Something concrete

Hurray, today was concrete day and the trenches have been filled courtesy of two mixers full of grey porridgey gloop. Country girl's very pleased indeed, never thought concrete could be so exciting, but after years of waiting to sort this place out, it is.

Slightly concerned that Cooper is not anywhere to be seen but pretty sure he's not daft enough to end up concreted. He's not is he??

Not quite sure whether I should tell the builders that I spotted they had left their tape measure in the trench (they'd started pouring so it was kind of too late for me to save it). Just hoping Cooper shows up soon. He might be a bandy legged, bird chomping psycho but he's my bandy legged, bird chomping psycho.

Will go check in case there are any purring sounds coming from the vicinity.

XOXO

OMG just to warn you in advance the bricklayer starts next week, will be well over excited then !

Trenchfoot anyone?

Country girl was aware of course that building work was taking place (what with the mini digger and everything). But when she finally stepped out of the back door last night to take Scruffbag for her walk the full extent of it became clear. Deja vu for Country girl who felt magically transported back in time. There I was, back on that school field trip to Belgium or France or wherever it was (may have been both actually). You know, the one with the war trenches and stuff. Even if you didn't go on the exact same jaunt as Country girl I think it was pretty standard fair for all secondary school kids of our generation so you'll be on the same page.

So, there I was, in what was my garden but which know appeared to be a First World War trench (in case you think I'm exaggerating , as if country girl ever would, I refer you to exhibit A below)




Distinctly battlefieldy don't you think?

For those of you who actually went on the trip I'm sure you'll agree all I needed was Miss Hulse and Mrs Richardson there in matching kaggies bellowing "Come on gals next stop Ypres" and the scene would be complete.

As ever so many worries for Country girl.

Will she shortly receive a visit from the Time Team posse wanting to geophys her lawn?

How long will it be before a)Scruffbag or b) Cooper or c)Our lovely postlady or indeed all three of them require rescuing from one of the holes?. Where is A&E round here anyway (better look that one up)?

Also, with all this rain will it became an actual moat and as I already said what about trenchfoot for the builders (and could they sue me for it when they dug the hole mmm an interesting legal query methinks).

That just prompted another ponder, can cats get trenchfoot? Miss Hulse and Mrs Richardson never covered that. Off to check. TTFN

Masham - a most Peculier day

Country girl was delighted when her bestest University friend decided to visit. Aussie boy as he will be for the purposes of this blog having travelled back to the UK for a wedding, popped up North for a few days.

It was a truly glorious day, the sun shining bright, so car was packed up and a happy country boy and girl, Ginger Dave, Aussie boy and Scruffbag headed up the A1 to Masham in Yorkshire. The reason for the little visit of course was to visit a lovely town which created Aussie boys favourite brew, the treacly loveliness that is Theakston's Old Peculier.

Masham itself a beautiful market town was all the more lovely being bathed in sun. First stop of course was the White Bear Hotel refreshments all round Aussie boy happy with his pint of OP and proper cheese and pickle butty, (which apparently can be hard to come by in New South Wales). Delicious handcut chips were shared, prompting a cheery wag from Scruffbag who can be most particular in potato related matters.



Next stop was the Theakston's Brewery itself for a quick look around, the Hop Arch which lead to the yard smelt beautiful, a herby sweetness in the sun. The yard itself filled with the coopers hard work ready to store the freshly brewed ale and the onsite pub with a sparkling array of Theakston's most splendid ales made for a cheery break.



Next was a walk around the lovely village of Masham itself, down through the square past a Butchers shop proudly display its "Guarunteed killed on site" sign. Than a quick stop at Bah Humbugs with its stash of old style sweeties for the purchase of supplies for the walk, (cola cubes, fruit rock and liquorice for Dave). Our happy little party also enjoyed some ice creams. Country girl was particularly pleased with her wild cherry cornet, a delectable purpley sweetness perfect for a summers day.


Refreshed we continued down through the churchyard, across the fragrant wheatfields to walk along the river a happy Scruffbag delightedly exploring every corner, a truly tail wagging day. With the sun still high in the sky , we decided to rest a while by the river and take a paddle to cool off. A truly beautiful spot and the perfect place to wriggle tired toes in the lovely cool water. Country girl was perhaps not the most sure footed of paddlers, but found a perfect rock to rest on! Scruffbag amused herself with some paddling, duck scaring and cuddling up to ginger Dave whom she even allowed to put sunglasses on her.



After the much needed rest the walk continued back through the lush green pastures, past curious ponies who hoped for a Polo and back to the village before heading home.



A truly lovely day. Back at home Country girls present to Aussie boy (a cask of his favourite OP was shared over a delicious Thai, eaten outside in the sun. On such delicious days country girl feels happy in her little idyll, but she suspects that it was the presence of her friend that made her day.

Country girl believes that friends are the most precious of things, the ones who can tell you when you've done something silly , who know that you aren't perfect but love you anyway. The ones who wipe away the tears when someone careless hurts your heart and don't care if you lost your job or that the dog is smelly and has fleas. And in her dear friend Aussie boy country girl struck the richest of gold reserves.

Sitting in the garden, chimenea ablaze, OP in hand and a very tired Scruffbag happily dreaming of her adventures of the day I was very happy indeed, troubles forgotten for the day.

Kitchen sink dramas

Country girl just faced a challenge of earth shattering dimensions, in the most unexpected of places. The kitchen showroom to be precise.

As you will know, the very core of my inner turmoil and indeed the very reason for this blog, is the never ending city , country tug of love. But in matters of the kitchen (and indeed interior design generally) this country girl has been the most resolute of souls, a staunch modernist, clean and classic lines. "Forget this country twee bollox" was the battle cry "its gleaming modern gorgeousness for my little housey".

And indeed it was, creamy gloss handle free gorgeousness, strategically placed nightclub inspired lighting loveliness all round. Not so much a kitchen as a cocktail bar with ovens perhaps. But then it happened, country girl had passed another kitchen place and spied another shiny modern kitchen and got chatting to the owner, who seemed very sweet and slightly bored. So when he offered to do a design "that would be fabulous" was the reply. Just another option right? Yes well.

The trauma came this morning when country girl visited again, the design was lovely, rather traditional perhaps but well, functional. But then , in a chat with the design man he turned to an oak shaker style bespoke type set up. "Now" he said "I know you want modern but something likes this is very much what they like round your way". And the sales pitch began. Within 5 minutes he'd conjoured up a rural idyll of me making jam, surrounded by cheery chocolate smeared kiddies imported straight from the Boden catalogue. It was a biscuit baking heaven where Scruffbag would be a beautifully trained model of canine perfection and Cooper would return from his psychotic flight of fancy to adorable kittendom. Country girl, the epicentre and matriarch of a Larkin style clan happy in her WI bubble.

See you're picturing it aren't you? Lures you in, you can almost smell the strawberries bubbling I bet. Just about to ask me to pass a scone?

So there it was ,OMG country girl in meltdown on the verge of a total 360 giving kitchen man a blank cheque to create an oak filled cottage heaven.

But then it came, the nearest thing to a religious experience that country girl is likely to have - the rather booming voice of country boy (aka him indoors) which said "Lovely Roger, something my mum would like definitely, but a bit country twee bollocks for me". (which is where I stole the earlier line from).

Country girl wishes her readers to note that country boy was not being impolite to Roger that's how these close to Yorkshire border types are).

Anyway, the response from country girl at this point surprised even her, clearly the Boden baby fantasy sequence had upset the delicate chemical balance. And out it popped "No Rogers right, completely, its far more cottagey, what were we thinking,we'd have ruined the house, no one would ever buy it and they'd all think it was awful". Oh dear, oh deary dear in fact.

The look on country boys face was quite a picture, he had that look he gets when someone asks him if he supports Man United. Oh dear and the only response a sort of humph noise, which is never good.

An impasse was reached. A slightly horrified country boy decided country girl needed some city girl injection of some sort before contracts were signed. But holy hell what to do, cocktails at 10am frowned upon in these parts, coffee shop the only answer, which was of course the suggestion made so we could "review things". Roger was bid a fond cheerio. "Don't worry" he said "it happens. They often come in wanting modern but in the end traditionals what they buy".

They, whose they ?. Perhaps there is an entire sub colony of us out there, cruelly experimented upon as we adjust from our city heavens to life with wellies. Maybe there is a support group, others that can guide me through the transition?? So many thoughts whirring round country girls head. The coffee didn't help, country girl was well and truly in housewife mode by this point, country boy may even have been toying with the idea of a visit to A&E. As I said, oh dear.

Home now, country boy having parked the kitchen stylee debate for the sake of his mental wellbeing I suspect. Country girl retired to the sofa with some camomile tea and kitchen brochures to have a think about things. Suspect the Boden catalogue will have been hidden. So here it is country /city, city or country?? Whats a girl to do?

As I said a dilemma if ever I had one.

Ah well will ponder some more so TTFN - if you wish to fill me in on where you stand country / modern kitchen wise, please do comment below.

Cooper, the slightly camp entertainer

Country girl has been asked about Cooper. So here he is Exhibit A.



He was named by the rescue centre after either a)the car, because he was a cute little mini cat or b) super, super Colin Cooper who plays for Nottinhgam Forest allegedly . I think it's a) in truth, the RSPCA girl who reluctantly let country girl take custody of him didn't look like she was a Forest fan.

For info it appears that Cooper's back story is that he was found at the side of the road, suspected car hit and run victim, no real injuries apparently.

Well country girl begs to differ. That cat has distinctly bandy legs as pointed out by some near neighbours who still refer to him as Wyatt and I suspect a slight brain injury (don't ask I just reckon it explains a lot)

At first Cooper seemed quite normal, a sweet little puss barely out of kittenhood who liked his cuddles. But then the declining numbers in the bird population became apparent, particularly as they appeared in the kitchen. Then one squealchy night time visit to the coal shed revealed that Cooper had his own personal dead bird storage facility.

Over time, his campness became more noticed so he was lovingly nicknamed Reggie.
(Kray of course whose behaviour he seemed to mirror).

Not that you'd think it now as he snootle purrs on the sofa picture of cuteness. Yes well thats what he wants you to think.

So now you know - his full name of course is Cooper Beelzebub Ptolemy Reggie and I am sure you will hear more Cooper related rantings from Country girl later.

Digger,Digger,Digger!!

Country girl had a naughty glint in her eye on rising this morning. Thankfully the builder recognised that look and realised that she wasn't giving him the glad eye but gazing longingly at his shiny little friend, the digger.

(actual Digger shown below)



"Digger's arrived princess" - yes indeed it had. The P word again (noted by country girl of course. Mental note made and one less choccy digestive she thinks). I ventured a "Can I ...?" but like some warp speed mind reading genius his retort was "No love, can't have a go, not allowed, specialist equipment this".

Humph, well, country girl not best pleased and did what she does when she can't threaten disciplinary action or make someone redundant or even worse make them attend six sigma training for the 9 billionth time. What was it? Pout, a big pout. A full bottom lip jobby, just like she used to try on her dad to get her own way (he got wise and laughed eventually, think I was about 21).

And as that clearly didn't work started the charm offensive "Tea?", "Cracking love".

Country girl seems to say that a lot these days. So off I went "Tea time is me time" merrily dancing in my head (yeah right). Still looking lovingly through the window at the digger, if only.

It was then that country girl spied Cooper (camp psycho cat for those of limited attention span). Cooper had decided to play stalk the digger, not quite sure what he was planning to do with it. Certainly couldn't lop its head off and hide it in the coal shed as is his usual modus operandi. So he had to be rescued, or rather grappled to safety much to the amusement of the builders (I was actually tying to protect them) and much to the annoyance of Cooper. Who has thankfully now ended his campaign to get let out again and joined me on the sofa for a sulk.

So here we are, a petulent princess, pouty psycho cat and a love struck scruff bag (she makes eyes at the builders).

Word of the digger has spread we are expecting a visit from Ginger Dave who wants me to look at his cv, yeah right, I know its my digger he's after. They better not let him have a go or well I'll set the cat on em.

TTFN

Tea Time is me time

There it is (well link below), the offending ad, or rather one of the series. I love John Shuttleworth, indeed I love Graham Fellowes (well it was a schoolgirl crush anyway), I even joined the campaign to make Gordon is a Moron Christmas number one and happily trot of to whichever civic hall venue is required to pay homage to the man Shuttleworth. I don't hate organs and I am coming round to Yorkshireness. BUT EVEN I CAN'T TAKE ANY MORE PLEASE MAKE THE PAIN STOP.

Disclaimer - I know its not John, or Graham or anyone else's fault, I just see it way too much on daytime TV

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=heHHUAwt-Ko

the man with the van

As you may be aware (or will be shortly) this country girl has become somewhat frustrated with having coal fired central heating (for gods sake its the 21st Century). Then there's the kitchen that does not allow cat swinging of any sort (even though Cooper's recent misdemeanours certainly justify some mild chastisement.

So country girl, found her architect (he survived my petulence just about) had plans drawn up (new kitchen diner plus new bedroom above). After a temporary blip which caused delay (but which need not concern my dear readers) duly found some suitable builders to make her little housey dreams a lovely reality.

And this is where this little tale begins, when on Monday two builders turned up to make a start and demolish the thing of beauty previously known as my garage. Or if you listen to the neighbours "that bleeping eyesore".

They were pleasant enough (the builders, so are the neighbours!) and I of course, in a bid to ensure good relations, obliged with cups of suitably strong Yorkshire Tea. (#Tea time is me Time etc - don't get me started or Grey will be in trouble again!).

And all seemed well, the garage you see is not what we'd call a work of architectural greatness, constructed mainly from old scrap wood, bits of packing cases and it appears some rather fetching asbestos sheeting (I warned them so my Health & safety duty is discharged). "A good wind should have that down love", was the view of most of the neighbours and indeed the builders who were rather hopeful of a couple of bashes with a hammer and an early dart home (or at least a nice sit down with some more Yorky tea!)

The garage however had other ideas. Frankly I left them to it , (lets face it Diagnosis Murder was due on !) and anyway scruffbag (who adores men in overalls) had to be taken indoors for their safety and so she didn't get even more dangerously over excited.

And then there was a lot of banging, for a long time. A very long time. Eventually a very, very long time. So I popped my head out thinking 'well bound to be done by know lets get em another cup of tea, maybe even some shortbread'.

But there it was , still up, a bit more wonky admittedly, but still there. Oh dear. "Erm" I said. And then it happened, the reply that should have prepared me but for some reason didn't. "Don't you worry princess we've got a plan. It'll be sorted no probs". Having worked with many men, usually engineers over the years the use of the P word should have set off warning bells.

When they use it, it means one of three things 1) that they did something really, really stupid and are about to tell you what 2) that they are planning to do something really, really stupid and you need to identify what and stop it or 3)its to late to stop the stupid thing they did and they are about to tell you they landed the company in Tribunal yet again.

But somehow, I just smiled, and said "Ok, more tea? I'll leave you to it". It was when I heard their orange van driving off that I was a bit concerned they'd legged it and thought I'd sneak a peek from upstairs.

And there they were, in the neighbours drive, with the van, and a rope. And I watched as they tied one end of the rope to the van and the other to my garage. And then as they floored the accelerator (the van protested I thought for one moment they'd done for Cooper) and they headed off down the neighbours drive. I think i whimpered at that point, scruff certainly looked concerned about my wellbeing.

And there we are .. mmm.

I am pretty sure that this isn't the recommended method for garage demolition but in the end it did work and they left me with a delightful pile of garage related rubble (which apparently they needed another van for ! - I know, don't ask I was to bemused to!)

The bits are to be collected. Given that funds are tight I am considering whether I could persuade a London art fan that the guys are indeed Retford's artsy wunderkinds who have in fact created a sure Fire Turner Prize winner worth at least 18 squillion pounds. Over a cheeky Chablis even came up with a suitable working title "the Psychosis of Modern Living III" which I think is a surefire winner myself. So, if anyone knows either of the Saatchi brothers let me know, I may let them barter me down a tad on the price (if they chuck in some Nigella goodies as part of the deal!

Am concerned that the next thing due for demolition is the porch!!! I may need to tie myself to it Emmeline Pankhurst stylee to make sure they adopt proper demolition methods this time!!

(of the photos, you are seeing the premier of my piece ""the Psychosis of Modern Living III" I hope u enjoy its subtle ironies. The orange van is not the actual van but one the same (thought the guys might get annoyed if I started taking pics just yet!)

TTFN

Ferret Fancying, Fudge and Falafels

This entry may be a little after "the event" known in these parts as "The Lincolnshire Show". I attribute this fact, in part, to my ferret related trauma.

I suppose I should explain the logic behind me even attending such an event, family induced and well, after a couple of sherries one Sunday lunch this welly wearer said yes. And then of course, in true me stylee was far too polite to say actually I'd rather chop off my own foot.

So off I was carted for a day of ponies, puppies and posh people. Ooh yes and some Pimms, that bit was rather nice. Oh yes, and there were the pigs, but of course have always had rather a soft spot for them. Though as a rather rugged farmer pointed out to me "not pets love, top quality sausage that'll be". Was tempted to locate Heather Mills phone number so she could come sort him out, but figured that would be a rather disproportionate punishment for his crime. (For those that don't know this country girl still sticks firmly to her vegetarian sensibilities and is a confirmed tofu muncher). Not wanting to cause a diplomatic incident howvere I instead made some rather vacant comment about "Gosh, that's a lot of sausage" which prompted a chortle from companions at least and a rather proud smile from aforementioned farmer

And what of the ferrets I hear you cry? Yes, sorry, as ever diverted from the original inspiration of my tale.

Anyway, it happened just after a wander through the food area, country girl quite cheery having been plied with Pimms (by some estate agency types keen to discuss the price of agricultural property). Which foodwise had been absorbed only by some Lincolnshire fudge (v nice ta)(but perhaps not the most alcohol absorbing of substances). (Am scene setting here btw)

So stumbling through the food vans we came upon another showring, "ooh look its the ferrets love" was the rather enthusiastic cry from fellow show attender. (Who may have thought I imagined they were guinea pigs - as if, I am a Northerner ta). So enthusistically, (I swear it was the Pimms and the fact of too much sun), I replied "Oh we just must watch , aren't they cute". Er yes I know the use of the word cute was perhaps a bit girly and yes it did prompt raised eyebrows from the rather more serious field sports (if it moves shoot it) audience. In my defence they are just pets where I'm from indeed I believe taht in Stoke its rather more de rigeur to dress your ferret rather than you Bichon Frisee. So watch we did and its truly amazing just how many fake holes ferrets can retrieve fake rabbits from. Indeed they are rather talented in all aspects of climbing, running, diving into things after fake furry things and indeed squeaking (well I think that was the ferrets but may have been the overexcited toddlers nearby)

But then, oh dear, as the annoying bimb I used to work with would shriek "lightbulb moment". I was on a dangerous path for a vegetarian. What the hell next? actually attending a hunt ball without a protest banner? Whats a girl to do in such a case, it was near panic attack time here I tell you??

Well you guessed it, back for more Pimms. Pimms I believe is rather magical. For some a tawny port may be a cure all for me its Pimms. Mmmm Pimms. And on that thought TTFN. Mmmm Pimms.

X