There are many ways to start the day; ways which set you up and make you feel energised. Many people espouse a cup of hot, strong coffee, but personally I’d rather drink a cup of tar with a brake fluid chaser. My mother-in-law actually does drink tar for breakfast; she hates tea, and prefers the lengthy and complicated ritual of warming the milk, warming the cup, making the coffee, and then pouring out a disgusting, treacle-like substance which cannot be weakened by milk or sweetened by sugar. Everyone has their own morning kick-start, and yesterday, I found the perfect way of waking myself up and getting myself galvanized into action. It involved a nice, long read of the paper, two cups of tea and a slice of crunchy Aga toast and peanut butter, followed by a trip to the barn. I was searching for a spade, and as reached forward into the gloom I stepped on the head of a hoe. The wooden handle came sharply forward, and caught me on the cheekbone with a mighty crack. Now, that really woke me up. No chance of feeling bleary-eyed and sleepy when you’ve been thwacked in the face by an elderly hoe. I was awake, but with rather too much throbbing and not nearly enough pain relief.

Maybe if I was a member of the Kabbalah and had been wearing a protective red bracelet I might have avoided coming to any harm. Maybe if I’d had a glass of their ‘magic’ water instead of a cup of tea I might not have stepped on that nasty hoe. But paying for the protection of the Kabbalah didn’t do Madonna much good this week, now did it? I was sorry to hear that she’d taken such a nasty tumble from her horse, but I hope it might make her realise that you cannot buy protection from harm. Apparently, the Kabbalah teaches that there are no accidents – try telling that to Madonna’s horse. I’ll bet that that poor animal was off to the knackers yard quicker that you could say, ‘Like a Virgin, tossed for the very first time’…

Now, taking the girls to the supermarket is not usually a very noteworthy event, but yesterday, as we turned into the approach road, we came up behind a learner driver. The woman was in a new Golf, and was making slow progress up the hill. Her progress got slower still when she decided to put the car into reverse. I’ve never actually seen a car being put into reverse whilst it was still moving forwards, and I can tell you it didn’t like it very much. If gearboxes could scream, then they’d make a sound like the one I heard yesterday. The woman carried on moving forward, and then the reversing light came on again and the car screamed a second time. I expected to see little gear cogs tumbling out from underneath the car, but no matter how much the gearbox protested, the woman at the wheel just couldn’t stop trying to make it back up. I eventually had to take evasive action, and drove around the little black golf with the big, red man sitting in the passenger seat. I think the couple may have been married, but when I saw the car pulling into the supermarket car park the man was at the wheel and I think his wife was in the boot...

I’m still attempting to get the house ship-shape in preparation for the arrival of our American friends, and at the same time I’m also trying to prepare for Autumn, which means getting supplies of wood for the fire. Ilkey, the log man, dropped off a couple of loads of wood, which were waiting for me on the drive when I got back from the shops. Now, there’s nothing I like more than stacking wood, it’s the smell of it and the sound of it and the comfort I get from knowing it’s going to keep me warm all winter. I usually like to stack wood on a frosty morning, but as it was far from frosty I decided not to put on my work shirt and stayed in my t-shirt. I had to carry the wood into the barn; it was quite uncomfortable to load the split logs onto my bare arms, but after an hour or so I’d stacked all the wood and retired inside for a shower and a cold drink. When I came downstairs Alice took one look at my bruised and scratched forearms, and said, ‘Have you been in a cat-fight, Mummy?

I did look like I’d been in a heavy scrap with a razor-clawed hell-vixen, but I don’t think my village boasts too many women of that description, and certainly none who’d take me on in a hurry. Alice seemed quite disappointed when I told her it was ash and beech that had done the damage, and made me sit down and rest. I’m not having much luck at resting lately. I’ve started to notice just how much of the house needs painting, and whilst I can do most of it myself, I wish I had the money to pay a man to do it for me. Today, I was up on the flat roof, applying protective aluminium paint to the bitumen. The paint is sliver, and has the consistency of that treacly coffee of which I’m so very fond. Painting it on is not such a hard job, but I decided to do it in shorts and flip-flops, which may not have been the best protective clothing under the circumstances. I ended up with silver knees and silver toes, and I’m not sure that it was terribly clever to expose my skin to such a toxic substance. That’s the trouble with not having a knowing, protective husband around, you get careless and you do things that you know you shouldn’t. Charlie would have carried the five gallon drum upstairs for me and Charlie would have told me to put on overalls, but then Charlie wasn’t exactly a stranger to the dangers of aluminium poisoning….

He once cooked rhubarb in our pressure cooker. We had guests for lunch and when he served it up I took one mouthful and told him it tasted like sucking on a bag of nuts and bolts. He looked a little hurt, and decided to finish his bowlful, and our guests were too polite to leave theirs, so they gamely tried to eat as much as they could. When I came to wash up, I noticed that the inside of the pan was unnaturally shiny and bright, and then it dawned on me that the rhubarb had taken off the surface of the aluminium and Charlie and our guests had just ingested it. Charlie didn’t live long enough for me to gauge the effects that the aluminium would have on his mental faculties, and I can’t warn our friends because I can’t remember who they were - but by now I don’t suppose it matters much because I’m sure they can’t remember who they are either…

So I finished my jobs and came off the roof. Now, there are many great ways to end a long, hard afternoon of painting and sanding. A long, cold Pimms, prepared by Rosie is a perfect remedy to an angst-ridden inspection of rotting glazing bars, but I needed to sweep the kitchen floor before I could relax. And so I ended the day as I had begun it, by accidentally standing on the head of the broom and bringing it smartly up onto the same, bruised cheekbone that I’d thwacked earlier in the day. Just peachy.

P.s. I’ve just finished preparing the messageboard and by the time you read this it will be up on the site. I’d like to thanks Owen Wallis and Sue French for their hard work in constructing it, and I hope my readers will make full use of it and will make me proud with their incisive comments and biting wit.


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