Asbo Eats All The Pies

While I seldom have any clear idea of what I am going to write about here, I can usually rely on Asbo to provide some inspiration during our early morning promenade.

*Oh, before I continue, whatever part of the world you are in make sure your breakfast is consumed and well settled. Err… and children turn away….
Right then who is left? Hands up. Hmm the usual suspects*

Asbo runs along snorting and snuffling close to the ground. He is mine sweeping for something that he can make a dogs breakfast out of. No one could call him a fussy eater. Anything that might remotely once have born the spark of life is dragged out for a crunchy snack. I have recently mentioned the deliquescing shellfish of which he is fond. The odour of rotting 'moules chaude au soleil', washed down by green puddle that smells of rotting cabbage is one of his early walk staples. ( Did I say that I wouldn’t mangle the French language again? I lied.)
Another treat that abounds in his al fresco deli at this time of year is the dead baby bird. You know the ones. Crashed to the trottoir…

…hmm French is in for a pounding today it must be the ‘eat anything’culinary theme and boy could I tell you a thing or two about that, I once went on a snail hunt during a thunderstorm in the fields and hedgerows of entre deux mers…Oh lord it happening again… Sally help me its all going Corbett….. Where was I …

Ah yes, the dead baby birds that you find on the pavement at this time of year. The ones with no feathers and big purple eyelids. Looking like some mini pink spam fritter with two black grapes on the end. Probably dumped out of the nest higher up and unseen, during a struggle against natural selection. Well they are quite tasty according to my canine mentor in these matters. The small bones are still soft and the general texture is akin to that mechanically recovered reprocessed ham that sells really cheap in Tesco. And they burst on the tongue. Lovely.
I remember once She Of The Town House was particularly nauseated when he bounded up with the scaly tail, and the back end, of a worse for wear rat dangling out of his front teeth. He grinned at her and crunched away; she took a deep breath of fresh air, and looked for the nearest exits.
For my money the worst is ( if you have eaten recently don’t say I didn’t warn you) the used condoms that you find along marine walk. He doesn’t mind ribbed, fruit, chocolate or plain. As long as they are fu.... Its no good, even I can't go on with this one.
Truly he is a disgusting dog.

This morning then, he surprised me. Yesterday evening someone bought a picnic and wandered out on to the cob to watch the sunset. Somehow they mislaid one of their bags and dropped it behind the chair they used. Inside the bag were two of Edwards the Butchers finest steak pies. I deduce all this from the receipt, which was the only thing that I was quick enough to retrieve. They were inside their sell by date, well wrapped and looked delicious. I am going to have to keep my own eye out more closely. His wild food campaign may have more to recommend it than I thought.

I think I shall let The Boy take him for a walk tonight though. He needs the exercise and there’s a load of cling film and a couple of tin trays due out of the dog soon.

Something Else For The Weekend Madam?

Fairy folk have been gathering pistils from mountain flowers. Collecting them by moonlights silver beams. Mixing them with dewdrops that have fallen from the new green leaves in the forest, and the tears of baby bats. Its expensive stuff of course. You aren’t going to find this sort of thing on the shelves in Asda. Rather it is delivered by elvish folk in little carts drawn by dormice to the finest shops in all the land. And what do you suppose they do with it precious? Well of course it is a secret. Mere mortals can never really know. Save only of course for the chosen. The cabal of female gender that specialise in the ancient arts.
Not (for once) members of the coven that She Of The Townhouse belongs to. No no, these sisters of Vesta (hmm maybe that should just be acquaintances of Vesta in view of other things I have heard about them) are the ones blessed in the secret arts of relieving women of minute snips of hair and colouring in the grey ones.
Generally they exchange their services for gold.
She Of The Town House is off to the hairdresser.
That reminds me. I really must trim my nostrils.

Must Catch The Post

Just a short note about something that I have seen in passing.

About a fortnight ago Frank left a note for Ann. He was obviously missing her. It seems they had a brief encounter last summer. One which preyed upon him to a degree that he just could not let go. The trouble was, he knew little more of her than a walk. A walk that shares the route taken by Asbo, Pugh and I first thing every morning.
I never thought she would reply but, to my surprise, she proved me wrong. Left a message. A message to which I am not privy.
Like an idiot Frank has managed lose her message. He has ballsed it up as it were.
Now he has had to leave another note in the same spot as the first.
I hope he takes better care this time.
Good luck Frank.

…. I shall try and keep you posted.
(Incidentally if your name is Ann and you fancy a shot at this, drop me a line and I will let you have the number)

Creepy Crawlies

Regular readers of these notes will know that, from the very beginning, I have taken great delight in drawing to your attention the things that arrive on the mountain. Be it mammal, insect, fish or fowl. Everything flying thing, from the humble tit to Sparky the Guinea Fowl. Mammals such as chipmunk or indeed the weasel in the freezer. Even the things that haunt the night. You have been spared none of them.

*Aside… and at this point let me reveal that part of the point of this note is to see what Google will pull out of the dark spaces…all will become clearer lower down…already I have laid a subtle trap for the seamier side of the springwatch audience…*

Anyway, where was I. Oh yes. She Of The Town House and I were sitting in the sun beaten haze of summer at our vastly improved pond on Saturday afternoon. All of a sudden a large insect of a type that I hadn’t observed before appeared and buzzed round, alighting on various strands of reed and grass and tormenting my attempts to get a decent photo. On looking it up later I found that it was Libellula Depressa, the Broad-bodied Chaser. There is a rather nicer picture of it here. The one that I took is clumsily enlarged from my phone. This is not a rare beast by any means but it is unusual round here. In the last ten years I have never seen one on my mountain, which is why it took me by surprise. If you happen to live with an insect enthusiast with a special interest in dragon flies ( not so unlikely as it sounds this is all targeted stuff…:-) ) I am curious to know whether they usually come this far up. I am 300m out of the valley below. On Sunday I spotted another one, quite a way from the pond, round the back of the house. I wonder if we have provided just the right habitat, or if indeed the incredibly warm weather that this year seems blessed with is allowing them to explore new heights. So a beautiful insect and very welcome.

Something else has crept out of the woodwork as well. Earlier on in these notes I attempted humorous reference to the fact that the recycling box was over flowing and cocked a mocking snook (Result! Microsoft knows not of the word “snook”. Where else could you get such satisfaction…) at an organ of a foreign power. I am choosing my words carefully here. A couple of you made a point of telling me, tongue in cheek I thought, that perhaps such snook cocking wasn’t a good idea.
I am thus a little disturbed to find that indeed someone’s crawler has indeed made a bee line for that post, and the one before it which referred to restricted weaponry.
This is worrying. I am not, unless severely provoked, any kind of revolutionary. No fisting the air, marching and chanting slogans for me. Well not since “Jobs Not Bombs”. Since the end of the Thatcher years I have been a far more sedentary political cynic. Once she had been seen off, I felt that all that fuss about school milk was finally over.
Oh lord I am going a bit Corbett again. Please stop me when this happens.
Look the thing is this. Just a couple of days after I wrote that, my notes have been thoroughly indexed, including possibly links to you dear reader, by a company that provides electronic and scientific services to HMG. And it took me a little while to track them down. They didn’t actually leave that web address but that’s certainly where it came from!

I am going to have to be careful what I say in future.

At least two "Google Traps" have been laid in this post.
I apologise in advance to anyone who has wound up here looking for the contents Kate Humble's vest. Look elsewhere.
* I wonder if there is such a thing a "Google Trap" or wether I am the coiner of this phrase? *
Thats it... I'm off...

Early Bath

The sun has been splitting the flags here on Hallett’s Mountain. I trust that if you live in the UK it has been much the same where you are.
I got up early with the good intention of mowing the grass, struggled with the heat for an hour or so, and wound up having an early bath.
She Of The Town House generously scrubbed my back but there I am afraid, gentle reader, I must draw a veil over the proceedings.
Everything else in the garden has been panting like dogs.
I enclose half a dozen photos to show how nice it has been here.
I will get my proper writing head on again soon.

Bin Laden

We decided to form an action committee. Eager to be the first in the street to reach our target. The Boy, She Of The Town House and I sat round the kitchen table and voted. Axeman abstained as he was busy targeting missiles on western Europe.
Obviously I am chairperson. That is what I do best. An important overseeing role that won’t actually involve getting out of the comfy chair very often. She Of The Town House decides that she will be secretary. She is well qualified for this role as she has been a scrivener of note for the local sheepdog trials for some years. She won’t actually have to take many minutes as she has, like all of her gender, the memory of an elephant. This leaves the boy to do the actual labour. Immediately he demands a billion pound bribe.
A period of abuse and negotiation ensues. Eventually he settles for a shilling, but only in bob a job week.
And so we begin to recycle.
Our eagerness seems to have violated the councils rules of engagement though. Nearly three weeks after we have started cramming cans into the pitifully small box they send out a note explaining when they will actually start the fortnightly collection rota. We have a nervous moment while we consider our lager consumption and the diminishing space for squashed cans of all variety.
Axeman, returned to the table following a thaw in relations between east and west, hits upon an idea. If we just give the dogs leftovers and stale bread, we can save all the space that they will potentially use for the next week. This should help a little, and I have also noticed that the lid and sides of the container are quite bendy. It should respond flexibly to a fair degree of overstuffing. If we combine strategies, and attend the pub more frequently, we may just get away with it. Despite the hot weather.
Its going to be tough but we may just make it.

Googlers please note that this whole post is an attempt to justify mistaken title traffic.
Gentlefolk from Langley…it’s a joke…and the reference to a sniper rifle in my last post was in similar vein….
I’m going to have to hide out on the mountain aren’t I.

Of Mice And Women

All night long I have stood vigil at the town house. Pausing only to remove an occasional bead of sweat from the Hallett brow. The cross hair in the sight of my Heckler and Koch PSG1 trained and unwavering. Two floors up in The Town house, I have a clear view of the intended killing field. My camo, the nets and Mel next doors owl providing impenetrable disguise from even the sharpest eye.
I have corrected for wind drift and range, but not even a leaf has twitched. Nothing has stirred. Not even a mouse.
Let me skip back twelve hours, dear reader, and explain. This is a tale of the inevitable consequence to the little man of the unthinking machinations of government from afar. In April we had the smoking ban. In a place like the Old Walled Town this introduces problems for the tobacco addict. There just aren’t that many spaces that aren’t enclosed or public. The devotee must seek out a corner and guard it jealously in order to ensure a fix.
Heap upon this indignity, the new recycling schemes that we all seem to have to endure. This places another premium upon the territory available to smokers. In the tainted corners that they seek are now, cheek by jowl as it were, overflows of ordure, offal and tins of dog food that really ought to have been rinsed a bit more carefully.
As well as the glowing coal of the end of the nicotine stick, the night time brings evil red eyes. Creatures attracted by the easy pickings. And they grow bold my precious.
Last night The Boy and I were engrossed by the flickering image of sixties Britain. Suddenly a piercing scream cut through the falling dusk like a dagger.
She Of The Town House has seen a hideous mutant, a giant squirrel rat like creature small mouse in the back yard.
It’s almost enough to make you want to give up!

La Philosophie Dans La Jardin

Worry not, I shall not torture you more with my mangling of the french language. Nor will we pay any more than a passing nod to the Marquis. Hallett’s Mountain, as I am sure the gentle reader knows, leaves that kind of thing to others.
Its just that Asbo and I have been having some ‘man time’ together in the garden. I noticed that the cats had not finished their breakfast. The weather has been hot and close to thunder. They go off their Tesco cat chunks in times like this. They twitch in the secret shady spots and look for an endangered species to mock.
Asbo is always glad to clear up and so I sit with him for a little. Taking time off from the rhythmic scything of bracken that has left my mind free to wander elsewhere. While he eats his way through his second, and third breakfast I take a cool one from the fridge to the garden chair. We pass the time of day, watching the swallows dip across Cae Dan Ty.
The silence between us is easy. We mellow away.
After a while the swallows dip lower.
“You know mate, I reckon there could be a thunder storm any time now. Do you think I should unplug the phone?”
Asbo raises a quizzical eyebrow. Failing to detect any nuance of the word ‘walk’ he returns to his task. Perhaps he also considers the echo of the lone tree falling deep in the remote forest.
Far across the valley the skies darken ominously.
“I’d better get the line out of the modem as well.”
Asbo smiles at the follies of men and munches on. The thought of one hand clapping crosses his doggy countenance. How on earth would that be of any use if you wanted a biscuit.
The first flickers of lightening cross the miles, the radio inside the houses crackles. After long pause a few bass rumbles track around Craig Celynin and reflect upon us. The air temperature suddenly chills.
But the practical time for reflection is past.
Sitting with a beer at the garden table has its merits but we will soon be cold and wet if we don’t stir our stumps. I drain the glass and turn to my friend.
“Time to pack up and sit by the fire mate?”
Asbo shrugs off his canine philosophising.
Spits out the last chunk of the previously oval cats bowl and grunts.

Amazed At A Mazda

Every now and then She Of The Town House manages to make my jaw drop. The reasons are usually best left unspoken. Events that I would be a fool to expose to public. This week though I can reveal two points on which she has caused the Hallett lower mandible to sag.
The first was when she made a very palatable Sunday dinner earlier in the week. She managed to get one in before the solstice. Don't get me wrong. She has prepared many fine meals. The thing is that the preparation usually comprises the waving of a credit card at a table in the local posh hotel.
The second was when she called me down to the old church car park as she had a puncture. Although still not free from pain, I put aside my man flu and got my best Mr Man overalls on. Crossing the style and the cattle grid I looked around for the little four wheel drive buggy that she has used to beat up other peoples cars for the last four years. The only thing I could actually see was a shiny midnight blue Mazda MX5.
She kept that quiet.
Apparently it’s a bit nippy!
Tips from motorcyclists who may have experience removing fly debris from toothy grins are welcome.

Pretty In Pink

How many of you have puzzled over it I wonder? All those little capital letters on the washing machine. Program A for this wash, Program B for another. Program X ‘Something for the weekend sir’.
In her own personal alphabet of machine generated surprises She Of The Town House hit upon program P. This is the one where she uses quite a warm wash, a nice new red top that she has just bought for her new job, and of course all the shirts and shorts that Axeman likes best.
She whacked them all in in a hurry and chose the pink wash.
Later on, when she spotted it, she decided that if she threw a few of them round a second time on a hotter setting then they might correct themselves.
Axeman will soon be looking for someone on e-bay who wants cheap clothes for their baby daughter. Clothes that used to fit him (in a different colour).

He hasn’t found out yet……

Incidentally Hallett’s Mountain would like to relieve possible anxiety here.
We call him Axeman because he wields a guitar.
Quite well.

Man Flu?

For two days dear reader I have been a man wracked with pain. A man too weak to write. Unable to stray far from the toilet. Save to get another roll from the freezer.
I am trying to figure out what exactly it was that I ate and all the others didn’t.
Today we, She Of The Town House and I, are off to the garden centre. Garden centres can educe strong emotions. For this reason we have also pencilled in a visit to North Wale’s finest cider house somewhere along the way.
I recommend The Penryhn Arms to one and all. A pub that deserves more attention than it gets. Its got a dodgy website but is the only pub I have ever found draught perry in.
I am very pleased to see that Microsoft doesn’t recognise the word ‘perry’.

A Cunning Plan

Tonight we see the return to Hallett’s Mountain of She Of The Town House after ten days in the foreign. I have been anxious to prevent a repeat of the last debacle. To this end I have searched the house from top to bottom and have eventually found the dyson. More than that, I have figured out how to plug it in.
It worked for about half an hour but I am not sure if there isn’t something wrong with it. Blind Pugh and Asbo have been having a competition to see who can be first to shed their own body weight of dog hair. This seems to have filled the little clear plastic bit and now it is giving off an unpleasant burning smell every time I turn it on. I must say that the container part seems awfully small. I reckon there could be a market for dysons with emptyable containers. Ones you could take off, turf the rubbish in to a bin and use them again. You wouldn’t have to throw them away so often then. Still never mind, I am sure women have their reasons. Her shaggy old angora sweater seems to pick up dog hair almost as well. The new two tone effect that it has taken on will be a pleasant surprise I am sure.
We have cracked the toilet as well. Oh I don’t mean a real crack. I mean we have managed to mask the unpleasant smell and save water at the same time. I was looking in Mrs Wilsons Hardware and I saw these things that you set light to in order to get rid of insects in the greenhouse. The lavatories ( we are posh here) in the town house don’t smell half as bad since we left one of them in each overnight. Smudge pots or something. I recommend them to you all.
Since we learned that trick from last time the dog has sorted out all the washing up. Except for the really baked on peas. Seeing as you can’t tell what colour they were originally, we are going to try and pass that one off as next doors rat. Which incidentally we haven’t seen since Ben lost it in the sitting room, so it is a pretty feasible excuse.
Oh yes, we sellotaped all those plants she loves and tends up to some sticks that we found on the beach and so we haven’t had to water them much at all. This has been much better from the point of view of flooding.
All in all I reckon she is going to be pretty pleased by how we have managed.
All except of course the room belonging to The Boy. If I reveal no more to all you mothers out there than the fact that he is thirteen, going on fourteen, I am sure you will have almost as clear a picture as the vile reality of his pit.
There are yoghurt (I may even have spelled yoghurt correctly this time Mike) pots in there that are beginning to evolve into a new subspecies. Any lower into the pile I care not to delve, less I get an infected wound. I have helped in just one regard I have removed all remote controls and aerials and game controllers from his room.
Everything else he is going to have to deal with himself. Then he can have them all back again.
Mwahahahahahahaaaaa.

It’s The Quiet Ones You Have To Look Out For

We are out for a walk. Asbo is behaving like a gang of teenage thugs. Except of course I understand that now I shouldn’t refer to him as such.
He has thoroughly doused the sign outside the bed and breakfast. You wouldn’t think that a dog had so much in him.
A kind American lady, mid fifties, slacks, grey hair, spectacles, carrying a little extra, was thrilled with him. She beamed from ear to ear. Until, that is, he shoved his nose up her ample bottom Then she looked me in the eye with shocked disbelief.
He has partaken of shellfish in their shells, regardless of the lack of an R in the month. He loves the ones that the seagulls leave behind to rot on Marine Walk. These are particularly vile, but you wouldn’t want to try and retrieve them from him. I expect he will be sick as a dog later. Nothing wrong with that of course. He is a dog after all. I just wish that it wasn’t me that had to deal with the semi digested rancid seafood that he leaves behind.
He has played 'high speed chase the plastic bottle' through the council flower beds. Right under the CCTV. His grand finale being to shred the bottle to pieces, and dump a two bagger right next to the best looking flowers in the patch.

I finally decide that perhaps he should be on a lead, when he sidles up to the dog belonging to the lady from the wine shop. I can see he is exercising his best Terry Thomas impression.
To paraphrase ( if that is the right word?) Yaxlich; he is about to get his winky out.
Enough!
(Keen observers will note an experimental semi colon. (Children, you shouldn’t try this at home.))
I decide that my fellow citizens would be far better off, from so many points of view, if I sit him still long enough to put his lead on.

By coincidence this is also just long enough for Blind Pugh to sidle up to me, mistake my leg for the nearest lamppost, and leave his card.
I squelch back to the Town House.

The Prisoner

We had a call last night. She Of The Town House was twittering in great excitement. Part of being chosen Grand Pooh Bah of a whole celtic nation is a stay in the heart of union for training.
She is extolling the facilities and the view from her room.
It seems that from her vantage point high up in some tower she has a direct view over the Thames towards Walworth. She can also see complex mechanical bridge in a bizarre mock gothic style. The room has many attractive stone features. Ethched into one of the windowsills is the legend “Gruffydd ap Llewelyn woz ea”. All seems fine except for some problem with the key.
Meanwhile back at the town house The Boy, Axeman and I are a bit puzzled by what seems to be some kind of humorous ransom demand that we have received bearing the Queens Seal. I have tried ringing the number at the top of the note but it keeps giving strange electronic clicks before transferring me to an ever changing recorded message left by someone purporting to be ‘Number Two’.
Just as a precaution I have looked up “instruction, London, Number Two” on google but there seems to be something wrong with my safe search cookie.
I wonder what’s on the news.

(Hallett's Mountain apologises if the references are obscure but even the walls have noses)

Road Rage Drama On Halletts Mountain

While not a regular god botherer I suspect I visit church more often than most. I hold the key to the one on Halletts Mountain you see. Well it hangs up on the hooks in my house. Its about four fields away from here.


Or if you prefer the drive up from The Old Walled Town its about four miles.
The drive is full of pitfalls. That is to say, if you aren’t sure of the lie of the land it is pretty easy to fall in to a pit. The best one I saw was Gaffo’s father. Rumours of a ‘Grand Spectacle’ brought us all out to see him lying drunk beside his land rover. The landrover was almost upside down in the ditch. He still denies all, but he must have wondered how he got home and where the dents came from. Halletts Mountain is a bit of a vehicle eater.
Yesterdays congregation was smaller than usual. The new vicar decided to press on. Halfway through the first hymn that nobody knew the tune to, a woman came breathless to the door.
"They’re on the way," she gasped. An image of the closing sequence of The Field Of Dreams.
It seems that six cars coming up met Mrs Hewitt going down. A seemingly unequal balance unless you have seen Mrs H trying to reverse. It’s her back you see. The faith of six cars full of the faithful was misplaced. She really wasn’t going to make it. She made a brave attempt mind you. But eventually the clutch on her car melted. Halfway up the narrowest and steepest part of the hill. For all I know they may have helicoptered it off.
After a couple more hymns that nobody knew the tune to we all went back home.
I was the only one that walked. I was the only one that went uphill.

Asda Man And The Girl In Aisle 13

She follows the script.
“Any help with your packing sir?”
Its important at this point to think of some pithy rejoinder, something along the lines of….
“Yes, do you see that woman over there? Tell her to get her finger out and pass these things to me one by one.”
She has come to expect this over the years. Less experienced shoppers might mistake the glazed look for, ‘Oh god its him again’, but I know better.
For once though, I am distracted. My muse, She Of The Town House, is still away.
There are no boxes for me to recycle, I will miss out the green points. I have forgotten the sickly sweet confection that Axeman and The Boy refer to as yoghourt. The rest of this queue is going to get restless if I can’t think of something soon. I am lost in reverie.
The pregnant pause between question and answer has stretched into an embarrassed silence. I see her hand drift towards the red button.
“No, I’ll be fine thank you.”
The rest of the queue breathes a sigh of relief. The security guard relaxes and pretends he was just stretching to adjust his tie.
But I am clearly not fine. I fail to open the first bag as she flings items from the end of the belt in my direction. Witness to my pathetic struggle to separate the two layers of static plastic she takes pity on me. Pre-opened bags are passed, the ones reserved for ‘special customers.’
We grind along to the exchange of pin, plastic, and clubpoints. The earlier silence still awkward between us.
“Would you like a day out sir?”
The minx passes me some kind of note with what I can only assume is her mobile number on it. I am careful not to inspect it then and there, lest the others should report her for fraternisation.
My day brightens.
Though flattered, I decide not to call.
Harumph!

Faggot Surprise

While on holiday at Lulworth Cove, an annual treat since the early sixties, we decided to go to the farmers market in Weymouth. Lucky day.
Among all the good things that life has to offer the hungry holiday maker with money in his pocket my eye lit upon what seemed to be a genuine farm stall piled high with all kinds of cooked and processed pork related products. I was drawn, Homer Simpson like, to the groaning tables. Drooling in a manner likely to frighten children at the sensual pleasures displayed thereon. Nestling among the mouth watering treats, was a plate piled high with faggots. Attesting to their home made authenticity, each was wrapped in its own white caul. This is important. It is possible to buy supermarket bred faggots in this country and while not inedible, they are definitely inferior to the free range varieties.
When we stay in Lulworth there are seldom less than nine or ten of us present. Thus I was trebly struck by the good value that faggots at three for a pound would represent. I got a bit carried away and wound up in possession of a most of their stock. A couple of faggots each for the grown ups and one or two depending on the size of the offspring. Not often you can feed a crowd of our size for around a tenner.
Like a dog with a tail more than it should have, I spent the day in pleasant anticipation of the treat in store that evening. Faggots, peas, and mashed potatoes. With a rich onion gravy.
Everyone was very polite. Even so I could sense that their enthusiasm was muted. After a minute or two my nephew, ever the last to spare a feeling, turned to his father and wondered aloud if the chip shop was open. After that it was a rout and before long I was crestfallen and deserted by all save She Of The Town House and the boy. And I could tell that even these two were torn between loyalty and the lure of deep fried food.
Well if you can get them up front then try round the back door. Ahem! The next night I made a Thai green curry. Again featuring a number of ingredients picked up at the market the day before, along with some sauce from a little shop from the backstreets of Dorchester. The strong and vibrant eastern flavours effectively masked the fact that the lumps of chopped meat may have started out as something else. Everyone pronounced this a delicious treat. Except of course my nephew who wondered if the chip shop was open.
Yesterday She Of The Town House returned from Monmouth long enough to take a bath and throw what she laughingly refers to as underwear into the washing machine.
“There’s a present for you in the bag” she said.
As I opened it the generous savoury aroma of four home made faggots greeted me.

Today I have referred to faggot , sensual , back door , and underwear. That should rattle a few tins at Google.

Lost In Cyberspace

She Of The Town House has upped and gone. Oh no worries she hasn’t ‘gone’ gone but a new job and the call of the wild will have her on the road for the next ten days or so. Things round here just aren’t the same without her.Without the civilising influence I am reverting to a bear in a cave.

When I have other people around I love to cook. Various lovingly selected fresh ingredients are crafted into culinary surprises to delight She Of The Town House, Axeman and The Boy. And on the rare occasion they fail to please Asbo and Blind Pugh are far too polite to mention the smoky flavour.Left to myself though, as I have been now for two long lonely days and nights I seem to be able to survive on peanut butter and Marmite ( Vegimite, yeast extract…for you Aussies) for days on end. This slapped between two slices of wonderbread.In times gone by it was chicken leg stew. Kept on the stove for days. Even this seems to escape me now.

I also seem to be unable to sleep much. I find myself watching TV till after 1a.m. in the morning. Something I never usually do. I am seldom up after 10p.m. on my own. And though I usually wake early, I seem to be rising some time around 5.a.m. now.

Walking along the Cob this morning I found myself in conversation. I was discussing the sociology of virtual networks somewhere between my head and Blind Pugh. Also Musing the kind of templates I might use for adventures on the web. Being a dog, Blind Pugh was only replying with the occasional grunt. Enough to keep my flow going though. He doesn’t grunt much but he does it in all the right places. Distracted for a moment by an interesting smell, he looked up and asked me to repeat a particular point.

“I beg your pardon…”

Now that was a pretty unusual thing for a dog to say. I had a brief flash that perhaps my social isolation, my lack of contact with the outside world beyond the “Weekly Witter”, was seeing me further from the plot than usual. Maybe I really should get out more.

As I stood looking down at him a jogger passed by.

Abstraction

It was inevitable from the very moment she opened the first can.
Nearby on Hallett’s Mountain is a medium sized pond. It fills by natural seepage. Given a suitable supply of fresh water it could easily become deep enough to make a summer bathing pool. And it is on land that belongs to She Of The Town House. Given that set of circumstances, and the fact that a stream runs through the same field, it was as easy as pushing the first domino.
50m of sturdy blue pipe has been cunningly concealed in the stream bank and below a couple of trees and now several litres of water are splashing in to the pond every minute. This is probably the sort of thing that you need a license for but we have managed to ignore that inconvenience thus far. Anyway when the pond overflows it will probably run back over the boggy patch towards the stream it came out of albeit higher up.
The other scenario of course it that it doesn’t run back sensibly but breaks the bank of the pond. This would release all the water in one mighty (and I really should look for a mot juste that implies a ‘medium sized mighty’, this isn’t a dam on the Rhur) inundation. The path of this flood would run straight through the sitting room so recently finished by Bob The Other Builder. So fingers crossed it doesn’t happen. 50m of blue pipe is going to be difficult to spirit away when the finger is being pointed.
Anyroad, I seem to have gone a bit Corbett again. The point is that She Of The Town House spotted a couple of old plastic buckets in the centre of the pond. Buckets that had once held an unction that would allow shepherds to do something unspeakable to sheep. This I must skate over, but I may come back to at a later date as there is probably a rich seam here that I have yet to tap ( note to self).
Rather than spend five minutes walking back to Hallett’s Mountain to collect something sensible, she decided to apply beer to the problem. After a couple of tins, she figured it would be a practical solution to lean out across the pond with a stick. A stick that was clearly far to short for purpose. She started waving it in a manner that might attract a bucket. Failed miserably. After a while I was called from my spade work to assist. Her opinion was that if I held her firmly by one hand she cocould lean far enough out over the pond. In such a way that the short stick would seem extra sparkly attractive to the buckets and she would be able to bring them home.
The entirely foreseeable happened. After a few seconds of bucket lunging I was forced to let go.

Earlier

If anyone cares to read back, two years worth of rambling that lead up to this point can be found here .