London frogs return each year to breed in our pond
We might not have bees but we have frogs. Loads of them. These are the descendants of the London frogs that my mum raised in an aquarium in the kitchen, 14 years ago. If frogs travel away from your garden they will return in the Spring to breed. This is a humdinger of a party. The frog fest in our pond is 24/7. When we open the back door we can hear the low sonorous croaking. This is a constant bass addition to the bird song. Except the birds sleep. The jolly in our pond will continue for at least two weeks. The croaking stops when I walk down...
read moreEssex girls
The drive to Essex is a 45 minute journey and includes a 20 minute white knuckle adventure. Once we turn off Newport’s High Street onto the Debden road, the fun begins with a slim-car-width humpback bridge. We have twice met an oncoming monster. There is no question of backing down. Jalopy’s battle scars have a driver reversing in seconds. Now Jalopy toots her horn before gathering momentum to seemingly leap this obstacle. Then it’s up the hill for the first hairpin bend and several miles of tyre clenching tension. Possibly...
read moreThe Penultimate Paramour and the fur lined Wellingtons
When my elderly aunt died, I inherited her fur lined Wellington boots. They were too big for me but I thought that they might come in handy one day. They were knocking about in the barn for a year or so before I realised that they might suit John Coe, the slim light framed man who helps me in the garden. They were a perfect fit. He was delighted. The cottage was a weekend retreat for me and The Penultimate Paramour at that time. A tall, large framed man with size 12 feet. He would lie in bed as I enjoyed the crack of dawn coffee and chat with...
read moreDo you speak Parmesan?
Danny has a natural ability for languages. Spanish, Irish, Italian and a smattering of Latin. He learnt Italian on CDs when he was commuting weekly to Exeter for a year. I find that keeping au fait with the English language is pretty stretching. In France I can get by if my aunt and her famous pen are to hand. Otherwise I’m mute. I’ve spotted that the French are extremely polite to each other, so when I’m forced into a shop by D, who unfortunately is still saving up for the “Bonjour France” CDs, I am marvellous...
read moreWhat’s your brain called?
Each weekend we indulge ourselves with newspapers delivered to our door. Two fat ones on Saturday and a comic on Sunday. Danny bustled off to the loo with his free gift, “How to train your brain in 7 days.” Whilst I exercised my grey matter by looking up our chances in my free gift, “Book of names. How your name determines your fate.” It’ll be a week before we know the efficacy of D’s brain programme. I’m going to let him beta test the programme whilst I concentrate on being more like the Fiona in my...
read moreThe dangers of damask
When my grandmother died we moved into her creepy house. It was a large place with little turrets and an extensive garden. On the first night I drew the curtains in my bedroom and they disintegrated in my hands. ˜Never mind,’ said my mum with uncharacteristic brightness, ˜they are such good quality that the lining will keep out the light.’ She was right. When I switched out the light the room was plunged into the deepest darkest velvety black. I was seventeen at the time. The room was fit for a fairytale princess, a hundred years...
read moreCarnage
I woke this morning to a dead fly in my mouth. I had opened an eye, clocked a fresh gently steaming cup of tea and swigged. The hot tea had killed the fly but it hadn’t lost its crunchiness. I leapt from the bed in horror but where was I going to spit this noxious intruder? Danny was sympathetic when I bustled out of the bathroom with clean teeth and virtually anesthetised palette (someone once told me that toothpaste is great for cleaning the manky areas of a fridge). He volunteered a fresh cup of tea complete with a handy fly screen...
read moreThe Witch at the bottom of our garden
We moved to Cambridge when I was two years old. Initially to Hertford Street and later to Chesterton Road. The latter house had a much bigger garden with apple trees to climb and a camp behind a blackberry bush, just enough room for two to crawl in and sit close together. We spent a lot of time playing by the compost heap. This was the furthest point from the house and well out of my mother’s earshot. It was also the perfect spot for observing The Witch. The Witch lived in rather a grand house around the corner. Her garden backed on to...
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