My Clever Girl

I have a treat for you today.  She gave me her permission and so I now present to you, Amy, The Pianist.

Evening Shade

I took this photograph the other evening of a beautiful sun set and thought I'd share it with you.  I was going to use it as my new blog header but the sun is so bright it was hurting my eyes (even with the sunglasses on!).  Let me know if you think the same.

Taking this months invoices out recently in order to make those end of month payments, I got a shock at how much they were to be, making me feel a little queasy as I began sifting through them, writing off the ones that could wait another few weeks.  It's a shame that all the cuts being made don't apply to the bills we receive.

You know when you arrange something and feel really pleased with yourself that everything's coming together? Well I did just that when I booked our forthcoming holiday in Scotland; having to make arrangements for the farm with it being a 24/7 business.  My mum and her partner are coming to look after the place, including the dogs.  My only concern is that she was quite adamant that she wouldn't be able to cope with four dogs (which of course she doesn't have to because her partner does all the work).  Not to mention the fact she forgot we had a cat.  I do hope they remember we have hens and don't forget to let them out in the morning.  And now we've discovered a fox again after one rather rudely carried a hen away yesterday, leaving a mountain of feathers for us to clear away.  I have a gun and I will use it; so fox, beware, I'm not a happy bunny and you could find yourself staring down the end of a barrel.

Romance at the Farm

At this time of year, as you all know, it is harvest season which means tractors and combines are out in force, eating up the countryside on their mission to provide bread on the table for the dedicated farmer and his doting family.  But occasionally, like today, we have poor weather which means a farmer's work is limited.  The roads come alive with 4x4's, flat caps and wives in the passenger seats, while dogs remain on guard waiting for their master to return from a long overdue trip into town.  My Farmer drove me into Berwick again, Bessie for once being second best to her rival.  He usually showers and puts a clean pair of jeans on for these mammoth outings but was struggling to find a suitable pair that weren't covered in tractor grease, sheep droppings or indeed rips.  I try to be a good wife.  Stopping at the agricultural merchants he decided to treat the dogs, buying a huge packet of colourful chews to reward their impeccable behaviour.  "Something for them to chew on," he announced, when arriving back at the car, laden with a beaming smile.

"Lucky dogs," I said.

On the journey back I had to remove his hand from my leg four times, reminding him he was driving my Land Rover.  The dogs enjoyed their chews upon our return, I enjoyed my chicken wrap, and the Farmer gave me one of the most romantic kisses I have received for a long time.  "Bessie, move over, and pass the grease."

Loss of Supply

I spent all yesterday wondering how our ancestors managed without electricity.  Living where I do, I imagine it would have been hard work.  I had my morning shower then went to switch on the hair dryer; it was 9.30.  The hair dryer wouldn't work, nor would anything else electrical.  Reason: our jolly farmer from the farm next door, and when I say next door I mean a few miles over the fields, had managed, for the second time, to drive his plough into the electric pole which supplies the surrounding area.  I was none too happy.  Apart from the fact my hair was wet through I started worrying about the work I needed to do on the computer, i.e., the beginning of a particularly important synopsis.  When I went downstairs I remembered the food in my two freezers and two fridges, the phones of which are all mod cons connected to the mains socket, not forgetting the television.  Okay, so I could do without the television but still, it was an inconvenience.

The Farmer whisked me away to Berwick, most probably trying to take my mind off the unfortunate incident and calm me down after my rant at the neighbouring farmer who either needed his eyes testing or required a refresher course in tractor driving.  The worrying thing being that he has been driving the plough through the same field for the past three decades didn't seem to faze my Farmer.  He reminded me that we have an Aga, but I'm afraid when it comes to cooking I'm still a townie and prefer my electric oven.

So we got back from Berwick at 12.30.  The electric board still hadn't fixed the pole even though they had been told about the accident immediately.  "It should be fixed around 2pm," said the farmer, obviously fobbing me off.  At 3.30 I rang again.  "They haven't been to it yet but say it will only take fifteen minutes when they come." What a load of bollocks that was.  To cut a long story short, they arrived at 5.30pm.  It was 8.50pm when the electric came back on.  That was nearly a total of twelve hours just because our jolly farmer friend wasn't watching where he was going.  On the upside, once it began to go dark I lit some candles which meant Amy was hugely excited.  We sat at the kitchen table and played Junior Trivial Pursuit in the candle light, eating snacks and enjoying some quality time together instead of me watching Eastenders and her running up and down stairs.  And then I realised what people did in the days before electricity; they talked, laughed, spent time together.  And I lost at Trivial Pursuit.

Vlogging for England

I imagine you're thinking, "what's she done now?" but I thought it was time for a 'vlog' due to the fact that I have been graced with many new followers (and hopefully readers).  I didn't have anything prepared so if you are patient enough to click on the Play button below you will see and hear me banging on about nothing in particular.  Sometimes it's good to see the face behind the blog, and occasionally it's good to hear the voice.  It doesn't last long; though it took me a very long time to upload this video due to my lack of technical skills, not to mention the fact I had done it wrong on the first attempt.  Anyway, just click on the play button to see the person behind CJ.  I'm all yours.

Man for all Seasons

I've hardly seen the Farmer these last few days; as the weather has picked up a little he has taken the opportunity to get Bessie out of the shed and run her up and down the fields, plough attached, work to be done.  How difficult it must have been in the days before machinery, when man and beast walked together through vast expanses of crop, hoping the season didn't change too soon.  Those were the days when a farmer's wife stirred the pot and darned old socks and when farmer relaxed in a blanket covered armchair with a bottle of stout and a song in his head.  There was little paper work back then, just long, working days and the occasional dance at the local village hall.  It was another lifetime, yet to us, the modern day farmer, it seems like another world.  Thankful for the plough, for the harrow and the drill, for the rollers as they press newly sown seeds into the ground, and of course for Bessie as she faithfully roars through acres, legs having turned into wheels and a gentle whinny becoming a thirsty grate.

He wants to get the land work done before we go to Scotland in October.  There was a time last week when I thought he was going to announce we couldn't go, until I put my foot down with a very firm hand and reminded him that we need a break.  It's usually a break for him; he works so hard all year round, a few days at our favourite hotel usually does him good.  But I guess my selfish streak has set in this year as I need that break just as much as he does.  Since last November my life has been turned upside down and I made him realise that I'm not getting any younger either, even though I still see myself as a spring chicken.  Perhaps I'm moving into Summer, but like man and beast from long ago, I don't want the seasons to change too soon.

Memories of Home

I found the particulars of the house my parents used to live in before my dad passed on.  It was an emotional moment, looking at the front of the house, our beautiful family home, seeing the monkey tree take centre stage as a bow window brought elegance to a war time residence.  I loved that house.  So did the rest of my family.  A warm aura was visible around its walls as gated access pulled on heart strings.  It is the house I will always associate with my dad; watching him from the inside as he set off on a walk with the dog one Monday evening.  I never saw him again.  He blew kisses to Amy and me, his gesture of love reaching out to two of the people he loved most in the world.  Perhaps someone walked beside him, encouraging him to look in our direction one last time.

My mum must have been heartbroken when she left that house even though she knew the new phase of her life was waiting to greet her with open arms.  She stayed there for eighteen months after his passing, the gardens being too large for her to cope with and the memories being too great.  Memories of course, which moved with her to the home she decided upon, but some of which stayed within the fabric of a 1930's dream.  My dad was doing well when they moved there; it was the festive season of 1989, a time in my life that will stay etched in my mind as mum and dad threw a party to celebrate a new decade and their future in a luxury abode.  I moved out of that house twelve months later, my heart having been captured by a long time friend as we set up house together in the south east of England. 

But even when I look at that beautiful house, my heart sings as I see my dad at the window, waving to me as I drive away, a part of me wishing I would never have to leave.  And now I look around my own home, here at the farm, my own beautiful house where my heart once more sings and the drive gates beckon me to a lifetime of warm memories and everlasting love.  This house is that house; two homes for a continuation of memories recorded for the years ahead.

Counting Forever

It's when the last few grains drip through funnelled glass that temptation arises and hands cannot resist starting all over again.  It could never end, be a continuation of forever.  But there always comes a time when we realise we must move on; with life, with time.  It waits for no man; it will forever be our enemy which is why we must face it head on and confront the hurdles.  One down, turn it over, another one to go.  And in between?  Why, we can smile at the world and insist our dreams come true.  And as the last few grains disappear from the top, we can stretch out our hand and count forever in our hearts.

Created for Magpie Tales

Phone Me & Character Name

So I phoned the local education department and they were about as helpful as a chocolate tea-cosy.  "Do you have access to the Internet?" she asked.  "Yes," I replied, knowing what was coming next.  "You can find a list of special needs schools on there."  Don't they have a list in black and white anymore?  Does every damn thing have to be done on the Internet?  As much as I love my computer and the convenience it provides, sometimes, just sometimes, it's nice to talk to someone, ask a few questions, gather some information and feel like you have actually GOT SOMEWHERE!  She'd picked the wrong day to piss me off.  "I've seen the list," I snapped.  "It just tells me all the schools in Northumberland, not just the special needs ones." So then she gave me a link.  A link.  A link to what? FFS.  I ended up fannying about on the county's website, muttering under my breath how utterly useless it was and what a waste of time it had been trying to actually "talk" to someone.  I found a few schools on there eventually, and will now need to contact them for further details and prospectus, of which I could have done via the websites but I'm trying to keep phones alive; they've been here a lot longer than the Internet.

Your comments on my recent post of finding a suitable character name were overwhelming.  I mulled them over several times and the name I have chosen is "Alice Baxter". What do you think?  Does it sound catchy enough?  Both names were suggested by Elaine, Sabrina and Amylane even though I spent a lot of time deliberating many different combinations offered by many.

Which Way To Turn

Even the most contented of us are entitled to a good rant occasionally and I thought I'd have one now.  I'm getting really fed up with people's attitudes and their robot tendencies in the work place.  In our local paper this week it was reported that Northumberland County Council has spent £80k on renovating an office at its headquarters for some big-wig who obviously thinks she is above the rest of us.  Meanwhile, cuts are being made left, right and centre and the people who need support the most are missing out due to vital services being stopped, employees out of a job and less funding being given to the needs of disabilities, for example.  It's disgusting.  And I am appalled at the disgraceful way this country is now being run.

I am in such a bad mood; I feel inadequate, far too dependant, and a stupid failure unable to get on with all the things I want to be doing.  These things include going places; I want to visit different special needs schools to get a feel of the alternatives; I want to take Amy out at weekends, to the shops, the cinema, McDonalds; I want to visit my friends, go to my mum's, offer to take people out who I know can't get out themselves.  The Farmer doesn't seem to understand my frustration; his lifestyle and his upbringing find it difficult to prioritise and this, I am afraid to say, I am finding hard to deal with.  As in love as we are and as happy a couple as we could be, it doesn't hide the fact that he was prepared to let me drive Meggie to the vets last week so that he could continue bringing in bales from the fields.  I have no licence, no insurance and am at risk of seizure whilst in between medication yet this didn't seem to cross his mind.  Work first; family second.  It left me wondering if he would be more devastated should he have lost a few bales to the rain, other than losing Amy and me to a car crash.  That's how I'm feeling right now.  And I hate it.  I want to be normal again; I want to feel sensual and voluptuous instead of like a beach whale and unattractive. And very, very stupid.

I'm getting sick of being fobbed off by officials; fed up with answering machines whenever I need to speak to someone regarding special needs; pissed off at the work I'm currently doing on my book only to feel that it will come to nothing and no one will want to publish it.  I dare say there's a little hormonal symptom floating about my innards and I'm beginning to wonder whether I'm starting an early menopause.  Stranger things have happened.  We're going to Scotland in October, to our favourite hotel, the three of us, and I can't wait.  I'm also going to a spa hotel in November with my best friend and again, I can't wait.  But right now I'm scared.  Independence for me is paramount; it's who I am.  So who am I these days, I can't seem to find that happy-go-lucky-laid-back-girl who cruises through life with a smile on a spring, always available for whoever crosses my path.

This post was brought to you by a very grumpy middle aged woman.

The New Age

I wonder if people actually communicate verbally anymore; with all the technology on tap including emails and Twitter, Facebook, texts and all the other weird and wonderful ways to say "hi" without actually saying anything.  For the past eight weeks I have been going through the weaning on/off process of my new/old medication and in that time have received two forms to fill in from my doctor's surgery concerning an annual medication review.  The simple fact is that since November last year I have seen my doctor so many times I would be happy never to see him again, even though he is a nice chap and a personal friend, yet I am being asked to supply a full detailed outline of my current medication for the surgery records.  It's all a bit confusing to be honest because one would have thought my records had been updated accordingly to the change of meds.  But technology takes over and the quick and easy method of using words has simply bypassed two people in the know.

It goes without saying that I don't write letters anymore.  When I first moved to the farm, less a computer, I used to write good old fashioned letters to aunties and friends, relatives and even myself on occasion, back in the days of having no one to talk to which now of course, has been corrected in the form of blogs, Twitter and Facebook.  I would sit down and tell all, an aching hand and tired brain forcing me to close and put a stamp on the envelope.  But now I have my BlackBerry; a wonderful device that enables me to text, email, twitter and blog without even having to switch on the computer, pick up a pen or indeed open my gob.  Perhaps one day the world will be free of humans with a race of robots taking over, shifting from one commute to another as they stop for a recharge and a Starbucks.

And speaking of technology, Amy has written the most lovely story on her blog, accompanied by her own illustrations which I think are simply wonderful.  I'm extremely proud of her.  Please try to visit her blog if you can, she gets so excited when she sees your comments and it is the best encouragement to know she has, what she calls, "fans".  Many thanks xx

Beauty Within

With Meggie's unfortunate accident the other day, Amy and I decided to take the other three dogs for a "walk" into the wheat fields which have recently been baled.  This field in particular has a fabulous view of the train track and therefore the trains as they run up and down the north east coast line.  As you can see from this picture, two trains were passing each other of which made for a rather noisy atmosphere when they hooted their horns.  We waved but couldn't see if anyone waved back!

I love this picture as Amy and Bonnie look rather melancholy, perhaps thinking of Meggie and her poorly leg.

Amy was trying to stop Sparky from sliding off the bale, Sparky meanwhile, seeming to lap up the attention.  I'm not sure what Molly was licking her lips at though!

Having fun, as always

This shot sees Molly kissing Amy, Sparky having a good sniff at Molly's bottom and Bonnie, perhaps rather enviously looking on.

I have been practicing recently with the 'depth of field' button and was quite pleased with this shot of Bonnie in the foreground and Sparky behind.

And this, as you can imagine, is my favourite shot of the day.  Such a poser!

If you've made it to here, then I'd really like your help.  I'm getting through the editing of my paranormal novel and am still contemplating over characters' names.  I have chosen the main character and her opposite but I still can't decide on whether a significant character's name of Abigail Sharpe sounds okay or not.  I'm thinking about Margaret and Mavis too, and the surname, Sharpe, still isn't jumping out at me.  Bear in mind that this character would have been born in the late 30's.  If I use one of your suggestions, my promise is to send whoever assists, a signed copy of my book plus include you in the acknowledgements.  I'm being a bit optimistic I know but one has to start somewhere!

Safely on the Farm

The last couple of weeks in this house have been like Piccadilly Station, i.e. hectic.  You know me, I like the quiet, peaceful, tranquil life, I like to hide in a corner where no one can see me, where I can be me.  But events have taken turns and day after day that peace has become a path of never ending what-next, pulling me in all directions as my bed beckons before I sink into oblivion.  And yesterday was no exception.  Having only two days of school holiday left I decided that we should make the most of it in an uneventful capacity, but the inevitable happened, I say with all regret, as I still hear my baby's cries for help.  As I do everyday, I set off with four collies running excitedly in front of the quad bike, Amy strapped to the back and me, shouting as loud as my lungs would allow, trying in vain to stop my-Meggie running in front of the bike as she continuously tried to catch the turning wheels with her teeth.  When I said the inevitable happened, it could be seen as a matter of time before an accident occurred.  One I tried endlessly to avoid and one I feel totally responsible for causing.

The quad bike can't have been travelling more than 3mph because of my extreme fear of Meggie eventually catching the turning wheels.  It all happened so fast.  Just when I thought she had given up and my commands had finally been adhered to, the poor poppet turned round and darted in front of the wheels.  The engine no longer drowned out of the sound of my voice, nor did it grunt beside my ears; Meggie's cries were too loud as she had become trapped beneath the wheel and was in obvious pain.  We jumped off the bike, Amy in devastation and me feeling like I was embroiled in an-out-of-body-experience.  My baby was hurt, bad.  She was bleeding from the leg, even though was able to stand albeit on three legs.  She hobbled to the grass verge where I held her, taking a chance to inspect the wound for fear of the unknown.  "Get dad," I told Amy, unsure as to what to do, knowing the Farmer would know immediately.

He was shocked when he saw her leg and together we loaded her into the Land Rover and rushed her to the vets. Amy chatted all the way there, twenty minutes of a voice pleasantly droning, my brain unable to decipher her words.  The Farmer was silent.  I think his worry for Meggie extended to anger for me, his questions of why I need to take the dogs on the quad bike having been ignored.  My idea of giving them a "good run" seemed to have backfired on me.  The vet kept her in, injecting her with anaesthetic in order to clean the wound and discover that some of the bone had been scraped off.  The Farmer felt better on the way back; he called me "darling".  We picked Meggie up at 6pm, bandaged up and a little sleepy, her, not us.  On six tablets and a painkiller a day, plus having to take her back on Thursday, next Monday and the following Thursday, she's doing just fine.  But I won't be taking her out on the quad bike for a while, that's for sure.

My Meggie

Up In Flames

Smoke rose above the rooftops, flames fighting to intimidate.  People rushed about for all they were worth, holding urgent pales as water splashed on concrete yard.  The frantic desperation to reduce the bright orange glow became too overwhelming.  Eyes held back, broken at the scene unfolding before them.  Drudgery, slog, exertion, the toil of a year's work meaning so much to one yet so little to another; a crime at the hands of carefree vandals with a heart left behind.

You always think it won't happen to you; the unfortunate victims are far away, cursing the insurance company in a bid to reluctantly pay out.  If it isn't on our doorstep perhaps it isn't our concern.  But when it happens closer to home we tend to sit up, take note, realising we could be next..  There is no prevention if they wish to proceed, unless we keep a restless vigil.  And the question "why?" continues to hang in the air.  We read it in the news; stacks of bales having been burned to the ground, no remorse, no one found, no casualties, just the hard work of a farmer's days being destroyed in pointless act.  We felt sorry for the targeted innocence and angry at the worthless minds of a thug.  And then we saw the smoke, just a few miles from our own farm, the bales gone, a neighbour's yard drenched in water, smoke and fury.

They have nothing better to do than prey on the hard at work, unable to contain their jealousy amongst bitterness, boredom and despicable harm.  They disgust me.  They disgust us.  And if they turn my way I will be tempted to show them how much.

Is Your Child Bored?

As my life is going through an incredibly boring phase right now, I am finding I have a case of writer's block.  Or is it writers' block?  I never know.  Everytime I sit at the computer to write a blog post, amazingly, Amy needs me.  It's like that typical case of attention seeking that all children do and if that child is an only one the only person they can seek attention from is a parent, usually the one they are with most of the time.  I don't blame Amy of course, I often feel guilty for ploughing my thoughts into a computer when I should really be entertaining her.  But just before the summer holidays began, way back in July, I listened to a woman on television talking about the best ways to entertain children during their time off school and her big theory was, "they need to be bored and learn how to entertain themselves".  I'm not sure I completely agree with this sentence and I wondered if you could give me your thoughts.  Amy finds things to do by herself, she's 10 now and perfectly capable of opening up a book, writing a story, switching on her television, colouring, playing with a toy etc, but surely a younger child would need to be shown how to play.

Having never been particularly maternal I have always found entertaining Amy rather challenging, not least because of her autism and the problems that come with it.  But those problems are mine.  She's Amy.  She's the kid.  I'm the adult. Yet together we make the perfect team and even if she has been bored during the summer holidays, it's me she's been bored with.  Hmmmm.