Lambwatch

Last night in the lambing shed, I did a little video for you. It's 2 minutes long and shows the wonderful bonding between ewe and lamb. Enjoy!

She Proved Me Wrong

Book sales have been going well and I am very proud that people have started buying and downloading Discovery at Rosehill. Available on Kindle, Smashwords and in Paperback, I have decided to donate any profit made from sales during April to the National Autistic Society. Of course I want you to read the book and of course I want you to buy it; there would have been little point in me spending the last three years working on it if I'd have chosen to pop it in a drawer and forget about it. But the reason why I'm making this donation is because I feel too little is being done to raise awareness; to make people sit up and understand the impact autism has on families. If it doesn't affect you, the general attitude seems to be, what's the point in worrying about it? I have some invaluable support on various social networking sites of which I am hugely grateful for, but it still seems to be the case that ignorance is a far better option than getting involved and learning. It's a complex issue; it's something some people find very difficult to talk about. But what I'm constantly trying to get across, in the most respectful way I know, is that autism can happen to anyone. Absolutely anyone. And that's why we should be more aware. I am certainly not ashamed to have an autistic daughter.

You see, before Amy was diagnosed, I knew nothing about autism. I'd heard the word mentioned but because I thought it didn't affect me or my family, I had no reason to learn what it meant. I learned the hard way. I discovered that autism is very real and I had no choice but to accept that I would spend the rest of my life, from October 2003, learning what being autistic actually entailed. If Amy hadn't been diagnosed with autism, perhaps I would have sailed through life, not knowing and not needing to know the complexities this condition brings. Perhaps Amy wouldn't have had a pacifier until she was five; perhaps she wouldn't have worn pull-ups until she was eight; perhaps she would have said more than "oh dear" before she was four. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But reality reared its head, bit me on the bum and made me aware. And do you know what? I'm bloody glad it did, because I feel so much richer for knowing about the existence of a condition so complicated that even "experts" can't fathom out. Support, understanding and awareness is desperately needed if we are to fully appreciate that autism can affect anyone. And my daughter is living proof that it can.

Thanks for reading

That's Life

On Saturday evening, we welcomed two new additions to Jigsaw Farm. Twin lambs, both girls are doing fine, and mum, somewhat wary of our fascination towards her offspring, is on her guard. Ewes stamp their feet when a human gets too close, the obvious fear that her babies will be taken from her. As a ewe only has two teats, it means that if triplets are born, one sometimes ends up weaker. We usually keep the triplets in the garden for a few weeks, until we're sure they're strong enough to go into the field and drink in equal measures from their mum. Occasionally, we take a triplet lamb away and put it onto another ewe, either one which has a single, or one that has experienced a still birth. It isn't an easy process and takes a lot of patience, but eventually, the majority of adopted lambs are accepted. If a ewe however, doesn't accept a lamb and shows no signs of accepting it even after several days, we remove it and treat it as a pet lamb.  But this is an expense to a farmer; buying powdered milk isn't cheap and the feeding in itself is extremely time-consuming. Cute maybe, but an inconvenience to a busy shepherd. Here are some photos I took on Sunday afternoon in what can only be classed as "perfect lambing weather".

One of the many maternity wards

Molly keeping hold of the ball, whilst Sparky waits patiently

I love this one of Molly

Always the star of the show

Political Correctness Rubbish

I was in shock the other night. There was talk of Bingo on the television; "Kelly's Eye (1), Two Little Ducks (22), Top of the Shop (90), Any way up (69)", you know what I mean, right? Well, someone said "Two Fat Ladies." And she was corrected. Apparently, you aren't allowed to say "two fat ladies" anymore, which also translates to the number 88. Perhaps someone will enlighten me; do we now have to say "two large ladies", "two obese women", "a couple of fat buggers", what? Has the world gone mad? Or has society gone mad? Perhaps both. It's the same with so many terms we once used of which I will not use on this blog for the sake of respect, but come on, is the whole idea of political correctness getting out of hand, or are do-gooders taking over the planet Earth? I fear it's the latter, and not for the better.

Does it matter if we're black, white or purple? Does it matter if we're gay, straight or able to hold the bat in both hands? Ooops, should I have said that? I like to be respectful of people's feelings, but it's getting to a point where we're not allowed to say something without it being politically incorrect. We're all walking on eggshells for fear of upsetting the apple cart. Aren't we all the same under the clothes we wear, give or take a body-part or two? As far as I'm concerned, two fat ladies is a term used in the game of Bingo. Do they still use the term, "legs eleven"? Or is it now known as "Cheryl Cole eleven", "Katie Price eleven", "Kathryn Brown eleven"? Okay, so that last one was a bit far-fetched. So what other sayings can you think of that we are no longer allowed to use (please be careful what you say, I don't want the politically correct-police stalking my blog!!).

p.s. Please be aware that today is Purple Day to raise awareness for Epilepsy. As I am still unable to drive because of my own diagnosis of Photo-sensitive Epilepsy, this is a subject very close to my heart. Your support would be greatly appreciated; a Tweet or a few words on your Facebook page is all it needs to make people realise that this condition is seriously affecting the lives of many ordinary people.

No Future Without A Past

In an ideal world there would be peace; a life of contentment and complete satisfaction. There would be no bitterness, no grudges, no problem. We would all get on with each other, never have a crossed word, always have a smile and a cheerful greeting. But no one lives in an ideal world, no matter how much they'd like to think they do. I knew someone once who told me she and her husband "never" argued. I didn't believe that for a minute; he was particularly arrogant and she idolised him so I guessed she was stretching the truth somewhat. I've never been one to argue; confrontation to me is pointless and usually results in falling out, holding a grudge or finding yourself on the slippery slope of bitterness. Not a nice place to be. I don't have many personal friends; most of my friendships are online and many are with people I'll never meet in person. But I do hold all my friends in high regard and value each one.

Holding a grudge is like pressing the pause button on ones life. When I got divorced back in 1996, it wasn't because we fell out, it wasn't even because we didn't love each other anymore. We simply drifted apart even though I still loved him and cared a great deal about him. I went to live on my own, started a new life. But I missed our friendship. He moved on faster than I did, if I'm honest, and I blamed myself for that. Neither of us did anything wrong to trigger a break up. But what is so comforting about that part of my life is the respect I still have not only for him, but for his wife, one of the loveliest people you could ever wish to meet. I find it invigorating that she feels comfortable talking to me, and vice versa. She talks about him, knowing of our past, but knowing that if we don't move on with our lives, then what hope is there for our futures. 

Where Does The Sperm Go?

She didn't actually use the word "sperm", she called them "tadpoles". Is this something they're teaching them in school, I wondered. Surely, the teacher who lectures about sex education doesn't refer to that sticky mess as "tadpoles".

"You know when the tadpoles are having a race to be first?" asked my eleven year old daughter. Be careful how you answer, I thought. "Where do the other ones go?"

"They die," I replied.

"Awww, that's not fair. I feel sorry for them."

"It only takes one sperrrrr, errr tadpole to fertilize an egg." I felt it better to explain in her language.

"So why don't the others just go back to where they were? Why do they have to die?"

It was early morning. I had no inclination to run through the whys and wherefores of the reproductive system. She's too young for all this; she's still my baby. I'm not ready to have her learn about sex and tadpoles, where things go and where they don't. I mopped up the tea I had spat over the table and pointed to her plate. "Eat your tadpoles?" I said.

She stared at me. "Breakfast," I quickly added, "breakfast, eat your breakfast." Now my head's swimming with the thought of tadpoles.

Kids of the Worrying Variety

They really don't understand do they? They have no idea that when parents say, "don't go past the drive gate," what they actually mean is, "don't go past the drive gate." I make allowances for Amy because of her autism, but she's old enough now to realise that my pleas of keeping to boundaries are made for a reason. She felt the wrath of my tongue the other evening when she decided to wander off to the farm yard with two dogs in tow, the one place I'd told her not to go. The reason I told her not to go down there, especially with the dogs, was because the Farmer was unloading a huge wagon and it was a dangerous place to be for an eleven year old with no road sense and two daft collies. I spent fifteen minutes walking round the farm, wandering round the garden, front, back and side. "Amyyyyyyy!" I shouted continuously, until my throat hurt and my heart seemed to be beating outside my chest. No answer. All I could hear was the engine of the off-loader which the Farmer was driving.

I went down to the farm yard. I shouted again and still no answer. The Farmer switched off the engine and I asked him if he'd seen her. "No?" he questioned, as though asking me why I'd lost her in the first place. I shook my head at him, part of me knowing he worried as much as me. As I walked away he started the engine again so I guessed he wasn't that worried. Back to the house I went, starting to get a little frantic. Thoughts raced through my mind; she could be locked in a shed, she could have fallen somewhere, she could have been taken. Oh God, I thought, why isn't she answering me? I was quite sure she couldn't have been taken because our farm road is half a mile long and we can spot cars coming along it from the house. I went to the hen house, she often goes in there to collect the eggs but surely she would have heard me shout. As I neared the gate, I shouted again. "Amyyyyyyy!" And just as I was about to open the gate I heard a voice from a distance shout, "What?" The relief overwhelmed me. I didn't know whether I wanted to hug her or give her a good hiding. I hugged her. Then I let rip; "Where have you been? Why didn't you answer me? Didn't you hear me? I told you not to go past the drive gate." She stood there, totally flummoxed at my behaviour. "Is tea ready?" she asked. I gave her another hug and she cried. I think it dawned on her what she'd done.

By The way, my book is now available on Kindle, too. Click on "Buy My Book" above for details. Thanks xx

A Shambles of a Night Out

We went out for a meal on Saturday night to celebrate the launch of Discovery at Rosehill, my new novel. The local pub we usually frequent has been closed for a couple of months whilst being renovated so we decided to go to another pub about ten miles away. It's a large place, lots of tables, always busy. The food has always been good but there isn't the atmosphere that we enjoy at our local. However, off we went, dressed up smart/casual and looking forward to a good feed. We walked in and noticed the rugby on the big screen; it's situated away from the eating area so I have no qualms with that. Through the bar area we walked, looking at the menu board before finding a table quite far away from the noise. Or so we thought. There were two families sitting at separate tables; one had three children, all under age 6, and the other family had 2 little boys of about 2 and 4. A nice family atmosphere, we thought, smiles all round. That was until one of the dads jumped out of his seat like a rocket up a drain pipe, threw his hands in the air and shouted, "YESSS, I won!" The three little girls screamed while mum sat by and grinned from ear to ear. Dad sat down again. But rather than talking to his family, he shouted at them, not aggressively, but loudly, you know, as if they were all deaf. Either that or he simply wanted every one in the pub to know what a knob head he was.

Then the other family started. Two little boys having finished their main course, mummy telling the eldest he had to eat his last chip before he could have ice cream while the youngest boy whinged and slid around the sofa, fed up, tired and desperate to get out. But there was to be none of that; eldest had to eat that last chip, oh yes. And didn't we all know it. By now I was getting a little fed up of being included in someone else's family eating issues. Amy had spotted a music channel on the television in the pool room and asked if she could go and watch before our food arrived. I agreed and off she went, happy and feeling very grown up. Within a minute of her going in that room, which is situated near enough for me to see her, the three little girls followed, including the youngest that can't have been more than 18 months old. Amy thought it was wonderful that she had an audience of course, but bear in mind pool cues are rather long and children under 6 aren't. The first thing they did was pick up a cue. Mum and dad remained at their table, making eyes at each other probably expecting my 11 year old to babysit. When all of a sudden, an almighty clash sounded and I ran in to see. Mum and dad remained at their table, glancing at me as I walked past. I told Amy to come back to our table as I could see that one of the little girls was crying. Eventually, after we left the pool room, dad reluctantly got up and rescued the crying child, told her off for dropping the cue and making a noise. What a complete arse-head. Some people should really look in the mirror and ask themselves why their children make so much noise.

The family with two boys finally finished the last chip and got their ice cream. But by this time the youngest was in a complete state, knackered from a long day in the fresh air and probably needing a bath and bedtime story. Our food arrived. I had duck breast in what was advertised as "cherry sauce" but believe me, there was definitely brandy in that too. As some of you know, I am tee-total because of my epilepsy. So sauce with brandy in it wasn't a good idea. It was very nice but rather strong. The chips were minimal. No, I take that back, they were awful. A small dish of salad came too which again was rubbish. Amy's chicken nuggets were tasty, she said, but there was no where near enough food on her plate. The Farmer and I were very disappointed with the quality and amount of food and together with the noise and shoddy-canteen style of eaterie, we have decided not to go back.

A Very Proud Day

I'm just so incredibly proud to make this announcement today; my book is now available to buy and I am ecstatic! I never thought this day would come. It's taken nearly three years from typing Chapter One to having it published. In between that time, I have of course had a family to look after, a farm to maintain, and I spent six months out of action due to having epileptic seizures. But it's here, it's in print and it's available. When I got the copy to approve, I held it in my hands and just stared at it, not really knowing what to do with it. I carefully opened it up and checked the formatting, which I've had done by a professional known as Andrew Brenton. But I guess it's one of those surreal moments when a person doesn't really know if this is happening; a few minutes of pure "me-time" when I reflected on the past three years and the hoops I've jumped through in order to achieve this ambition.

I've dedicated the book to my dad. He would have been immensely proud of me and I am sure he will be smiling now as he watches me in this overwhelmingly proud state of mind. I've never been one to blow my own trumpet, I'm useless at selling myself (yes, stop laughing at the back), but I know I'm going to have to if I want to sell my work. I've set up a page on this blog called "Buy My Book". You can go there and buy a signed copy either through PayPal or by cheque. If you prefer, you can buy at Lulu, I know a lot don't use PayPal. Obviously, if you buy through Lulu, the copy you receive won't be signed. I doubt I'll ever be the next Catherine Cookson, but I'm so thrilled to be here telling you this news and I know some of you will appreciate a signed copy more. You may want to read "The Blurb" which you can find by clicking on the box above "Discovery at Rosehill - The Blurb". That is the descriptive text that is supposed to entice you into buying the book, normally found on the back cover.

I've mentioned you all in the acknowledgements; not by name of course, but as my blogging friends as a whole. Your support and encouragement has been amazing and I thank you for sticking with me and continuing to read my blog.

Is Blog Hopping Becoming A Trend?

Recently, I've been joining in several blog hops and have made some new blogging friends. Not all the blogs listed on the blog hops are my cup of tea, but many of them are and I've been happy to read and digest a little about the author's life. This week I have been named as a featured blogger in a blog hop known as Keepin' Company Thursday. If you're not sure what a blog hop is, have a look at my Blog Hops page above.


However, there are some pitfalls with blog hops and they're now starting to irritate me. For me, blogging is about writing, sharing the corner of your world with people you'll probably never meet; finding friendship and support; gaining a little street-cred and getting yourself known as a keen blogger. But I'm beginning to notice that more and more blog hops are listing their own rules and dictating exactly how you should join in. I always thought the idea was to have a good time, but it seems a lot of them are now being turned into nothing less than a chore. It is common etiquette when blogging to visit someones blog who has had the courtesy to visit yours and if you like that blog you may want to follow it in order to keep in touch with updates. But when it becomes part of the rules to follow not only the blog you find interesting but at least five other blogs on the list as well, one finds one doesn't have enough time to read blogs by loyal bloggers.

I find it quite uncomfortable and a little awkward when, in order to add your blog link in a blog hop, you are "instructed" to follow several rules which are time-consuming and often unnecessary, and if you don't follow those rules to the letter, your blog link will be deleted. It won't put me off joining certain hops because some of them I enjoy, especially the one I have been featured in today. But maybe, if you're hosting a blog hop, think about what you want to gain from it. If you're just out to attract new followers and increase your numbers, maybe your blog hop should be solely about that. If you're like me and actually want people to read your blog, perhaps it would be a good idea to make that one of the rules; leaving a comment, just a few words or so to acknowledge what the post was about. There's far too much competition in blogging as is it. We're all out to write the best blog and if you're like me, you don't mind a bit of healthy and entertaining competitiveness. But let's take blogging back to how it was; a friendly social network, open to everyone, encouraging, supportive and loyal. I say "don't mock blog hops until you've tried them, but do be aware of the rules and etiquette."

Almost A Crisis

I don't know how it happened but Amy got knocked on her head by a rather heavy ornament. She said it fell off the shelf but I can't see how. Unfortunately, it made her head bleed even though the wound was very minimal. It looked so much worse than it was and after cleaning her up and putting some Savlon on it, she went back to shouting at the telly and singing along to the iPad. I was naturally worried and told the Farmer we needed to get to hospital, but he sensibly calmed me down, examined the cut and concluded it was quite superficial. The bleeding stopped within a minute or so even though Amy said it was stinging, but she didn't feel sick or have a headache so I gathered the Farmer was right. I panic at the sight of blood and as such have passed my lack of coping at the sight of it, onto Amy.

She was giggling away soon after, eating a Lindt Bunny and enjoying Sponge Bob. She's absolutely fine, though it might be a bit painful when she's brushing her hair. We do worry about our children. All the usual visions went through my head; stitches, hospital beds, head injury, it was an awful half hour and I couldn't eat my supper for thinking about it. It really got to me when she asked, "mum, I won't be epileptic now, will I?" It just proved that she worries about me, too. Something else I've passed onto her.

Dreams Are Made Of This

I recently had the best dream. 

It featured my favourite actor, Martin Shaw. (Professionals, Judge John Deed, Inspector George Gently, Apparitions).

One of the characters in my book was written with him in mind. I think many authors do this so I pride myself on not being that different.

In the dream I played Camilla, my main character. Martin Shaw played the supporting role. I lay with him in my bed. Close. Very close. Too close. I'm a respectable married woman, for heaven's sake. 

But boy, it was a bloody good dream. Roll on tonight.

(Courtesy of Google Images)

Give Women Confidence, Not A Complex

I was chatting to someone recently who reminded me of something my health visitor asked me only days after Amy was born. "Have you been feeling suicidal, depressed, tempted to harm the baby?" It was a question I was deeply unprepared for and my answer made the health visitor look at me as though I was hiding something. The lady I spoke to the other day told me how upset she had been when her own health visitor asked her more or less the same question a week after her baby was born. New mums go through a period of feeling flat after the birth, all the excitement of having a baby drowning in nappies, milk and crying. New mums get little sleep, tiredness overwhelms their state of mind and the feeling of exhaustion envelopes their body. It's inevitable that stress, nerves and a lot of self-doubt will surface, making a new mum vulnerable to awkward questions.

I spent the first few weeks after Amy was born in complete hormonal meltdown. Maternal instincts didn't kick in straight away but I was far from being depressed or suicidal. And as for harming my beautiful baby, that couldn't have been furthest from my mind if I tried. My friend said she felt like a failure when asked the question by her health visitor. She hadn't felt that way ever; being a successful career woman and having spent her pregnancy completely overjoyed at the prospect of being known as "mummy", she couldn't wait to say hello to her new born. That's why I felt I should write about this. I imagine it's a standard question of the never ending questionnaire for new mums, but I also think new mums should be treated with more respect, not made to question whether their confidence and ability is in jeopardy.

Doing It Doggie Style

I think Meggie might be gay. It's very unusual for a canine to have a sexual preference I would have thought, but I caught her trying to hump Sparky the other day. After coming round from shock, I commanded her to get off and retreat to her basket, where she solemnly sat, albeit with a slightly satisfied expression. It's quite typical that this should happen to us. Having four bitches in the house, well three that haven't been "done", I guess we can only expect some odd behaviour. Molly, the older of the four, was presented to the vet when she was under a year old, not at all happy at the prospect of having to wear a lamp shade. But as some of you know, Sparky had six puppies in June 2009, two of which are Meggie and Bonnie, which is, when you think about it, even more worrying.

I love those dogs immensely. They're the apple of all our eyes and have overwhelmed our hearts. I've always been a dog lover and it's always been my dream to have a house full of dogs. We'd already decided to keep Bonnie; the plan was to have another working dog, but I fell in love with Meggie from the moment she was born. There was something about her that captured every tingle in my body. Perhaps all the cuddling I give her has contributed to this alternative way of a canine existence.

I shall just quickly mention my other blog, Marvellous Mable, which is always open for your paranormal experiences. Do take a look; it's very interesting to hear about people's scary moments.

A little extract from Marvellous Mable:
In the late 1960’s my then partner and I had gone over to see some friends who lived in the next town. Later that evening we all decided to get out the Ouija board and have some fun communicating with “the other side”. The first question was, “Have you got a message for anyone?” To read on, click HERE.

Social Network Tickle Tackle

Here we go again, I thought. A genuine-looking link appeared on Twitter and I stupidly went and clicked on it. I'm getting really fed up with tossers who use these social networking sites for their own sick and twisted enjoyment. They ought to get off their arse and either find a job or go and volunteer to clean public toilets. They really are the scum of the earth and the bane of public online socialising. Don't they realise what damage they're doing to our modern way of life? Every time they send spam or encourage gullible people like me to click on dodgy links, they are giving the people who have no interest and don't agree with social networking a reason to say "I told you so." I know quite a few people who think social networking is a waste of time and for people who have nothing else to do. As you and I know, this is most definitely not the case. The popularity of Twitter and Facebook alone tells you how immense social networking has become.

But what is the point in spam? What is the point in directing some innocent Internet user to a virus-linked website where robots can hack into your account and make your life nothing short of a misery? I had a virus on my computer once and it took five days to sort it out and cost me £200. There are some very nasty and evil individuals in this world of ours, and I am sick and tired of them preying on gullible people who are just out to enjoy a daily chat. It's about time Twitter banned all spammers, period. I am constantly blocking them, reporting them and shaking my head at them, but of course they don't care. So long as they have done what they set out to do that morning when they woke up, they will be laughing all the way to the bank. Your details are at risk to these bastards. And even if Twitter, Facebook, Blogger and various other sites are financially free to use, surely we shouldn't have to put up with this crap?

Love in Spades

Sometimes we just have to make our other halves feel needed. Not just loved and appreciated, but really needed, like we couldn't manage without them, even though we know we could. Maybe we'd be lonely, maybe we'd struggle, but the morning would still dawn and night would still blacken the sky. The Farmer makes me feel special every day whenever he looks at me. The twinkle in his eyes speaks volumes as he sees into my soul and is able to pick out my thoughts. We're not an affectionate couple and we're certainly not romantic, but it really doesn't matter. He's there for me and I'm there for him, and while we share our lives together, we will continue to make each other feel special.

I'm all for equality in a relationship though I wouldn't consider myself a feminist. I prefer the Farmer to treat me with respect and remember that I'm just as capable as any man, maybe not physically, but in every other way. He sees me struggling with a heavy bag and offers to take it from me; he sees me reaching for an item on a high shelf and offers to get it for me; he prefers to do the outside chores himself when it's horrendous weather, snow, ice or excessive rain. The little things in life mean so much, they're what makes a relationship work. There are times when I ask him to open a jar or unscrew a bottle top, such a small gesture makes him feel really needed in my life. And rather than argue over what roles we play as husband and wife, I even let him shovel up dog poo when the collies couldn't wait. I figured he'd enjoy me not wishing to get my hands dirty. I love him, he's such a good sport.

Little Rest also brings Rewards

In a few weeks we start lambing. It's one of the busiest times of year and even though incredibly hard work, it's always particularly rewarding. A minimum of three weeks work, 24 hours a day. We always end up tired and grumpy but every year we look back on those few weeks and only remember the good times. We could dwell on twin lambs being orphaned at birth, or still born lambs. We could even dwell on the weather which for the past few years has delivered us blizzard conditions, heavy rain, mud slides around the farm yard. But there's nothing we can do about the weather, nor is there anything we can do about death. It's all part of being a farmer. The lambs are well cared for; any orphans (or pet lambs) are kept warm and are fed several times a day on Lamlac, a powdered milk, similar to that we give babies. But it's the mother's colostrum that really makes a difference to the lamb's survival, which is why we prefer not to have pet lambs. All cute, all cuddly, all very sweet, but expensive, time consuming and very often don't make it beyond a few weeks. Here are some pictures of last years pet lambs. We had seven at one stage, but were left with only two after a couple of months. Those two are still in the fields, now fully grown, and will be breeding ewes next year.

Support the Blog Comments

A friend of mine whom I've got to know since starting this blog, has recently been at the receiving end of unwelcome comments. Of course, on our blogs we have the option to refuse to publish anonymous comments and some blogs have a word verification. I've tried all these myself but find it much more blog-friendly to just allow comments as and when they are posted by the reader. Just like most other people, I get the occasional unwelcome comments but I just delete them. I've experienced bitterness of course, but 99% of the time I receive support and encouragement. Comments are an important part of writing a blog in my opinion; they give the author feedback, they acknowledge a post; they offer support and understanding in difficult circumstances. I am grateful for each and every one of the comments left on this blog. I value all of them.

But my friend recently told me about two separate people who have been leaving distasteful and offensive remarks in her blog comments section. Most people who do this usually call themselves "Anonymous", but these comments were from actual people of whom you could link back to their site. When my friend confronted them on their own blog, they denied all knowledge of the hurtful things they had said. I'm not sure what I find most pathetic; hurting someones feelings, or lying. Both incredibly rude, both immensely unnecessary. Why do people waste their time leaving offensive comments? Can't someone be opinionated and disagreeable without causing irritation and resentment? Is it really necessary for someone to visit a blog they clearly don't enjoy, only to leave the author a derogatory remark? Most of the blogs I visit are filled with supportive readership, polite conversation, friendship and a united front. I fear my friend has touched a nerve somewhere; perhaps stirred an emotion once buried. Bitterness and spite get us nowhere in life.

Life in the Old Walls

This big old house is once more being put to the test as we have now started work on a new bathroom. Slowly but surely, I've been going through the place, renovating rooms and bringing back to life the ancient walls that once embraced a Georgian atmosphere. I can again feel heads shaking as they disagree with my plans. Modern clashed with old, it rarely works. Yet in our new world of heated towel rails and power showers, the voices are there, standing back as they whisper their disapproval, watching on as ancient beds are torn away. It's a big room, 13ft by 13ft, the Farmer's bedroom when he was a young boy. But forty years ago, the original bathroom was riddled with damp as it sat above the pantry on the end of the house. Builders removed its three outside walls then moved the main bathroom into the room next door, meaning the Farmer had to move, too.

I luxuriated in the extraordinarily long bath before the plumber arrived the next morning; I soaked up the ambience of forty years use; imagined the cast iron once new only to be discarded when the new lady of the house took over occupancy. We should be able to use the bath outside in the garden. I shall put plants in it, in memory of the people who once massaged themselves in hot water and foam.