Pictures of a New Beginning

The atmosphere in the room has changed. It no longer needs to fight against feeling old and run down. The fifties have disappeared. The sixties no longer dominate as the seventies have been torn away in preparation for a new decade to exist. A room once used to watch the first television; new beginnings, fresh ideas, evening gatherings. The old sideboard is undercover, blinded by changes. Floorboards are exposed, original and in surprisingly good condition. Dust has been swept, harvest banished from the window sills. Cobwebs removed, discoloured walls reformed.

They stand in wonder. It is many years since the room was beautified to such classic tones. A total renovation lies in wait as the energy increases in what is fast becoming a room to be respected. They may question my taste; they may look upon improvement through my eyes yet they may see their own space, their own room with its tired walls and neglected furnishings. Their fire may roar with crackling flames, raised high from the coals beneath. The broken chairs and sunken sofa may still remain for them to rest their weary limbs. But new beginnings will erase the old ones; newly painted walls will overwhelm the tobacco stained paper. And once it is finished I will welcome those passed, so long as they welcome me.

The Pianist

Thought I might give you a little treat. Click on the arrow to play and hear the pianist at work. It is her own composition so slightly different to the original version! Enjoy, it isn't long.

I am so proud of Amy's musical progress. She doesn't let me teach her the piano but is quite happy to let me teach her the violin. And now she is keen to learn the guitar which I never played so perhaps she could teach me. In many ways it feels like history repeating itself as Amy has played the piano in a school concert and I believe is playing again at Christmas. I used to play at my primary school and won a music competition when I was ten for playing a hymn we used to sing in assembly. I even stood in for the music teacher a few times when she was absent.

My dad watches Amy play, his eyes permanently transfixed on his beloved granddaughter. It sometimes looks as if he sheds a tear, just from the pride that lives within his eyes. He would have been so emotional listening to Amy.

She did something wonderful yesterday. She cried. Emotion from within. Without me having to prompt her, she became upset when her taxi driver asked her about Chi-Chi. Having obviously not seen the pony all week, he wondered if she might be tucked up in her stable but Amy couldn't answer. Upon opening the taxi door and reaching for my distraught daughter I asked what was the matter. The driver explained, apologising for causing any upset which of course was unavoidable. I felt guilty for not telling him sooner and assured him he was not to blame for Amy's tears.

In the house I held her close to me, stroking her beautiful hair and allowing her to pour out her heart as her thoughts became too overwhelming. She cried for about ten minutes. We stood together in the kitchen, reminiscing about Chi-Chi's antics, about when she once scratched her bottom on the gate sending Amy into complete hysterics. One of those moments I wished I'd have had my video camera at hand. But we have so many memories of that beautiful creature, we will never be short of stories to remind each other of how blessed we truly were since the day she arrived on the farm.

It's gone RED! - And Politics

A bit of the farm through the window, showing the hen house.

It's turned RED. I couldn't believe it when I went down this morning to be greeted with a red wall and not a cerise pink one! It does of course look much better in the flesh than it does on this picture. And I have to say, I could be in danger of eating my words of yesterday; I actually like it. Unfortunately, the decorator isn't coming today but when he arrives tomorrow, he will paint the rest of the walls. They will get a few coats, make them warm.

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After another week of financial turmoil in what used to be "Great" Britain, one of our best (in my opinion) retailers is on the path of doom. Woolworths; a great shop for anything and everything. Been on our high-streets for years and now facing closure. What a complete farse. Obviously, our government were voted in for some reason - I haven't a clue what it was - but the country has gone from bad to worse during the last eleven years. Are we still facing the scenario where the rich get richer and the poor get poorer? Perhaps we should bring back Robin Hood.

I am in no way politically minded and I do not pretend to understand the decisions that have been made by our big top policitians. But they seem to continue making decisions that are just not benefitting our public and it makes one wonder if the government do actually think we are stupid. Do they not realise that we will question their choices? Do they think they can borrow billions of pounds and we will not ask how it is paid back? I wish I knew more about politics, I really do. I also wish I knew more about what goes on in Gordon Brown & Alistair Darling's heads because I'm sure they don't.

We need to have confidence in our government. We need to trust them when they make promises; when they spend OUR money; when they take over OUR banks. We need to know exactly what they are doing and why. But we don't, do we? I am not stupid. I might not understand politics but I am a British Citizen and I do pay tax and National Insurance. I run a business and I run it well. Give us a break, not another debt.

More Pictures

I don't usually publish two posts in the same day but I wanted you to see today's progress before tomorrow's has taken place. I went to town for a couple hours and when I returned part of one wall had been given its first coat of paint. Pink. Not red. The farmer looked as horrified as I did and the decorator didn't look much better. However, having been told that the paint dries to a much darker shade - that of Drum Beat Red - I shall give the suppliers the benefit of the doubt and leave it until tomorrow before I insist on the correct shade being mixed. That is of course, should the cerise pink not dry into Drum Beat Red. I didn't realise painting a dining room could be so stressful. The farmer says our new room is beginning to resemble a seedy pub. I thought it could pass as a brothel. The photos don't reveal the cerise too much but it definitely is not RED!!

This window looks west towards the Cheviot Hills

The fireplace has its first two coats of paint. It will be painted again in two shades of beige.

This window looks north towards Berwick

During the Decoration

Just to say, a huge thank you for all your loving words following our sad news about Chi-Chi. Amy took the news very well, having a cry and receiving endless cuddles. I was dreading having to tell her but it didn't seem as bad in the end. Chi-Chi will always be remembered for her wonderful character but right now we have decided not to have another horse. Maybe this will change in time.

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As promised, I have some photos for you. They are quite boring really but I did say I would publish 'before' shots together with 'during' and 'after' as and when. Because of recent events, I didn't manage to take any 'before' so apologies for that. However, I hope the following 'during' shots will suffice.

I never realised how expensive paint is. I had the paint for the walls mixed to a shade called "Drum Beat Red". When mixed it looks like cerise pink! The assistant at the paint shop must have seen the horror on my face as he called for the manager to confirm that the paint he had mixed was indeed Drum Beat Red. After much clarification and a few more horrified expressions, I felt confident that I had bought the correct colour. The proof is in the pudding I guess.

I have now ordered the carpet which is a very busy pattern of reds, greens, beige's and browns and in my opinion is just beautiful. It has cost less than I imagined so that was a bonus. It made up for the extortionate price of paint. I have a light fitting to go up once the decorator has finished. The farmer just keeps shaking his head and has very kindly let me get on with it! He almost collapsed however, when he and the decorator pulled up the old carpet, realising that it's an Axminster. It is a rather ugly looking carpet from the 70's with the stench of tobacco attacking your nostrils as you get close. Not that I ever sniffed the carpet you understand.

Our Black & White Beauty

She hung on all through the year. We watched her deteriorate then pick up again. We nursed her through two bouts of laminitis, and left her to graze in the garden where the grass isn't so sweet. We walked with her through the fields, ran alongside her as she trotted back to the security that was her stable. We lifted her when she fell against the fence and listened to her as she whinnied at the back gate. She was part of our family. She always will be.

She quietly passed away last night as she lay comfortable and warm in her stable. The farmer rested her head against a bale of hay before shedding a tear for the friend he loved and respected.

She was Amy's pony. We haven't told her yet. The gate will now remain open when she comes home from school; no longer will a pony graze on the lawn, waiting for her best friend to offer a carrot. A few seconds of your thoughts today would be a grateful vibe if it can only help the farmer and I explain to our beautiful daughter that the pony she adores now runs through the meadows of Heaven and has access to all the carrots she can find.

God Bless you, darling Chi-Chi. You lived to a ripe old age, we think around 31 years but we will always remember you as the adorable, loving and sweetest pony we could ever have wished to know. Rest In Peace.

Ashes to Ashes

In preparation for the decorating which starts on Monday morning, I decided to clean out the fireplace. Not a job for the fainthearted. It was full of cigarette ends. Jim's. My pink gloves were black as my hands scraped soot and ash from the grate, the small brush scattering blackness over the hearth. It wasn't an easy job but it had to be done.

But when the shadow closed in on me I felt it was time to remind the soul who stood behind that this was going to be our formal dining room. No longer would it allow an old man to sit watching Emmerdale, cigarette in hand, ash falling to the floor. The room will be respected, appreciated for the beautiful space it will become. As the shadow hovered to my right, I looked down at my soot encrusted gloves. I held several 'butts' in my hands, probably years old, once been tasted by the man who does not wish to leave. Upon throwing the filth into the awaiting bin bag, the shadow vanished. Our house remains non-smoking. Clean since January 2007.

I am so looking forward to the dining room being finished. For nearly two years the room has been wasted space but now will bring a whole new life to this grand old edifice. I ordered a table and six chairs on Saturday and shall order the carpet this coming week. There is a reason why I am renovating this room. When I know what it is, I shall let you know too.

Family Tree

My sister came to stay over the weekend and as usual we lay in a bed of nostalgia, recalling childhood memories. After my dad passed over, my mum decided she did not want to celebrate Christmas again. She wrote few cards that year, gave money as presents while the loft hatch remained tightly shut. After many years of beautiful festive decor, seven foot trees and an endless supply of cheer, our family home became silent. The coldness pierced through skin as one walked into the hallway, no fairy lights to guide your way into a transformed drawing room. As the years progressed, mum has adapted a little more to the spirit of Christmas, putting on a brave front for her children and most of all, the four grandchildren whom she adores. Each year, a few more ornaments have been taken down from the loft space and the cards have once more resumed. Yet she has always maintained her decision about not having a tree in the house. It was my dad's favourite part of Christmas and to have a tree only reminded her of the fact that he no longer shares her life, on our earth plane.


However, my sister and her daughter are staying with mum for a while and this seems to have brought back the wonderful cheer that our parents always insisted should take place. At three years old, my niece, Precious, revels in Christmas; the sparkle; the magic; the peace that is family. So mum has changed her mind about having a tree in the house, perhaps just for this year. Fortunately, I have an artificial one stored away which mum bought me eleven years ago when I lived on my own. It is a gorgeous Spruce with pine cones attached to some of its branches and stands around 5ft tall. I have always loved having it adorned during Christmas but last year was the first time we had a real tree at the farm house, so the Spruce lay in its box, in need of a little TLC.


My mum has agreed to take it. I am so thrilled. Not only will Precious enjoy a traditional Christmas but Amy will be most excited when she sees it in the house, the first one she will ever remember at Grandma's. We know it will be beautiful to see but we also know that mum may reflect a little more than usual each time she turns on the dainty white fairy lights. I also know that my dad will be happy knowing that his beloved family have once more been brought together by his undying love.

Breast vs Powder vs Autism

Since January 2000, advertisers and health campaigners have bombarded us with breasts. Before the Millennium, I took little notice of what parents gave their babies to nurture them, perhaps because I had no need to. Or perhaps it was because I was ignorant to the fact that for decades there has been a competition between breast milk and powdered, leaving a bitter sweet taste in the mouths of mums. Once more I opened the paper this week to have the "Breast is Best" logo staring me in the face and telling me that children are healthier, stronger and likely to become more intelligent if they feed on breast milk.

Then I pondered. I even contacted a good friend to ask what she thought. Autism. Breast Milk. Powdered Milk.

I have a healthy, strong, intelligent, beautiful daughter. Her name is Amy and she is autistic. She was given SMA powdered milk right from the start of her life at around 3pm on the 3rd January 2000. She physically progressed in a very normal way. The years have been kind to her and graced her with good health and a hearty appetite. She has of course suffered with the odd cough, colds and childhood illnesses such as chicken pox but on the whole, she is a picture of health.

My epilepsy did not stop me breast feeding even though it could have been an issue should I have wished to feed Amy this way. Even being a prude was not the influence. I had an organised system in place where several bottles were mixed and lay in wait for my hungry child. I knew when she had taken enough and I knew after a short period of time exactly how much she needed at two, three and eventually four hour intervals. I had no stinging nipples, no health visitors fumbling about with my boobs and no need for a bigger bra. That's another story now however.

Buying SMA wasn't the cheaper option. I had to make sure I always had enough in the cupboard and always had it on my shopping list. I began to wean Amy around five months, another successful result. When she was diagnosed with autism I looked for blame. I thought deeply about her father and his family and I thought extensively about my own. It has been said that there could be a very fine link between epilepsy and autism and so it was understandable that I turned to myself first. I carried Amy for just over eight months yet she was born at 7lb 11oz and was declared in perfect health. I have epilepsy as does my sister, my late uncle and various other members of my family, most of whom have passed over, yet on the three occasions that Amy has been tested for epilepsy, the results have been negative. One day, I even phoned the hospital where Amy was born and demanded they send me all records of her birth together with records of the week that we spent in hospital following the birth. The records showed nothing of any significance. Nothing that I could have taken to a professional and questioned. Never once did I think "if only I had breast-fed Amy, perhaps now she wouldn't be autistic."

It can never be proved. Breast milk may be an excellent source of nutrition but it wouldn't have made any difference to Amy should she have been fed this way. She has never needed a gluten free diet. She has thrived quite happily on my diet. It might not be the healthiest option available but you only need to look at her to realise how well she is. Red rosy cheeks, a big smile, an infectious laugh and energy to floor the hunt. Every time I see adverts and logos telling me and the public that "Breast is Best" I smile and think of Amy. I have no regrets.

Home Improvements

The decorator turned up yesterday. Fresh from a bedroom, papered and stroked, we went through the plans I have concocted for our new dining room. I could almost hear Jim breathing down my neck as the farmer, Chewy and myself stood in the middle of the room, discussing renovations and a new lease of life. The room was once the main lounge in the house. Next to the kitchen it was always, to me, crying out to be a dining room but the family used it as their evening hideaway for more than fifty years. It is a large room, with typically high ceilings for an 18th century build. Two tall and elegant sash windows reveal two very different views; one looking west towards the Cheviot Hills and the other looking north towards Berwickshire. On a clear day, one can see a distance worthy of a rainbow's gold.

I knew the colour of the walls in my mind, a shade of red that might appear regal in a stately home, matched with pale cream woodwork. The windows have seats and I have asked a friend to make up some cushion covers. I am waiting for my favourite carpet fitter to show me samples of busy designs of which I hope to order some time next week. The fireplace is, after a huge amount of deliberation, staying put. It has been crafted using 60's tiles, several shades of grey; dirty, horrendous and don't ask. But I have bought paint in two similar creams and we plan to make a slight feature of what is currently one of the ugliest parts of the house. Teamed with a humongous dried flower display and a Victorian-looking fireguard, it should appear a more attractive focus to an eye I will beckon away. Unfortunately, the fireplace has been built into a beautiful panelled wall of which I have no intention of losing but would be completely ruined if we were to start chipping away the tiles. We could of course find an in-keeping surround, maybe from a reclamation yard but for now we will paint it and see what transpires.

Earlier this year we renovated the kitchen, a much needed improvement. For those of you who haven't seen the pictures of the then-almost-finished room, you can see them here. That was back in April and I still treat that room as if it was done yesterday. Having never enjoyed being in the kitchen, it has become one of my favourite rooms in the house.

Apart from being eager to see the new dining room, it will be, I feel, an interesting week. The decorator, Chewy, is rather sensitive to the world of spirit and already picked up on a mysterious atmosphere on the staircase last time he was here. We had a lengthy conversation about his abilities giving me more cause to wait in the wings for if and when he senses my late in-laws and other members of the household paying him a visit while he transforms their old haunt into another generation.

I shall of course publish before, during and completed shots if you wish to join me on my week of evolution. CJ xx

Just the Beginning

One of my fondest memories of being on holiday in Northumberland was during the last visit we made as a family; mum, dad, Amy and myself. I had waited eleven months to revisit this ancient county, since our last holiday which had in fact been spent in the nearby village in a rented house. Only fields had separated me from Heaven, the west wing of the farm house being the main focus of my gaze. It was at the end of that penultimate holiday that my dad gave me the choice; would our next visit to Northumberland be spent in the house we currently rented or did I prefer to stay in a holiday cottage on the farm? I loved the rented house. Its rooms were big yet cosy and atmospheric. There was much more space than in the cottages but there was always something missing.

I could not see my farmer from the rented house. I was unable to stand on the front door step and wait for the tractor to draw up, a dirty green boiler suit stepping down. My answer therefore needed no thought. My dad knew what I was going to say before he asked, I guess he just wanted to see my face light up as I punched the sky with my heart and saw the twinkle in his eye.

Amy was six months old. The next ten months were to prove the most difficult time in my life as I lived a life of silence, having no idea how I would eventually find a happy ending. My relationship with Amy's father had all but ended. My dad disliked him, he annoyed my mum and almost everyone else could never understand why we stayed together. But I knew how much family values meant to my dad. I felt I had nowhere to go and devoted my life to looking after Amy. There were many occasions when I could have walked away but I felt it was wrong to take Amy away from family life. Yet I knew underneath, deep down beneath the lies, that this was not family life; and I grew to resent my partner more each day. We argued constantly, wherever we were. I began to hate him. But I hated myself more.

In June 2001, mum, dad, Amy and me made our way, for the last time together, to Northumberland. The next two weeks proved to be an unforgettable experience as the farmer and I got to know each other. We talked. We laughed. He came in the cottage for drinks and we shared stories, unimportant to the world yet meant the universe to us. I knew during that holiday that my destiny lay on the farm. But I also knew that even though Amy's father would care little about my absence, he might care about Amy's. And for the next two weeks I tried to get along with him, for her sake. A family wedding took place on the 15th July that year where my dad hired a mini-bus for his immediate family to use. He invited Amy's father to come along too but he declined.

It was that day that I finally realised how much my dad disliked the man who was supposed to care about me. He held me in his arms, waiting for me to cry. Tears were too precious to waste. But I knew one thing; that I would have somewhere to go. Despite his incredibly strong family values, my dad would rather have seen me as a single parent than living the life of misery that I was so desperate not to live. In my heart a decision had been made. Yet my head continued with its constant need for clarification, seeing less of Amy's father and more of my own.

The Jigsaw Puzzle - Part 1

I had one of those melancholy days this week. Couldn't work out which way I wanted to go; to the office to do some much needed work, or to bed with a good book and the Sky remote. Life often overtakes me and leaves me feeling tired. Tired of smiling, tired of talking, tired of being who I am.

My life here is wonderful. I have never regretted my move to Northumberland to become a farmer's wife. My protective farmer is a beautiful person and, after a long time of searching for the missing piece, he placed it into my hands giving me the freedom to complete my life's jigsaw.

Had it not been for my dad introducing me to the farmer many years ago, I would never have found this incredible place and therefore never been given the opportunity to make a new life here, in my own piece of paradise. My dad passed before the farmer and I finally got together. Having felt his spirit beside me I do know that he visits me at the home in which I have become most content. He approves of the farmer and he watches Amy grow. Yet, as I sit here, sad at having no loving dad draw up outside my home I appeal to him to come forward, to visit me once more. After seven and a half years I still hurt. Terribly. Tears pierce my eyes whenever I think of him, whenever I look at his beautiful face, whenever I wish he could comment on Amy's amazing progress.

The emptiness that I feel often overwhelms the blissfulness I have been dealt. I cannot see past the day I touched my dad's coffin as I read out a poem in front of 400 people in church. I remember each moment of that day like it was this morning. Yet when I turn my head towards the window and gaze upon the splendour that is my countryside view, I remember how much has happened in the last 7 years. My unforgettable wedding day, Amy's diagnosis, making this house my home. So many days have gone by that I will never remember yet so many are etched in my memory.

I have cried myself to sleep many nights, some having felt my dad's hand in mine while others have been a usual embrace with my farmer, the man who saved me from a life I was desperately unhappy about. But while I accepted the last piece of the jigsaw from my farmer on our wedding day, I will always know how it came that he was able to offer me that devotion. When my dad introduced us in 1993, he was introducing me to my future; a life that I would one day live on a farm in Northumberland with the gentlest and most incredible man whom only my dad would have known to be the perfect man for me.

Two Meme's

Having been tagged for two memes by the lovely Suzysoo, I thought I should take the opportunity and let you in on a few secrets. I have altered them slightly, i.e. reduced the number of answers required and left out who I would like to tag. So here goes, a few things you never knew about me:-

Meme No. 1

(A) Four places I go over and over: The Loo. Supermarket. The Bank. My bed.

(B) Four people who e-mail me regularly: My sister. My good friend, Casdok. Viagra agents. Paranormal sites.

(C) Four of my favourite places to eat: Home. The Craster Arms. Local chippy. My mother's.

(D) Four places you'd rather be: No where. I love my home and would never want to be anywhere else.


Meme No. 2

3 Things I plan to do before I start my next journey: Have my novel published. Take the farmer abroad. Train Sparky to be a working collie.

3 Things I do now: Blog. Talk to myself. Stay calm when recognising astral presence.

3 Things I can't do: No such word as can't - that's what my dad told me.

3 Things that attract me to the opposite sex: (in no particular order) Hairy chests. Maturity. Effort.

3 Things I say most often (to Amy!): "Quietly" "What've you done now?" "Mummy loves you".

3 Celebrities that I admire: Judy Finnigan. David Tennant (is he classed as a celebrity?) Dawn French.

3 Favourite foods: Fillet Steak. Parsnips. Chocolate.

A bit boring I know but there you have it. I was supposed to tag a few bloggers but I thought I would leave that down to you. Do let me know if you decide to do the meme, so that I can come and visit you. CJ xx
p.s. Amy has written a short story on her blog if you fancy a read.

Not Enough Time

I never realised how easy it was to make friends until Marla pointed me in the direction of Facebook and within hours DJ Kirkby, Casdok and one or two others had invited me to be friends. I had never been interested in looking into the big wide world of Facebook, being quite content with Blogger. But there you have it. Crystal Jigsaw is now a member on Facebook. She has no idea how to use it and what one is supposed to do.

I have seen one or two bloggers on there, some of which I have made contact with. I even found a few old school buddies, having to look twice at their photographs to confirm that it really was them. My school days were never the highlight of my life and I couldn't wait to leave in the summer of 1986. I managed to land myself a course at a Business College where I continued my studies for a further two years but by 1988 I was desperate to find work. Have never been into studying.

It seems there is an endless path to tread when it comes to Internet possibilities. There are many people I would like to look up, a couple of ex-boyfriends perhaps, and a few ex-colleagues from my years working in Aylesbury. The problem is, with all this time spent on the Internet, the house work is suffering. I like to be in bed by 9pm, sitting up against my V-shaped pillow, watching whatever Sky can offer. I'm finding that there really are not enough hours in the day. How many hours would be your ideal day? Mine would be 30. I could do my usual daily routine for the standard 24, then spend the additional 6 hours writing my book. That way I might have a cat in hell's chance of finishing it!

Counter Talk

Stood in a queue at Marks & Spencer, the express checkout. I had a basket brimming over with items while two women behind me moaned and groaned about the fact that there wasn't enough staff on the tills and how did they have the cheek to call this an express checkout. I had been ready to turn round and offer for them to go before me as they only had one item each. But I didn't. My shopping was just as important as theirs and I wanted to get out of that shop as quickly as they did. I have been known to have a grumble at the tills when staff have been hanging up and down aisles with nothing to do but on this occasion I felt sorry for the girl serving. She was polite and courteous to all customers even though she could see the queue was increasing rapidly. She rang her bell to beg for help and within 30 seconds, another two tills had been opened. The women got through while I was still paying for my goods.

When I walked out of the shop the two women were stood outside the doors chatting. Not in the hurry they had been in at the tills, just enjoying an afternoon at the shops and having a good old moan in the bargain. But don't we all love a good moan? If we have nothing to moan about we are very good at finding something. And the best moaners are the "behind your back" ones. How many of us have been brave enough to make a complaint over the phone, perhaps knowing that we are making a mountain out of a mole hill; trying to justify our grumpiness to someone whom we know we shall never meet. It is easy to moan to someone when you know you cannot see their face and look into their eyes. I'll own up, I've done it.

Earlier this year, BT totally pissed me off with their ridiculous excuses for not wanting to fix my broadband connection. It was so unbelievable that my complaining did became justified when I almost screamed at a cool, calm and collected young man to get his arse into gear and send someone round to sort me out. He put the phone down. My problem got sorted out in the end but it took two weeks of blasting down the phone and fiddling about with my laptop on dial up. Another occasion was when I booked the hire car for our holiday to France in the summer. I was on the phone for an hour and a half. No kidding. The man just couldn't understand what I meant when I said I needed a toddler seat. He kept putting me on hold and I was getting more and more irate whilst listening to the music on the line. I complained about that. Moaned and groaned but still had to pay extra for the toddler seat.

It would be an ideal world if we lived in it without having to complain. It might be a little boring too. Perhaps moaning keeps us sane. Maybe even gives us that edge to the excitement so many of us crave. Do you think the older we get the worse we become? I'll be 39 in a few weeks. Not much hope for me then.

Rude or Prude?

Before I start this post, I just want to mention that Amy has put up 3 lovely pictures on her blog of Halloween. You can access her blog from my sidebar.

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Today I want to talk about sex. Having started the passionate scene in my book, taking the less is more approach (excellent advice received from fellow bloggers) I thought I would do a naughty post. But as I'm as pure as the driven snow I was finding it difficult to find the right words to put down. On a recent drive back from a local town I noticed a field of cattle bordering the main road. In the field was a bull. And the bull, for want of a better word, was well and truly getting his leg over. Narrowly avoiding a collision with the separating fence, I quickly averted my eyes back to the road and thought, "lucky cow."

But that got me thinking about humans. I find it quite revolting to see "neckers" in public, eating each other as though they are tucking into a cream donut. There was a time when I would have loved a romantic cuddle with my loved one at the bus shelter but these days I can't even hold hands. I remember the many visits to my local swimming pool during my teens where the most gorgeous pool attendant worked. He waited for me once, his idea being to ask me on a date. But we only got so far as the bus stop where my big brother scooped me into his car and gave me the lecture about picking up strange men. I only wanted a snog.

Perhaps the sheltered way of life has worked its way through my family, coming to an abrupt halt when it reached me. Because until I reached my mid twenties, the snow was rather off-colour. When the farmer and I got together (I was 31) I was nothing short of shocked when he lent over and gave me a kiss. In public. Well, I say in public; it was outside and my mum was nearby but it still felt adventurous. I wished I'd have had the courage to drag him into the nearest field. It would have given the sheep something to bleat about if nothing else. Anyone else a prude like me? Or do you walk past the "neckers" and just ignore them?

A Little Rant

6am Monday - 6am Tuesday. A total of 24 hours. A field sown. An empty fuel tank and one knackered farmer. At 7.30 this morning I found him lying on the floor, in front of the Aga with a collie dog either side. The reason for this madness was quite simply the weather. Or perhaps the typically inaccurate weather forecast of drizzle, showers and generally a bad outlook. And what do we have today? Blue sky, sunshine and a relatively mild air. When it comes to farming, guess work from the meteorological office is just not good enough. The farmer went to bed at 10am, got disturbed by a phone call ten minutes later after I had taken the phone off the hook to let him sleep - and he had put it back on - then he got up at 1pm and had his lunch. Tonight the farmer will be a grumpy farmer; a tired farmer; a pissed off with the weather forecast farmer.

I know many farmers who constantly complain about the state of farming, its lack of profit for the continuous hard labour. And it's true; there is little reward in farming. For the amount of slog it would be nice to see a return, a handsome one. "It's what farmers do," they say, "that's what farming's all about." Remember that, Mr. Kellogs & Mrs. Crisp and Dry. A few weeks ago someone said that farmers make little effort to be sociable. My farmer is almost as unsociable as me, granted, but if he didn't have to work day and night because an elegantly dressed weather girl told him it would rain "in the north" then perhaps he would have a social life. And where is "in the north" anyway? Manchester? Yorkshire? We are in the north, the far north of England. I always think about the guy who, when I lived and worked in Aylesbury in the South East he went away "up north" for the weekend. Thinking his trip had taken him to the real up north he expressed how much he had enjoyed his dirty weekend in a hotel in Birmingham. That, to him, was "up north". Hecky Thump, I thought, there's nowt as queer as folk.

Rant over.

Family

It was the farmer's birthday yesterday. He prefers to forget about them but Amy and I made sure he remembered. Amy gave him a very typical birthday card which when opened, emits a farting sound sending her into a fit of giggles. I, on the other hand, gave him a wishy washy card showing two fishes kissing with the words, "you are the only fish in my sea" written inside. We have friends arriving later today of whom will stay in one of the holiday cottages and we shall cut into the 'racing car' birthday cake which Amy chose carefully at the supermarket. Before I moved to the farm, birthdays were never celebrated here. The farmer still gets emotional when he opens cards and presents from my family. Once more he reached for a tissue as he realised just how much my family love him. Being nearer to my mum's age than mine she has often said if I throw him out she will take him in. Note to mum: never in a million years.

Amy enjoyed drawing a face on the pumpkin and watched as I carved out the zigzaggy shapes. She dressed up as a witch and probably scared the spirits away. She certainly looked pretty frightening in her costume. If you look closely, you can see a face on the wall just above her right hand. Not sure which I find scarier.

We don't do the trick or treating as, apart from being isolated and living in the sticks, I could never let Amy go off on her own and she doesn't really understand the concept anyway. I bought her a huge cadbury's caramel instead and we all shared it.

The next event at Jigsaw Farm is Molly's birthday on the 12th November. We usually have a little party and buy a cake, sometimes I take the plunge and make one, but to be honest we'd much rather eat it. Of course, in between , we have Bonfire Night where the farmer lights his muck heap, we all stand round it and twirl sparklers in the darkness. I love this time of year. It brings so much togetherness in our house as the farmer is finally able to put away the tractor and join his family in celebrating unity.