Ginny felt a little helpless as the removers (or were they movers since it was the first time they’d moved her things?) huffed and struggled with her large white oak dresser.
“Please be careful with…”
“It’s alright Mrs. Withers, me boys know ‘ow to do it just fine.”
She cringed at the use of her married name. It was something she had hoped to leave behind in London, but as all the documents for the house she was selling had been in the name of Virginia Withers, she had found it more practical to do everything around the move in the same name. One of her less good life-choices had been to maintain her married name in daily life to avoid the issue of having people recognise her.
The first thing she planned to do when she had settled in was change the name on everything from her bank account to her utility bills to Cropper. She had been out of the limelight for five years, more than long enough to have sunk from view in the fast moving world of celebrity social media – besides who even read blogs nowadays. All the millennials preferred video format.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the dresser’s built-in mirror as it was carried into the house, Ginny suppressed a shudder at the thought of appearing on a video. She had put on more weight than was acceptable and her thinning hair, now mostly concealed under a brightly coloured scarf, had once been brilliant coppery waves and part of her trademark look.
“Any chance of a cuppa, missus?”
The chief remover who was called Stan or Dan – or was it Ian? – she hadn’t really listened when he introduced himself as she’d been worrying about the standing harp (shewas going to learn to play in the peace of the countryside) at the time.
“A cuppa?” She wondered if she would find her selection of organic detoxers in the ‘ready box’ she had prepared for the kitchen. A nice cup of rooibos would be nice or maybe a comforting ginger flake and lemon peel.
“Yeah. You know. Tea bags. Sugar. Milk. Mine’s two and leave it until its got a colour like it’s been in Ibiza a month.”
Ginny felt her mouth fall open into an O shape and that was the sound that came out of it too.
“Me and the lads been working pretty hard today. Cuppa would be nice. Wouldn’t mind a couple of bourbons or custard creams to go with it neither.”
“Custard creams?” Ginny started panicking. She was sure she had a few oatmeal and natural fruit biscuits in the ready box, but custard creams and builder’s tea?
“There an echo in here?” Ian – or was it Stan, she so wished she had been paying more attention – gave her a cheerful grin. “Passed a shop up the road, if you’re needing milk you could try there,” he said helpfully. “We’ll carry on here, don’t you worry.”
It was one of those situations Ginny loathed. 
The last thing she wanted to do was go to the local shop looking like this. She knew these communities could be very judgemental on first impressions and if she made a bad one it might be years before they accepted her here. But if she didn’t provide the refreshments Dan was demanding, who knew how he’d treat her furniture?
Giving way in the face of grim inevitability, she rescued her shoulder bag from her car and headed back along the road towards the village shop. It had been one of the selling points of both the cottage and the village for her. Firstly that there was a thriving village shop – complete with a post office counter at the back – and secondly that the cottage was no more than five minutes walk away from it. 
The walk took her past the little church which was apparently one of the finest examples of some style of architecture in the country. Looking at it she had to wonder if that was brutalist or utilitarian, then she realised that she was studying the church hall and the church itself was on the other side of the road. 
Feeling embarrassed by her mistake, even though no one need ever know she had made it, Ginny put her head down and increased her pace. Which was why she nearly ran into a solid muscular torso, covered with manly hair coming in the other direction, attached to a pair of equally hirsute legs in shorts and trainers.
Gasping out an apology, she stepped aside at the last moment and glanced up to see a face that belonged on the set of the latest BBC period drama. That made her miss the fact she was on the edge of the pavement and had a strong arm not shot out to catch her, she would have wound up sitting in the road very likely with a twisted ankle.
“S-sorry,” she said and the face gave her a tolerant smile. The sort it probably gave to elderly ladies, young children and journalists. Then she was standing on the pavement again and the runner had gone.
She reached the village shop feeling a little overwhelmed and took a moment to sit on the bench outside. A plaque proudly declared it had been provided by the Little Botheringham Ladies Association and she felt oddly grateful to them for allowing her a place to gather her wits after bumping into Ross Poldark and before braving the village postmistress.
In fact she found the owner of the shop to be quite charming and not at all the severe and judgemental type. Her style was smart casual denim, dark designer jeans with a grey worsted jacket.
“Angela Pendle-Burton,” she said and held out a hand. “You must be she who has taken on Flo Maybush’s cottage.”
“Taken on?” Ginny suddenly realised she was beginning to resemble a mynah bird. But people kept saying such odd things.
“Oh, so you didn’t know?”
“There’s something wrong with it? I had all the checks done so…”
“No. No.” Angela held up both hands displaying a heavy gold link bracelet as she did so. “It’s just Florence was in the Ladies Association so I sort of thought…” She trailed off and smiled then went back to scanning and packing Ginny’s purchases.
“The Ladies’ Association seems to be very active here.”
“Oh yes, very. They look after the village very well. They  funded the cricket pavilion being rebuilt and the new children’s playground. And when there was talk of closing the school they organised a huge campaign to save it. And we are the only outlying village which still has an hourly bus service into Bedchester. Everyone appreciates the work they do for us.”
It came to Ginny that if she wanted local acceptance then maybe this offered a way to get it.
“That sounds very worthy,” she said, swiping her card to pay for the tea, milk and biscuits. “How does one join the Association? I’d love to be involved in village life like that.”
Angela gave her the same strange look as before.
“I’m not sure you’d… But still. Here.” She reached under the counter and produced what looked to be a business card.
The bell that announced someone had opened the shop door jangled and Ginny turned to see the jogger come in, still clad in shorts.
“Oh hello, vicar,” Angela greeted him cheerfully. “Come for your usual?”
“Yes please, Mrs. Pendle-Burton and I’m hoping for something a bit extra today.”
His voice was deep and as he spoke his gaze locked with Ginny’s stirring something uneasy somewhere below her navel. She snatched up her shopping and took the card Angela was holding out, dropping it into the bag as she scurried out of the shop.
Vicar?
Seriously?

Part 4 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Having a Blast

The secret of living, I know,
Is all about having a go.
You don’t have to be fast
If you’re having a blast
A comfortable screw can be slow!

Eleanor Swift-Hook

One encountered this book back in one’s tender teens when it was a set text for some examination or another. One’s peer group was set the task of reading this dull tome and writing about its dystopian view of nuclear holocaust.

Being a child of extreme sensitivity one approached the story of the end of the world with some trepidation. But one need not have worried, sailing through this pages affected one with no more than brain-crippling boredom…

My review of On the Beach by Nevil Shute:

This is a book in which nothing happens. Repeatedly. Nobody does anything much. Basically they all stooge around waiting to die. There is no romance, no sex, no adventure, nothing to stir the soul. Just some people are in Australia waiting to die. In the end they do so.

Our teachers attempted to inculcate in us the belief that this was a case of masterly understatement. They failed. Even one’s contemporaries, whose hard-handed masculinity sent shivers of excitement and fear down one’s spine to one little pink toeses, apostrophed this as dull and uninteresting. Although one clearly remembers that it was not they who were bent over the headmaster’s skinny thighs and beaten for their opinions.

This book would be an excellent cure for insomnia.

Zero stars (one can still feel the cane across one’s tender flesh).

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.

It’s better to have loved and lost
is that not what they say
Who have not loved to count the cost
of one heartbroken day
A day when time and tide are out
a day to stand alone
A time to understand the doubt
the lie in the word home
Naked born and shed we tears
upon the barren earth
Cry, is it better yet to love
no matter what our birth
Should we turn our back on chance
for fear of bitter sorrow
Or open up our hearts and minds
and love again tomorrow

©️ Jane Jago

Being a true shifter isn’t the blessing it may seem. But through pain and darkness Perdita seeks to find her own life despite the ambition of others…

I had to admire the hint of pathos in his voice and Moth looked at him narrowly.
“Can. Maybe. Do old dragon love Mothwing?”
“Dear heart. Of course I love you. Do I not let you bully me and swear at me?”
She chuckled then, deep in her belly. “Dragon do love Mothwing.” She flew to his shoulder and whispered something in his ear.
“We will have to ask our beloved. But if she would allow I will show you.”
“Allow what?” I was instantly suspicious.
Mandrake explained. “Our beloved fae feels left out when we make love. She would like to touch our skin when we are together but we are afraid you might find the intimacy too much.”
I thought briefly and it came to me that Moth wanted to be a full member of our three in the same way Mandrake did. I smiled at them both.
“I think it would be perfect if Mothwing does whatever she needs to feel part of us being together.”
For a moment, I could feel Moth’s joy like a blazing comet but she banked it down and I knew she was thinking through her emotions.
“For now, food,” she said firmly.
In the warmth of the kitchen we sat down to eat. Mandrake and I had bowls of thick vegetable stew with oatcakes and sharp cheese, while Moth enjoyed honey and oats. When we had eaten our fill, I went to the still room and brought out a bottle of my own metheglin. Moth squealed her delight. Mandrake looked less delighted and I grinned at him.
“Do you not like metheglin?”
“I only tried it one time and that was too brown herby. It seemed more like soup than booze.”
Moth laughed. “Try a small.”
I poured a tiny drop into a glass and he took it with very much the expression of a man about to drink medicine. He barely wet his lips, but then his tongue flicked out to taste the spiced mead. He bowed his head in a very dragonish gesture.
“Mea culpa. This is a thing of beauty.”
Moth flew to his shoulder. “So beloved fae may not have dragon’s share?”
I laughed. “That wasn’t happening anyway, my love. Mothwing with a thick head is no fun to be around.”
I poured drinks geared to our sizes, and I noticed Moth looking suspiciously at the glasses. It seemed, however, that she was mollified by the simple fact that Mandrake’s portion was larger than my own. I grinned at her and she toasted me with the tiny crystal glass I had bought for her when we lived in Dragonheart trying to tutor the princess.
With the sort of unspoken consent that gave me hope for a true blending, we moved into the sitting room, where a noble fire gave warmth and light. For a moment I wondered how the fires in the cottage were so well established when we had been home for less than a day. Mandrake followed my train of thought because he laughed quietly. Moth looked from him to me before she cottoned on.
“Beloved dragon has kinship with fire even in his human form,” she explained.
“Oh. I have never met a true fire lizard before. No wonder they wanted you for the priesthood.”
“I was never cut out for such celibate rigidity. Nor for the idea of superiority to others.”
I touched his cheek. “No. I don’t read you as one of those mean spirited petty priestlings.”
He smiled but there was pain at the back of his smile.
Moth looked at him and when understanding came to her she gave a little cry of distress. She stood on his thighs and patted his face with gentle palms.
“Not be sad. Dragon has us now.”
He couldn’t resist her overflowing love and his smile deepened and warmed. His mouth was beautiful and I put up a finger to trace the outline of his full lips.
“Feel, Moth,” I said. “Our dragon’s lips are as soft as the finest silk.”
She put her hand alongside my finger and, as she was leaning against my chest I felt the thrill of her discovery.
“Smooth.” She laid her own lips against his mouth and licked gently. “Our dragon is beautiful,” she said in an awed voice.
I looked at Mandrake. “Garment off.”
“You too,” his voice was deep and sexy, “and beloved fae”.
So it was that we learned the texture of each other’s skin as the firelight painted our bodies with flickering patterns. Moth was the most surprised of us, not having understood that human skin has many forms and textures. I don’t think I need to explain which of Mandrake’s textures pleased her most…
The three of us eventually retired to the welcoming whiteness of the big bed I had always slept alone in, tumbling into sleep with all the uncomplicated affection of a basket of puppies.
We awoke to sunshine and one of those winter skies that is the palest and clearest of blues and looks as if it goes on forever.
Moth sat up and poked me with a determined forefinger. “Hot springs,” she said.
“Hot springs?” Mandrake was visibly fascinated by the idea.
“It’s a human thing. Two valleys over. They have dammed a set of hot springs and it is possible to swim in the hot water even when it is snowing.”
“Not snow today.”
“No, Moth, I never said it would. I was just explaining the hot springs.”
She thought for a minute. “So you was. We go swimming?”
“I don’t see why not. Mandrake?”
“Oh yes. I’d love to.”
“That’s settled then. A quick breakfast and we can be off.”
“Will we be flying there?”
“No. We go there as human, and it would be next to impossible to explain a dragon. We can use the quad bike that sits in the shed at the bottom of the steps most of the time. I’ll even let you drive.”
He looked a bit embarrassed. “Two things. How does Moth pass as human? And I don’t know how to drive.”
“Moth doesn’t need to pass, she just discourages human people from noticing her. And driving isn’t a problem.”
Moth patted his face. “Beloved will teach.” She became brisk. “Up now.”
Mandrake rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom, leaving me to be prodded and pushed by a tiny tyrant.
“Stop it, Moth, or we won’t go. Let me at least piss and wash my face before you start in with the bullying.”
She giggled as I had intended, but she did at least stop poking at me with her pointy little fingers.

Jane Jago

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider the importance of catching your pony…

***** ***** *****

Some whimsical words on whimsical themes…

When I was young I’d touch my toes
To prove my elasticity
Now I can barely find my nose
With any authenticity
I was so proud of my blonde locks
All smooth and shiny bright
Now I’m more about the socks
I wear in bed at  night
Back in the day I wanted more
Excitement no safe bets
But that was in the days before
Arthritis and night sweats

Jane Jago

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

SIX MONTHS EARLIER…

Em scowled at the knitting pattern. How was any right-thinking person supposed to make head or tail of such a load of gibberish? Screwing up the photocopied sheet she lobbed it into the fire. The wool and the knitting sticks barely escaped the same fate.
“Vanderbilts don’t knit,” she said firmly before going to the kitchen and picking up the phone. She dialled three digits.
“Agnes. How are you getting on with the knitting?”
She listened intently for a moment then laughed a deep belly laugh.
“I’m rather glad it isn’t just me. Do we know anybody who can knit?”
She listened some more.
“You can’t be serious. Arnold the gravedigger is a competitive knitter?”
The tinny voice at the other end of the line gabbled on and on. Em listened patiently for a while before gently replacing the receiver in its cradle. Agnes wouldn’t even know she had gone.
It was a bright sort of a spring day, and in theory ideal for cycling. But Em had never been one for uselessly expending energy. She carefully closed the wood burner, patted Erasmus on his head as he swung from his favourite beam and picked up the car keys in one hand.
Bowling down the badly-maintained tarmac she couldn’t help noticing the ‘sold’ sign on what had been Florence Maybush’s cottage until the meddlesome old bat got herself run over by a tractor she was stalking with the speed gun she had ordered from Amazon. 
Her family had no need of a tumbledown thatched monstrosity that squatted at the end of a huge and totally undomesticated garden. Consequently, they had been delighted to accept an offer from the local builder, only to descend into foetid sulks when that canny individual obtained planning permission for ten neat little homes on the garden. Rumour had it that when the houses were built and sold at a tidy profit, old Fred Maybush ground his teeth so hard he went through a new set of dentures.
Once the Maybush estate was all sold, the builder turned his attention to the cottage, gutting it and carefully rebuilding it so it was even more inconveniently twee than it had ever been. If now weathertight and electrically sound. He then put it on the market at a ridiculously elevated price.
It sold in three days.
Rumour had it that the buyer was a ‘lifestyle blogger’ from London, who was running away from her menopause. Em ground her teeth at the very thought.
But for now she dismissed the whole Maybush situation as being something to deal with later and concentrated on piloting her piss-yellow Citroen Dyan around the potholes and up the rutted lane to the house Arnold shared with his mother.
Em knocked and the old lady came to the door. Her forehead creased in an unwelcoming frown and her hands made various signs against enchantment, but she bobbed a sort of a curtsey.
“Come you right in mistress.”
Em went right on in but showed her teeth to the cringing woman.
“It’s all right you silly old bat, I’ve come to talk to Arnold about knitting.”
“Got a week to spare, have you?”
Arnold came into the cramped hallway, just about filling it with his muscular bulk.
“Go and put the kettle on Ma.”
She went, and he ushered Em into a spotlessly clean sitting room where a small fire burned in the gleaming hearth. The cat that lounged on the hearth rug took one look at Em and ran, hissing and spitting from the room. Em sat down.
“They tell me you are something of a knitter.”
He grinned. “You could say that.”
“And do you knit to commission?”
“Not normally. But I could be persuaded.”
“By what?”
Em was normally wary of being asked for favours, but Arnold had always seemed as stolid and unimaginative as a block wall so she guessed his wants would be as mundane as his face.
“It’s the bats. The ones in the belfry. They hate the vicar, which is fair enough. Everybody hates the vicar. But not everybody is having a dirty protest by crapping all over the church. Only it ain’t the vicar who has to clean up after them. It’s me.”
“Oh. Right. I see. But why now?”
“He reckons he’s getting the exterminator in.”
“Stupid little man. He could go to prison for that. The bats are a protected species.”
“Yeah. He knows that but he reckons nobody will find out what he’s up to.”
Em sighed. 
“I’ll speak to the council, and get Erasmus to have a word with the bats. Will that do you?”
“That seems more than fair. Now what do you want knitting?”
“A toy.”
He raised his fair brows. “A toy?’
“Yes.” Em said snippily. “A toy. For the agricultural show. The basket of crafts. Great Snoringham Ladies have won it so often they are thinking of just giving them the trophy. And we can’t have that now. Can we?”
He smiled a slow smile of complete understanding.
“No. We can’t. Is there a specific pattern?”
Em dragged a piece of crumpled paper out of her cardigan pocket. “Doesn’t seem to be, just says a knitted toy of between six and twelve inches in height.”
“Oh well. Come you into my knitting room and we’ll see what I have.”
Two hours later, and sick to the back teeth of knitting, Em left the cottage with a bulging carrier bag in her hand. 
Driving home, she was amused to see a large removal lorry trying to reverse into Maybush Cottage. It was being directed by a wispy looking female dressed in what looked to Em to be rather a lot of unconnected bits of hand-printed cotton. She also appeared to have beads around her ankles. Em made a disgusted noise in her throat and went home to phone the council about bats.

Part 3 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and Eleanor Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

Because life happens…

Exploring the mysteries of life through the versatile medium of limerick poetry.

Rose

Life is like a sweet-smelling rose,
The pollen gets right up your nose!
But the petals unfold
And the heart is of gold
And the ending…? Well nobody knows.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

I was a very normal child. Like every other when I was at home in the holidays from boarding school, my darling Mummy would come upstairs at nine o’clock, sit on the side of my bed and read to me some something she thought I should like. Thus it was, when I was about fifteen, she came into my room without warning, to my consternation and embarrassment, and plopped herself down on the edge of my bed a treasured tome clutched in one hand and a glass of Pernod and Angostura bitters gripped in the other and said, in her loving motherly way: “Oh stop playing with it and just get your pajamas on, Moons. Twin Peaks starts in ten minutes and we have a whole chapter to read.”

Thus began my initiation into the phenomenon of Middle Earth with its elves, dragons, dwarves, trolls – and hobbits. It was revealed to me a half-chapter at a time and read in a monotone that preceded, but would be later reflected by, the satnav lady. And here is my review.

My Review of The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien

My first thoughts are regarding the central character of the story which is a creature called ‘a hobbit’. I still recall my immense disgust at the concept of it having hairy feet. After that initial moment of repugnance, it was extremely difficult for me to feel any empathy for this creature at all. The hygiene issues were too overwhelming.

It also turns out later in the story that he is a cheat and a thief.

There are also some dwarves who seem to have escaped from another story about Snow White all called things like Loin and Groin and a dragon called Smirk or some such. I did feel for the poor little creature that lived in the caves and had to eat raw fish – I too despise sushi – especially when the hobbit stole his birthday present. That used to happen to me at my boarding school.

The subtitle of the book is ‘There and Back Again’ – which is, I believe, a pretty good summation of the pointlessness of the whole, except we never really know where ‘there’ is or why or who – or how.

Nil Stars

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

You can find more of IVy’s profound thoughts in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago.