My child, you will never know
How much I cried inside over your tears
How I always tried to soothe your fears
How much each day I lived my life for you
How all you were, I see in all you do.

But now your fears are fears I cannot see
And all your tears cannot be soothed by me
Alone, you face the trials that life has wrought
Alone, I watch you bear what it has brought.

The path you take is now far from your home
You walk through places I can never roam
But still I cry inside at what has come
And still I wish so much could be undone
My child, you will never know…

Eleanor Swift-Hook

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 having a sense of direction…

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

It was only a fling
Not much of a thing
It was only an hour in a bed
It was only a flirt
Nobody was hurt
But she was in over her head
It was more than a fling
But less than a ring
Nobody was looking forever
It was tender and hot
Which felt like a lot
A feeling repeatable never

©️jj 2024

Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…

The cab skittered and rattled over the uneven streets canting at crazy angles as it cornered with injudicious speed. Bearson grasped the cissy strap and hung on for dear life, while the smaller, lighter Homes was thrown about the vehicle like thistledown in the wind. 

Arriving at the station with time to spare, Homes paid off the cabbie while Bearson dashed to the ticket office. By the time the somewhat corpulent bear arrived puffing at the platform, Homes awaited with his pocket watch in one trotter and a large bag emblazoned with the logo of Mrs Miggs’ excellent meat pie emporium in the other. Mrs Miggs’ pies are undoubtedly the best in the city – even if it is unwise in the extreme to enquire what ‘meat’ precisely one is ingesting. 

Espying the hurrying Bearson, Homes strode forward.

“How fared you old chap?”

“Excellent well Homes. I have procured for us a first class compartment until Dumpshire City, where we have to change to a small local line for the last ten miles. On that train I could only procure tickets for a first class carriage.”

Homes clapped Bearson on the shoulder. “Excellent fellow. And now, if my ears do not deceive me, our train approaches….”

Of course his ears did not deceive him and the Pride of the Westcountry huffed into view with her smoke stack belching out a black miasma as her iron wheels clattered on the track. She braked to the beginnings of an ungainly halt and gave vent to an ear-splitting whistle. 

Bearson watched the carriage numbers as the train slowed to a screeching, rumbling stop. 

“We are coach C. Compartment 26. I wonder how far we shall have to walk.”

“Not far Bearson, old chap.” Homes was reassuring – for a reason as it turned out, as the final resting place of the smoke-belching monster put the door to compartment C26 right beside them.

Bearson smiled a wry and reluctant smile. “How do you do that, Homes? Even without knowing what carriage we are to board, you always manage to be standing in precisely the correct place on the platform.”

Homes climbed onto the step and used the weight of his small body to swing open the carriage door. As he disappeared into the compartment he threw a comment over his shoulder.

“Elementary my dear Bearson.”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

You know a bad day is about to get worse when you are in the kitchen quietly chugging the cooking brandy and the Hon. Rodney invades your space with a fatuous smile running down his pinkly chubby chops. He looks at you with the Fundador in your fist and his smile fades, leaving behind only the vague mulishness of a public school boy with a secret. You attempt a smile and he perks up instantly.
“I say, old girl, I’ve bought one of those outdoor kitchen thingies. Thought it was about time yrs truly helped out with the old commissariat.”
This is the point where your heart attempts to drop out of your bottom, and a headache beyond even the power of brandy from the bottle leaps into action behind your eyes. But there is worse to come. Because the urge to burn food in the garden is not to be denied. Sadly, this is not the time to for the normally effective spousal veto, and nor will it avail you to offer to meet him halfway. He will have spent what amounts to the national debt of a small Slav republic on a metal monstrosity, and he Will use it – say what you will.
My advice is to get out a couple of heavy-bottomed tumblers and propose a toast in his best single malt. He’ll be so relieved that you are being ‘sensible’ that he won’t even grumble about you glugging back about a hundred quid’s worth of whisky in one swallow.
When the awful thing arrives, and is installed (almost inevitably by a bunch of young men with man buns and body ink and names like Bullfinch and Labrador) your deluded spouse will immediately decide to throw a party. No amount of reasoned argument will persuade him to have a practice run first. And nor will he even consider reading the instruction book (which runs to 3000 pages of very fine type badly printed).
At this point you have two courses of action open to you.
Plan A. Leave the stupid overgrown adolescent to sink in his own ordure.
Plan B. Make your own stratagem to save his face.
I, personally, lean towards the second. Having an indebted spouse is infinitely more satisfying (ultimately) than the short pleasure of watching him sink in a midden (even if it is of his own making) until the sewage closes over his prematurely balding cranium.
And what is plan B?
It’s pretty simple. Obtain, without grumble, whatever meat your deluded spouse proposes cremating and also offer to be responsible for such irrelevances as bread and salads. He will be thrilled with his wonderful wife, so much so that daily depredations to his whisky will be overlooked smilingly.
But now the crafty bit. Also purchase suitable numbers of boned chicken thighs and some bags of those skinny chips our colonial cousins call fries. Set the chicken to marinade in olive oil, garlic, herbs, and cooking brandy. When the Hon. Rodney throws the first offerings to the gods of ineptitude onto the hot coals, slide trays of chicken into the oven (after liberally daubing with someone or other’s proprietary barbecue sauce). When the flames in the ‘outdoor kitchen’ are at their highest throw the chips into the deep fryer.
They should be about ready when your red-faced and embarrassed spouse appears in the kitchen. In desperate straits.
Pat him kindly and bring out the chicken.
Help him to carry chicken and chips to the buffet table. Then help yourself to a very large whisky….

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

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

Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Pronunciation 

1. (noun – pronunciation note: prone nun station) Narrow bed in convent. Example: the pronunciations were hard and lumpy and provided only with threadbare blankets.

2. (noun – pronunciation note: pro nuncio shun) Faction extremely favourable towards the representatives of papal authority and equally unfavourable to anyone disagreeing with their beliefs. Example: it would have gone hard with Father Esau had not a large band of pronunciations rushed to his rescue armed with cudgels and biblical insults. 

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

Alejandro had lived all his life in north west Columbia, so when he arrived at a top British university, as well as being incredibly proud and excited he also had some trepidation about making the move.
In the event, he settled in, made friends, did well on his course and became a very successful student.

But at the end of his first year he told his tutors he wouldn’t be coming back.

“It’s seasons,” he explained. “Back home we have the same temperatures all year around. I just can’t get used to it changing so much. Does my head in.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

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 art of winning an argument with your mount…

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

May Day and the maypole is erected on the green
And all the local school kids will dance and eat ice-cream
They wind the ribbons clockwise, then dance them widdershins
Plaiting and unplaiting as the dancers skip and spin

The grownups take their pictures or maybe video
And drink warm ale outside the pub until its time to go
And maybe there’s an ‘obby ‘oss or maybe a green man
Or maybe morris dancers shake for pennies in their can

But no one goes a-Maying in the wild woods anymore
And no one brings home white-thorn to hang above the door
And girls no longer go by night yearning to be misled
To find a man to marry them, to try before they wed

“Here we come gathering nuts in May,
Nuts in May, nuts in May.
Here we come gathering nuts in May,
So early in the morning…”

E.M. Swift-Hook