Being Old

I am old.

I know that I am old because when I was at the local Point to Point 2 weekends ago, I drank coffee instead of gin.

It gets worse. On New Year’s Eve Alex Polizzi invited me, Other Half and Britney (not her real name) for drinks. Actually, that statement isn’t quite true, Alex invited me and Other Half for drinks while Britney and Britney’s Britney-sized friends ran riot. After me and Alex had drunk copious amounts of Prosecco and Other Half had strung out his half of beer as long as he could, I thanked Alex for her hospitality and put on my coat.

“Have you somewhere else to be?” someone asked.

“Well as a matter of fact I have.” I replied in a surprised voice “And that place is my sofa, with my pyjamas and the final Harry Potter film at 9 o’ clock.”

And I wasn’t lying.

We extracted Britney from the throng of over excited children, raced home, made popcorn and pulled on our bedtime attire ready for Hazza Potter to complete his Horcrux Hunt.

And after Hazza and his mates had saved the world, Britney stayed up to see the New Year arrive and watch the fantastic fireworks from the banks of the Thames. And I have to say, I have had much, much worse New Year’s Eve’s.

The realisation that I had become old came upon me almost a year ago, with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

I had a special birthday that ended in a zero.

Unaware that this special birthday was going to have quite such an impression on me, I went to work as normal. The special birthday fell on a Thursday and during the Winter; Thursday is the day when I hinder a local family with their horses.

The Assassinator, The Resident Vet and Kamikaze Girl are not always in residence when I go to their home and on the day of my special birthday, I was alone with their horses and Radio 2 for company.

This job is where I take many of the “between the ears photos” for Facetube and usually it is the source of endless amusement. I have to say it provides me with more hilarity since I found out that this family own a dead squirrel that resides in their freezer, but I think this subject warrants a blog post all of its own; so I won’t elaborate.

So I began my extra special birthday by mucking out 4 stables. Now I don’t mind mucking out my own horse because he sleeps on chopped up wood shavings, but these 4 horses all sleep on straw and when a horse pees on straw the smell that ensures would cure sinusitis. If you have been mucking out a “straw stable” the first thing you do when you arrive home from work is remove all of your clothes (including your underwear) and put them in the washing machine. The second thing you do is take a shower, as the smell of urine-soaked straw clings to your hair in the same way that the aroma of child vomit stays in a bedroom carpet.

Nothing looks more beautiful than a horse standing knee deep in a golden straw, cosy and warm in his stable, but I can assure you that if you were to return to the stable 20 minutes later, it will resemble a muck heap. Literally.

After mucking out, I began tacking up Giant Horse with whom I was going to enjoy a jolly hack around the countryside. After locking up the tack room I discovered that the girth I had selected was too short. So I removed my saddle and put her rugs on again, unlocked the tack room and chose a different girth before locking the tack room again. This girth was too long and so I spent 3 more tremendously hilarious trips back and forth, while a patient Giant Horse stood watching me with amusement as I removed her saddle and put her rugs back on for the fifth time to keep her warm as I searched for another girth.

With Giant Horse finally wearing a saddle that was securely fastened I headed off and did actually enjoy a lovely ride around the quiet single track lanes and fields of the surrounding area.

When I returned, I put Giant Horse’s rugs on and went to pull a bale of straw down from the stack in the hayshed. Being a majestic 5 foot 2 inches tall, I had to reach high above my head and when I began to tip the bale towards me, 14 hen’s eggs came down on my head. The only bonus was that none of them broke on me and when I tentatively took a breath, there was no horrid smell.

This effectively brought an end to my day and indeed my temper; and as The Assassinator had just returned home from a mission, I informed him that I was in the midst of an extra special birthday and I was going home to drink Prosecco.

By the time I had put Giant Horse out in the field, The Assassinator had left a bottle of birthday bubbly next to my car.

I was a mile and a half along the road before I noticed my birthday card underneath my windscreen wiper. Luckily the barriers at the railway crossing were down and I had the chance to rescue my birthday card before it escaped.

At the time of this special birthday I was seriously considering starting a Blog, but wasn't sure how or where to start. And when I opened my card from The Assassinator, The Resident Vet and Kamikaze Girl - the message from Fate was absolutely clear.

I have this card blu tacked to the wall next to my desk and I intend it to stay there as long as I do. 

Anna Eleanor Roosevelt was an American political leader who used her influence as First Lady from 1933 to 1945 to promote the New Deal policies of her husband, President Franklin D. Roosevelt. After her husband died in 1945 she continued to be an internationally prominent author and speaker for the New Deal coalition. She supported the formation of the United Nations and was a made a delegate to the UN General Assembly in 1945. She was also listed as one of the most admired Americans of the 20^th Century on a list compiled by Gallup in 1999.

She also said this:

“Freedom makes a huge requirement of every human being. With freedom comes responsibility. For the person who is unwilling to grow up, the person who does not want to carry his own weight, this is a frightening prospect.”

Got that, Mr Trump?

No. I thought not. 

New View from the Saddle

I am totally in the shit.

I’ve bought another horse.

And I need another horse like I need my left foot amputated.

I haven’t yet mentioned this new addition to Other Half and as it is a different colour to the current horse; I think he might notice.

I say that because I have a friend who has 2 horses that are a similar size and the same colour. As her husband only ever sees her riding one horse at a time, he is blissfully unaware that she actually owns 2 horses. I have read stories that some people even go to the lengths of having their multiple horses at different livery yards to throw their partner off the scent of their various purchases. I can’t go to either of these extremes because you can see my paddock from my lounge window and I cannot afford to keep a horse at a livery yard.

I didn’t mean to purchase another equine, in fact I walked away the first time I saw him. But he was such a pretty pony and it made me sad seeing how lonely and neglected he was that I did something that you should never do; I bought him because I felt sorry for him.

I had no riding gear with me at the time and therefore I also bought the bloody thing without trying him first.

This has become a bit of a habit as I bought Wet Dishcloth Horse using the same method. Luckily the lady in Bolton who sold him to me was truthful about the horse’s problems and happy to accept payment for him via bank transfer. Lancashire Lass was also honest enough that after receiving her money she still put the horse onto the lorry that I sent to collect him. Buying a horse from someone you have spoken to only twice on the phone is a colossal gamble.

That’s the thing about the horse world; sometimes, occasionally, usually, people selling horses can be a little liberal with the truth. For example when an advert reads “horse wasted in current home” you can be absolutely certain that this translates as “we’re all absolutely shitting ourselves about riding it”. “Experienced home only” means “this horse is an absolute nutter and will bury a novice rider in seconds” and “has potential” usually means “was broken in by a professional and no-one else has been able to stay on it since”.

And now in the suing culture that has enveloped the world in general, if you are broad of mind concerning fiction and reality and the new owner gets injured by the horse that you sold to them, there is a good chance that you’ll end up in court.

When Wet Dishcloth Horse arrived 3 years ago, my Farrier came to fit him with new shoes and remarked what a nice horse he was.

“Can you ride him?" he asked.

“He’s broken to ride.” I replied.

Farrier threw down his cigarette end and trod on it. “Jodhpurs, have you actually seen him ridden?”

“Well, I’ve seen a video on Facetube that was taken by someone on board him.” then I frowned for a moment before adding “At least I think it’s him. It was the same colour as him anyway.”

The next day after a struggle to get the bridle on Wet Dishcloth Horse (and I was fully expecting this, as the old owner had informed me of this issue) I led him quietly out of the stable, lay my weight over his back a couple of times and then hopped on him and never looked back.

He was terribly wobbly when you turned him in a tight circle and when I had to open or close a gate from the saddle I realised that he hadn’t yet learnt how to balance the rider’s weight. I concluded that he hadn’t been ridden very much but he was honest and safe so we plugged on with his training. 9 months later the previous owner contacted me to inform me that she had been mislead too and that poor, poor Wet Dishcloth Horse had never been broken. No wonder he was so confused with life. Regrettably, horses cannot talk and therefore problem horses are often classified as such because there has been a terrible miscommunication in the past.

So today was the first time that I took the new pony for a test ride and knowing nothing about his history, I was braced for the worst that he could throw at me.

And do you know, he was lovely, absolutely lovely. He’s a bit stiff in fact some people might even use the term “wooden” but he was absolutely no bother at all. And I am sure that he will become more flexible once we begin doing some dressage.

Although Other Half (I think) will have a seizure when I tell him about the new addition, on the up side the new horse is smaller than current horse and will cost next to nothing to feed. He also doesn’t wear shoes so that’s another bonus.

The only small problem today was when I carefully introduced him to Wet Dishcloth Horse the new pony got his ear nibbled. I took this to be a sign of acceptance until new pony gave a whinny and Wet Dishcloth Horse almost had a convulsion.

Anyway I look forward to posting many between the ears photos from my new pony and I hope you like them.

I don't want you to be alarmed but........

I don’t want you to be alarmed, but I have to tell you that there is a depraved entity in our midst.

The creature to which I refer is sly and devious. It pretends to be good and kind and can even act as though it’s your best friend, before callously morphing into a devil-like creature and tearing out your soul.

When the entity is in its Mary Poppins state it looks after your children and earns your trust. But in seconds it can turn; and when it’s in evil mode it can remove all of your faith and belief in a heartbeat. In the manner of a toddler throwing a Justin Bieber tantrum it has the strength of 20 men and therefore when it is in full flight it can cause terrible damage. And like the werewolf that changes from human to wolf-like creature upon the appearance of a full moon, the monster to which I relate transforms itself whenever there are high winds.

On Christmas Eve as I was sitting in my lounge listening to the rattle of the roof slates in the strong Northumbrian wind, I sent a message to the Foreign Secretary on Orkney. I sent her my festive wishes and ordered her to stay safe during the storms that were battering the Land of Ork. It’s difficult sometimes to grasp the understanding of a conversation by text and at first I thought that she had unwanted and unexpected guests for Christmas. I enquired if Barbara and Conor had brought any gin when they came to visit and she patiently explained (probably crying with laugher whilst tucked up in her cosy, Norwegian type home) that Barbara and Conor were the names that the Met Office had given to the 2 storms that were attempting to rip Orkney to pieces. (Please don’t laugh – some poor Bastard paid a lot of money for my university education.)

The tail end of storm Conor arrived in Northumberland on Christmas Day and just as we were about to sit down for our Christmas lunch, a weakening Conor wrestled Britney (not her real name)’s trampoline from its moorings, hurled it down the garden and threw it on top of my car.

Believe me; nothing ruins your appetite like seeing a 10 foot trampoline attempting to mate with your shiny new car.

If it had been my old All Terrain Ford Focus being mounted by a trampoline, we would have all tutted and continued to drink Prosecco. However, as I have owned this shiny, red, 17 inch alloy wearing vehicle for only 2 months, there was a mad scramble to get outside, remove the offending item and tie it to something solid to ensure the scenario was not repeated.

Once the trampoline was securely lashed to the damson tree we returned to the kitchen to continue with our festive lunch. I drank lots more Prosecco and possibly because of this, Other Half said that he thought I was taking it rather well.

I closed the blinds on the kitchen window when I did the dishes so I didn’t have to look at the felonious damage on my car’s bonnet and told myself that it could have been much, much worse.

The bloke at the Very Local Garage I went to quoted 200 English pounds to remove the dent and respray the bonnet. So just for a laugh I took the Licence Taker to the local Ford Garage for another quote. I immediately knew this was going to be more expensive because firstly, they wanted my email address so they could send the quote electronically and secondly, the man who looked at my car had a clipboard and was wearing a suit. He told me that he had seen a lot of damage resulting from over amorous trampolines and although this was of some comfort it unfortunately didn’t reduce the quote for the repair which was 100 quid more than Very Local Garage.

And so, I have decided (in light of the enormous bill that Janey Herriot & Company sent me prior to the festive period) that I can live with the dent and enormous scratch across the bonnet; for a little while longer. And at least the damage hasn’t reduced the Licence Taker’s magnanimous speed.

In these high winds that we are experiencing; the humble trampoline turns into a killer. It has no respect for garden sheds or fences and shows the same respect to cars that Celebrities show to HMRC.

Britney’s trampoline is now double anchored and tied to the Eucalyptus tree.

It is not for turning.

A Christmas Theme

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traditional, Contemporary and Scandinavian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MasterChef

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blogger Types

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

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

A Costly Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

Job Done.

Christmas - The John Lewis Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2)         an approved trap in unapproved circumstances”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Art of Hygge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So Denmark, I want to thank you.

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

The World According To Britney (not her real name)

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

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

She has just asked me to turn the television off.

Honestly, she did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. What’s cleverer, a wolf or a lion?

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

5. What would happen if the world got bigger?

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

7. If you eat too much will you die?

8. Why do we get itchy?

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

10. Why don’t cats eat slugs?

11. How do you do Guided Reading by yourself?

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

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

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

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

Hunter Wellies by Royal Appointment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scene 1

The Palace of Buck.

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

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

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

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

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

Palace of Buck:

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

Norfolk Hall

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

(Inaudible shouting from stage right)

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

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

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

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

Palace of Buck

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

Norfolk Hall

Kate: Oh yar, my Le Chameau’s.

Palace of Buck

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

Norfolk Hall

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

Palace of Buck

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

Norfolk Hall

Kate: Not really Granny because Hunter wellies are shit.

Palace of Buck

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

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

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

1.         With jodhpurs

2.         With jeans

3.         Under waterproof trousers

4.         With jodhpurs

5.         With jeans

6.         Under waterproof trousers

7.         With jeans

8.         With jodhpurs

9.         With jeans

10.       Under waterproof trousers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You can become attached to your wellies; you know.

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

Shame.