something bright and stay safe.

Country Living Vs Countryfile

The other day I found myself flicking through the September copy of Country Living magazine. I quite like Country Living, as it has lovely photographs that I can happily look at for hours and pretend my house resembles the ones in the photos. These houses either look like a beach hut or a “Country Home”. The latter always makes me laugh, as it appears that the people who design them cannot afford carpets. There are stained floorboards, bleached floorboards and my personal favourite are the reclaimed floorboards. Reclaimed floorboards obviously come from a real country house, where the occupant has realised that they are bloody freezing and has ripped them all out to install underfloor heating. For half a year we lived in a house with beautiful stained floorboards. We moved into this mansion of a house in September and marvelled at the beautiful rustic floorboards until the first evening we spent there when a bit of a breeze picked up. Being perched precariously on the top of a Moor the wind swept up from the North Sea, into the vents on the side of the building, whistled between the floorboards and up the leg of my jeans as I sat on the sofa. We sat in the lounge for the remaining 6 months with our trousers tucked into our socks and enough rugs on the floor to obscure every millimetre of floorboard. The people who lived in the house before us must have worn salopettes while they were watching Eastenders.

Country Living also assumes that if you live in the country you will “celebrate the season by heading outdoors to gather a sun-ripened bounty of fruits and berries”. What the? All the damsons do is attract wasps who then proceed to eat themselves drunk and become cantankerous. The birds have already made a start with the plums and the windfalls that don’t get squashed into the lawn by children’s feet, get pulped by the mower. I have so many apples I don’t know what to do with them and I have 6 sloes, so not enough to make a mouse-sized bottle of sloe gin. Country Living also advises me to “Mark the harvest with a special lunch or party showcasing an array of fresh seasonal food and drink” and that I should “decorate the table with corn stooks and vases of late summer roses with hedgerow foliage, bright hips and berries”. I am not certain how the local farmer would feel if I had ventured into his wheat field, cut myself an armful and made some corn stooks to decorate my table, although I suspect a shotgun might be a prop in Act 1, scene 1. And I’m certainly not going to “turn hay bales into simple seating by covering them with robust material tied with twine” as I’d be picking hay out of my gravel drive for months. (Should the Editor of County Living ever get around to reading this, I’ll just point out that the bales in the photo to which I refer, were in fact straw and not hay.) I know that I may sound a little grumpy about this Country ideal, but that’s because as I read about how rush matting can soften a hard floor, I noticed something else:

There is nothing north of Warwickshire.

This confused me a bit as I know that where I live is definitely north of Nuneaton so I read the magazine again. I was determined to find something, anything to prove that the north does exist. And there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. I couldn’t even burn the sodding magazine as it is too glossy, so I settled for throwing it with great force into the recycling bin.

Luckily, the same person who had passed on Country Living magazine had also supplied me with the last 6 months worth of Countryfile Magazine. Admittedly in our household we do refer to it as Tooniefile, but again it does have lovely photographs to look at when it’s too cold and wet to venture outside. I read about how to tell a wasp from a hover fly, viewed the top 10 Country Vehicles (One was a MGB Roadster, for fecksake) and read Adam Henson waxing lyrical about buying a good ram. I hadn’t even got as far as Matt Baker writing about his pedigree bantam chickens in the May copy when I found it; the results of the 2016 Best of Britain Awards.

It turns out that the Landmark of the Year is Bamburgh Castle and that my friends is most definitely not in Warwickshire, it’s right here in Northumberland. Turning to the next page the Heritage Site of the Year is Hadrian’s Wall and even John Craven commented that it was a “worthy winner”. Reassured that there is life north of Warwickshire I turned the page once more to find that the National Park of the year is Northumberland. How can a county boast such greatness and yet be invisible to the rest of the country? Yes I know that Northumberland’s Summer falls between the 12^th and the 29^th July. And yes I appreciate that there is a lot of rain in the winter and the wind from the North Sea (when its not blowing between the floorboards and up your trouser leg) would strip paint, but why on earth does the weather forecast stop at Weatherby and begin again at Edinburgh?

Some people know where Northumberland is. The older generation come here on holiday after the kids have gone back to school and they will have packed their suitcases into their Suzuki Swifts and be beating retreat back to Warwickshire in the next few weeks. The last bite at the cherry for our tourist trade is October half term, when the caravan and camping sites are full to breaking and you can’t get parked if you’ve run out of wine and need to nip to the Londis shop in the local village. After that, the campsites close, a lot of the restaurants close and the county begins to slip off to sleep in readiness for the madness that happens at Easter, when Northumberland suddenly bursts back into life.

So thank you Tooniefile Magazine for restoring my faith in the glorious place where I live. Unfortunately if you were on the shelf next to Country Living and I had to choose one of you to take home; I would choose the Warwickshire loving Country Living. Why? Because I don’t want to read about how to make a Bug Hotel or Ellie Harrison planting a woodland, I want to look at houses without carpets and bathrooms that resemble beach huts. I suppose that's escapism.

The Value of Friendship

A few weeks ago I attended a friend’s birthday party. I went, armed with a bottle of Champagne as a gift for Sporty Friend (and a bottle of Hooch to remind her of our student days), a bottle of Prosecco, a bottle of Gordons, a bottle of tonic and a lime. You can probably imagine by the description of my picnic hamper, what kind of party it was. It was a Ladies only affair and it took on the form of the last night at Pony Club Camp. I saw girls that I had not seen for the best part of 20 years. It was amazing because we picked up where we had left off. For a few hours we were no longer Mothers, Wives, or Divorcees; we were teenagers again. Laughing like we did back in the day, when Medical Friend was busy French plaiting my hair in our Religious Education class. Ignored by our class Teacher, it was going swimmingly until the Headmaster entered the classroom; and Medical Friend had to slide gracefully back into her seat beside me under his steely glare. I swear that some of the half finished conversations that began in 6^th Form were completed that sunny Saturday afternoon. It made me realise that the camaraderie we shared as teenagers had not died and never ever will. It has brought us together again as friends, leading to new conversations on Facetube and promises that we must not let it be so long before we meet again. Especially as we all live within an hour of each other. Have you noticed that we make more effort to keep in touch with people when they live far away? And we merrily neglect the friends who live 8 miles away as we are always so busy. At this point I will just confess that I still haven’t been for my 2014 Christmas drink with my brother, whose house is a mile from mine.

When I was 13 years old, a group of us at school were training for a 10 kilometre run.

The games Teacher who was coaching us, asked who had managed to get out for a run after school. When we all said that we had been too busy, he then replied “If I had offered to pay you £10 for each run, how many would you have managed to do?” We all agreed that we would have gone running every night, leaving Mr Games Teacher to inform us that weren’t too busy, just idle and money hungry.

How right he was. If money was on offer in exchange for friend visiting, how much more effort would we make?

I now value my friends and family far more than I did when I was younger. Perhaps it’s because I live in the Country, where people would actually die if they did not ask or indeed accept, the help and support from friends. Not just the friends that you meet for coffee or the Mummy-Friends who you chat to at the school gates. It’s also those friends who you don’t see all that often, but know that if you needed them, you would just have to pick up the phone and they would be screeching into your drive and sprinting towards your house half an hour later.

Around the same time as I attended this birthday-and-mother-of-all-catch-ups-party, I got a phone call from an old friend who I hadn’t seen in years. It was very early in the morning when Posh Friend called. So early in fact, that I only answered my phone as I thought someone needed help. I was out on my horse at the time and I had to keep asking Posh Friend to “hang on a minute” so that I could swop hands and shorten my reins.

“How the hell are you?” I asked.

 “I’ve had an absolutely shitty week” was the reply “and I’m handing in my notice this morning.”

I was shocked. Posh Friend had always been so methodical and organised that this seemed totally out of character. I also knew that Posh Friend lived in a house owned by their employer, so I asked if they were really sure that this was the right thing to do. Did they have a job to go to? Where would they live?

Posh Friend was hesitant and admitted that there was no job on standby and that they would have to immediately find somewhere else to live.

Would it not be better to stick it out, I asked, just until they had another job to go to?

Posh Friend admitted that it was huge worry that they had no job to walk in to, but the strain of the position was so great that they felt a great weight had been lifted from their shoulders simply by deciding it was time to leave.

Posh Friend then asked what I would do in the situation, what advice could I give them?

“Look Dave,” I said “Just be yourself. But don’t let Samantha wear that bloody dress with the triangles on it, because she looks like something out of a Littlewoods catalogue.”

It just goes to show that even old friends don’t always take your advice.

Who Killed Mrs White?

Mrs White is to be killed off from the game of Cluedo.

Her replacement is Dr Orchid, the adopted daughter of victim Dr Black. Dr Orchid is a biologist with a degree in plant toxicology and was privately educated in Switzerland until her expulsion after a near-fatal poisoning, involving daffodils. She was then home educated by none other than Mrs White, the Housekeeper of the Tudor Mansion. Are you still with me at this point?

I’m a bit sad about this as I believe that I would get on rather well with Mrs White. She seems the type to smoke cigars, roll-ups and a pipe all at the same time. I bet she also likes the occasional can of Mackeson Stout and sometimes sneaks a swig of cooking sherry from the bottle when she is alone in the kitchen. I can’t see me getting on with Dr Orchid at all. Firstly she makes me feel stupid because I don’t know anything about plants or toxicology and is clearly much more intelligent than me. Secondly she’s bound to be younger, slimmer, taller and prettier than me and she knows it. I bet she has a sports car, Jimmy Choo shoes and only shops at Harvey Nicks. No, I would much rather sit and chill (Swadge) with Mrs White, as after you’d finished your can of Mackeson she would serve up Cheddar cheese, pickled onions and pineapple chunks on cocktail sticks. If you were to ever drop in unannounced, she would immediately put the kettle on and produce an enormous teapot with a home knitted tea cosy. She would use cups and saucers on a Sunday afternoon and her salmon sandwiches would be cut into triangles and have the crusts cut off. She would use one of those lovely 3 tiered cake stands that was her Grandmother’s; and she would make more sandwiches when it became empty. She would make homemade wine from peapods and parsnip tops, jam from blackberries and chutney from green tomatoes. She would have porridge for breakfast every morning and fish for dinner every Friday. She would also remove newspapers from the bin so that she could do the crossword.

Her vacuum of choice would be a Kirby and she would iron all items of clothing including her bed socks, which were a gift from her employer. On her day off she would go to town on the bus and make sure no-one was watching as she ducked into the Bookies. She would be on first name terms with the cashier but would refuse to have an account.

She would wear tweed and those shoes that ladies only acquire through the reading of wills. Those shoes with the penny loafer effect at the toe and an inch and a half sturdy heel at the rear. She would wear thick scratchy woollen tights and never be seen in slacks. I thought at first she would also have a dog; and I couldn’t decide if she would have an overweight Labrador or an ancient terrier with glazed eyes that had its own chair in her parlour, but actually I think Mrs White wouldn’t have either. She wouldn’t like the hairs on her furniture, you see. Because Mrs White would be immaculate at all times, even after a can of Stout. She would be stern, with a sour look on her face that says “do not cross me” to mask the fact that she is a kind person who thrives on routine. She would run the Cluedo Mansion with the piece of lead piping and even though there are 324 possibilities, she knows damn fine who killed Dr Black in the Hall with the candlestick. But she says nothing, as it isn’t her place, you see.

Once you really got to know her, the teacups on a Sunday afternoon would be full of brandy and she would pass on her betting tips to you. Sometimes she might even give you a tenner to buy yourself something nice, as Saucy Lad had won the 3.20 at Kempton and she had backed him at 25 to 1.

But I’ve just realised two things. For a start I’ve just described my Granny; and also, that Cluedo is just a bloody game.