Making the Most of What we have Got

As with a lot of situations in life, the closer we get to becoming three instead of two, the more we seem to be crying to cram into our precious free time.

We were down in Essex this weekend which gave Keith the perfect opportunity to indulge in a spot of night fishing with Bill.

I use the term 'spot' advisedly, because in reality what the boys indulged in was 6 hours of worm drowning which as you can see was met with some success (I'm told the tally was 3 species).

The intended victims for this trip were whiting, which I'm reliably informed have just come into season and which are a nice sustainable source of fishy goodness.

The boys did a wonderful job coming home with some decent sized specimens which were duly breaded and fried the next day for lunch, with some chips. They were deeeeeelicious, just don't let on to the menfolk, otherwise I'll never hear the end of it.

Today was a horse of an entirely different colour because today, we went to a photo shoot for one of the most amazing buses Retro Custom have built – P1G Bus – so called because of the company who own it, not because it's a hideous swamp donkey of a bus or anything.

Better still, it gave us the chance of meeting up with the lovely Bryn who recently sold us the Mighty Benz (Pt 2) and who is always wonderful company.

He fell victim to the delights of the P1G Bus in all its glorious detail and spent many, MANY hours snapping it from every angle and in every detail. I can totally understand why, this bus stole 2 weeks of the boys' lives as well as many nights of earache for the rest of us having to hear about how the build was going and not without reason, it is an absolute work of art.

It was the first time I'd been to one of these shoots and it was fun, especially from my vantage point on one of the special pod seats in the corner. I'm not entirely sure that a round seat is a good look for me at the moment, but hell, comfort beats vanity right now, hands down!

Stotfold Steam Fair 2009

I'm sitting here with my shoulders glowing from slightly too much sun and I thought that while FTC is still in the lull before all hell breaks loose next month (bathrooms and new flooring a go-go!!) I would muse a little on the wonderful weekend just gone.

I don't normally get a chance to spend a whole weekend doing very little, so when i was offered the chance I grabbed it with both hands.

On Saturday, I went shopping with the sister-in-law Dawn. It was supposed to be a concerted scouting of the charity shops of Chelmsford for essential small person items. What it became was a concerted scouting for unusual household items, of which there were many. I am especially proud of my 1960s bunny egg cup holder. We then spent the rest of the afternoon having an extremely long lunch and putting the world to rights and it suddenly occurred to me that I really miss doing that. Not that anyone has ever prevented me from doing it, but it just seems to be one of those things that gets overlooked in the mad rush to Get Things Done.

Sunday, by comparison, was positively active and involved wandering aimlessly around several very large fields. It was the weekend of the Stotfold Mill Steam Fair, and for the second year, we were there for a day which is so British, it could have been organised by Disney .

There's a Wall of Death, which quite frankly is one of the most exciting things I have ever seen, there are cream teas, and pork rolls, and steam engines, and Victorian fairground rides, and little children from the local schools doing country dancing. There was even a crafts marquee, which is a sight no self respecting country fair should be without.

Numbers were slightly depleted this year following an attack of the pox at the Ferguson household, but Mr Baker made the trip and we convoyed over in what we realised (while scoffing scones and earl grey at tea time) was a pair of great British marques, an MG and a BSA. How very appropriate.

And to top it all off, the subject of my then delight and now consternation was the weather. Those frauds at the Met Office got it wrong again and we were blessed with gloriously hot sun all day.

So what is the point of this post? Well nothing much really, other than to share an amazing weekend. Call it my attempt to remind anyone feeling a little jaded that there are still some simple pleasure to be had from this country.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow

I’m sure anyone with a pulse has noticed that there has been a reasonable covering of snow about this last week. I wasn’t going to blog about it because snow is one of those phenomenon guaranteed to make the press, and most of the public incandescent with tales of their own self importance, and I for one am just not interested in playing that game.

The press has been full of stories of people “battling” their way to work (one man taking 8 hours to hitch his way from Kent to London) and these people are lauded as heroes. Why? What does your average desk jockey contribute to society that means they cannot stay at home for a few days rather than put the already stretched emergency and recovery services under more strain when they inevitably have to drag these people’s sorry backsides out of a ditch? People bringing their kids to work (for shame!!) and insisting that they have to make their meetings (right because otherwise civilisation as we know it would cease to exist, yeah?).

Personally, we have taken a contrary view, and judging by the number of other snowmen in the locality, so have plenty of other people: when the snow comes and the roads look like they’re going to rip you a new one do yourself and everyone else a favour and take the opportunity to rediscover your inner child.

January - Who's stupid idea was that then?

January really is a rotten month, with the dark and the gloom and the cold and the unremitting bad news. It feels to me like swimming through treacle and everything seems like more hassle than it is worth.

You’ll be in no way surprised to learn that progress has been conducted at a leisurely pace this month.

I took a spade to the garden in a bid to prepare the ground for a frenzied attack of “planning” from the male half of the partnership, and then I planted sticks. I was proud.

Only joking, I have in fact planted broad beans – they just look like sticks.

I also fixed the fence after the recent high winds. It was long overdue really but still slightly depressing to see the garden take a step back. Not to be deterred though, I went round to the Social Club side (which is on higher ground) armed with a pair of garden canes and some cable ties to splint the trellis back into place. Luckily for me, two fine examples of Arlesey localdom were stood outside at the time smoking and contemplating life. Better still, they were in the mood to “chat” ... by which I mean they insisted on walking up and down the length of the wall identifying each of my plants to me (Yes I know what they are, I planted them!!) and then commenting on the fact that the fence was, in fact, broken (do you think???) and needed something to tie it up (thanks, because quite clearly I was standing here trying to play the bagpipes). I found myself thanking the good lord for his bountiful gift of cable ties and the speed with which they allowed me to make my escape.

Inside the house, I decided to attack an unsuspecting hallway wall in the hope that I might have a quick and easy morale boost.

Foolish, foolish child.

When we moved in, the textured wallpaper in the hallway looked for all the world like it was put up by the first owners of the house. I had visions of blushing maidens being heaved over the threshold in full skirts and excitedly furnishing her new house (before a few decades of domestic drudgery and child bearing took over) and that the paper had been part of that first flush of domestic bliss.

Well, it might have been I suppose, but only if the house were previously owned by the “El Gringo” family because, when I had stripped the paper, I was faced with an English approximation to Mexican Cantina. Seriously people, it’s Room 101 time here. Who under the big blue sky goes into a DIY shop and says “I know darling, we’ll use sponges and bits of cut out plastic and make our house look like a mud hut in Tijuana”. Does that come shortly before or after you’ve discovered the racy new dish called chicken faj-eye-tas?

On the plus side, at least there was no mould (a first at FTC) and the plaster stayed in place – apart from the corner that Harry had decided to use as a chew toy of course.

Next on the hit list is the plate rack – abandon hope all ye who enter here!!!

We W'issssh you a Merry Christmas ...

Why is it that Christmas always seems to become an endurance test? Midnight mass, feeding the 5,000, gifts, chickens, work parties, the inevitable bout of sniffles.

First prize to those eagled eyed people who picked out the word chicken from that list, it wasn’t a typo, Christmas this year really did involve Operation Cluck. It came about during the day I last reported on here, when me and the senior Mrs B spent a Saturday idly shopping and lunching in those halcyon days before Christmas preparations reach fever pitch. A throwaway comment about Adrian liking chickens (in an entirely appropriate way, of course) and we were soon hatching (arf, arf) a plan to surprise him with a brood of his very own.


A house was sourced from eBay and collected by some friends of the family to stash away from prying eyes. Chickens were liberated from a battery farm via Jamie at the farm and, most importantly, a scheme to sneak said chucks into the garden.


Boxing Day, a quick call to say the coast was clear, and I loaded up the car with all our necessaries, two dogs and three chickens.


Let us speak no further of the journey, suffice to say everyone arrived at chateau Batsford alive. Just.


Thinking the worst was over, I happily tucked into a much needed cuppa and released the chickens into the garden to roam. Unfortunately, there’s no fence along the back of the garden. There is however an extremely spiky hedgerow which I had to leap through on a regular basis to chase chickens back into the garden, a task not made easier by Harry standing guard in the house and scaring the living bejeesus out of the chickens every time they came into view. I hadn’t even unpacked the chicken house and I was already trying to decide who I wanted to strangle more – hounds or chickens.


And while we’re on the subject of chicken houses, don’t buy flat packed houses from the ‘bay and expect either of the following:


1. Intelligent instructions
2. Well fitting panels


With darkness threatening, Jan and I got our backsides in gear and started putting the house together. Well, we tried, but Jan isn’t a natural DIYer and I was about as frazzled as I’ve ever been, so we called in help. With an hour or so, we had the house together (and only a small bag of screws left over) and now there was nothing between us and a much needed lie down in a darkened room except getting 3 chickens into their new home.


I’ll summarise this part – I jumped through more hedges, Harry barked lots, the neighbour came round and proved a dab hand at grabbing chickens by their tails, and I went one on one with the smallest, but most spirited of the birds who decided that despite being called by Jan, prodded by me and lunged at by the neighbour, she was going to duck and dive her way round the garden until there was muttered threats of stuffing and roasting. It worked out in the end though, and I hear that Vera, Mabel and Daisy are now settled into their new home.


After recovering from the adventures in poultry, we had a relatively relaxed New Year. Four friends came over and we had an Italian feast, set off some of those beautiful paper lanterns at midnight, drank lots of cocktails and watched some comedy.


More wonderful still was New Year’s Day when we did …. Nothing. I mean nothing on a biblical level too. We stayed in our jammies all day, made the fire roar and tucked into bowls of roast potatoes and gravy while watching films. For dinner we treated ourselves to cheese on toast and champagne, which for some strange reason felt like the most decadent dinner in the world.


I have to admit, I still feel as if I’m recovering from the whole ordeal of the festive season - and for Christmas 2009 we are determined to do things very, very differently - but now that the dust has settled somewhat, I can take my lessons and look to the rest of this year with hope.

We wish you all peace and happiness this year, in whatever form that takes.

Crayfish and Christmas

A curious thing happened to me at the end of November, I turned 31. I’m not sure why I found it curious, but I did. Not scary, or depressing, but just curious. And while I was looking forward to getting up to some cool stuff I was actually pretty apathetic about my birthday itself despite a pretty extensive schedule planned for a long weekend starting with a cook along to the effervescent Mr Ramsey.

Bill and Lindsey arrived just in time for the off and the ladies grabbed a welcome glass of vino while the boys donned aprons. The hound supervised from the confines of the hallway.

The first recipe involved shredding lettuce, mixing mayo and ketchup, mushing avocado and layering with prawns in a suitably artistic glass. Some know it as a prawn cocktail. Not a personal favourite of mine since I loathe mayo and all other yacky type sauces, but no worry, it’s easy enough to leave the sauce off one portion isn’t it? Apparently not. Pretty soon we had 5, count them, FIVE portions of prawn cocktail, each of them delicately anointed with sauce. I’m told it was a tasty treat for all the family, but I wasn’t buying, especially when I knew how amazing the main course would be.

Steak Diane, a classic with a pile of sautéed potatoes all smothered in creamy mushroom sauce, nyom, nyom, nyom!!!

Step 1, par boil spuds. Or, if you are my husband, leave spuds intact on worktop and swear vigorously at the television when told to drain them and put them in the pan of hot oil. Then, get best friend to help juggle frying pans, miss, throw half the spuds on the floor, shout at thieving hound to leave, give up and toss him some ketchup to go with them and swear at the television again.

About 15 minutes, lots of pan banging and more swearing later, we reach step 12, add brandy to pan to make sauce. Tip pan with gusto in order to add sauce to hob rather than flame to pan. Flambé hob until the flame gets high enough to catch the pan anyway and then stand back as the merest smell of singed hair fills the air.

Steak Diane with sautéed spuds. Done.

As hoped, it was absolutely delicious, and even more amazing for not having cooked it myself. No time to appreciate it though as the lads high tail it back to the kitchen for the final assault – cheesecake.

It took some time, some more pan banging but eventually the cheesecake was wheeled in with much aplomb. So happy was I, so eager my anticipation, I didn’t notice the slightly concerned looks flickering between the two lads, let alone the muttering and nervous laughter as they dished it up.

I noticed it pretty damn quick when I took my first mouthful though, the oddest, lightest texture I have ever known a cheesecake to have. It was almost mousse-like. Almost as if … oh dear lord no … they’d forgotten to add the cream cheese. In terms of inventing a pudding revolution, I wouldn’t be tempted to try it if I were you.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny with few dinner based ill effects and thanks to a cookbook given to me by Beth I was in the mood for some crayfish. Rumour had it, there might be some in the local river and luckily there is never much persuasion needed to get the boys interested in a fishing adventure. Wandering back from the fields Bill spotted some old tree protectors that were now redundant, and we collected an armful to create our very own crayfish net.

We pondered, and prevaricated and after a collecting as many ‘potentially helpful’ bits as we could find, we constructed, and I think you’ll agree, we didn’t do a bad job.

Night fell, and after a snifter for courage we went down to the river to cast our net into the raging torrent. We had plans for our bounty and I had issued a half serious threat that if there was nothing come the next day, we’d all be going hungry.

That would never happen though, we were confident in our construction and we hurried home to toast how fantastically clever we were.

The next morning, we trudged back down to the river, this time with the hounds in a supporting roll, just so that this time there would be an audience to appreciate how fantastically clever we were. Untying the tether, Keith took up the slack and gave an almighty tug. The line snapped, and right there in the middle of that field, shoulders slumped, smiles faded, and the sense of anticlimax was palpable.

A few days later was my birthday proper and Keith had given me carte blanche for us to spend it as I wanted. What I wanted, for some strange reason was to go to a museum in London and then to see the Christmas lights. We eventually settled on the Science Museum for our visit and we bounced round trying all the exhibits. Keith even snuck onto a few while small children were looking the other way, hence his expression in this particular photo.

The rest of the day was lovely, familiar, with bright restaurants and shops cosy against the chill dark outside. Feet aching, we wended our way home clutching bags of goodies, tummies full of Ramen and collapsed on the sofa in the way you do after a frenzied day sightseeing in town.
In a quirk of the calendar this year, no sooner had I woken up as a 31 year old than it was time to start thinking about putting up the old Christmas tree. In an even stranger turn of events, my birthday excitement having been misplaced, suddenly turned up alive and well and singing jingle bells.

Far be it from me to question these things, instead I decided to make the most of this newfound joie de vivre and get some of the preparation done. So, after some gentle encouragement, Keith went to the loft and dusted off the decorations and I set about last year’s Christmas cards with a pair of scissors to make some snowflakes.

As an aside: I just want to say that I thought everyone was taught in primary school how to make snowflakes from pieces of paper, so imagine my horror when I had to explain the whole process to Keith. I know he’s trailing a few years on me, but what has become of the school system when basic skills like making paper snowflakes is so cruelly cast aside!! Replaced by something “useful” like French no doubt!!

Anyway, back to the task in hand. I think the reason I am so excited about Christmas this year is because for the first time we are actually making good on having Christmas in the barn. It took me time, tears and tantrums to get the barn to the stage where we can now have civilised dinners and I was determined to make the most of it this year by turning it into an absolute haven of Christmas cheer. Therefore I was more than happy to accommodate Keith’s sole request of a “tree taller than him” … that’s 6ft to the uninitiated.

It took me all afternoon, a Johnny Cash CD and several cuppas to get the place just right and I have to admit, I’m a bit proud of how it has turned out.

Thou shalt not …

Today we shall examine a few of the 10 Commandments and perhaps their lesser known applications in modern life:

Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vein.

Although to be honest, it wasn’t exclusively the Lord’s name I was taking, there was a fairly indiscriminate taking of anyone’s name in a 2 mile radius peppered with a robust dose of more general Anglo Saxon.

Our fire traumas continue. Having been outbid on the umpteenth fire, I decided to go for a buy-it-now-brand-new-deal instead. Money paid, I waited for a week in eager anticipation of the delivery. Unfortunately it seems I was under a false impression of what I was expecting to have delivered. I thought I had paid for a wood burning stove. Turns out I paid for a pile of mangled metal doing a rather jolly impression of a piece of modern sculpture.

After some furious messaging, we are currently waiting collection of the ex-logburner and I am back to that familiar old place I like to call Square 1.

Six days you shall labor and do all your work … unless you are on a flexible working initiative.

And so it came to pass that yesterday, after weeks of prevaricating, I finally got off my backside and decorated the landing. Well, most of it anyway, the thought of wielding a roller at the top of a ladder overhanging the stairwell was a little too much.

To make up for my attack of waftiness, I tackled another of my least favourite pastimes and changed the light switch instead; which I’m sure to you seems worthy of a shrug, but to me is enough to make my blood run cold. It comes from having woken up one morning in a previous, more haphazard existence, and flicked a half installed light switch, at which point the entire lighting loom went KAMBALM!! lovely scorch marks appeared around all the ceiling roses, and I danced round the flat, shaking my hand and cursing the day Faraday was born.

Anyway, I digress. The hall is now (mostly) the colour of the rest of the house, which has meant that I have now started to put up the pictures that I have been collecting for the last few months. There is still a lot of wall left to fill, largely due to a lack of frames, so if anyone is lost for gift ideas in the coming months, please, please, please can we have some frames. Preferably from a charity shop, preferably all different and any size smaller than A4. The plan for the opposite (and still unpainted) wall is even more grand, but I won’t tell you about that just yet.


And finally:
Thou shalt not covert thy neighbour’s teddy.

This is a little story I thought might cheer up those of you that are in need of a smile. Keith and I came home the other day expecting the usual barrage of over friendly dog to greet us and were a little surprised to see that the welcoming committee had been reduced by half. We assumed that Harry had managed to lock himself in the bathroom again, which is something that happens with regularity as he still, at the noble age of 3, hasn’t quite come to terms with his own body length. Keith wandered round the ground floor calling as he went, but nothing, no sign of Harry.

The next thing we heard was “f’dump” ….. “f’dump”, “f’dump”, “f’dump”, as Harry flumped his way down the staircase and sat on the wrong side of the locked baby gate, quite obviously having just woken up and now just as confused as we are as to how he has managed to spirit himself through a childproof gate.

Fearing for Colin’s life, we hustled the dog back through the gate and went to view the damage.
Everything still in place and Colin, although slightly grumpier than normal, was clearly still in one piece. On the way back downstairs however, something caught my eye.

Keith, did you move my teddy? No? Well why is it on our bed then?

To explain, I have an old fashioned, scruffy teddy that sits on a chair in our room. Except it wasn’t sitting on the chair, it was sitting in the middle of our bed, looking for all the world like it had decided to take a stroll.

The only clue was one slightly damp arm.

Harry, it would seem, having surveyed the upstairs, had decided that he would curl up on our bed for a snooze. Not wanting to be lonely without his usual partner in crime, he had picked up my ted by his arm, jumped up onto the bed and curled himself around it.
That hound never ceases to amaze me with his soppiness.

Random acts of kindness

This is a bit of a general waffle on life, due in part to the lack of any significant progress in the house, and also because Keith and I have been away in Gib recently, enjoying at least a few days of sun before the darkness of winter descends.

It didn’t occur to me until earlier this week how much I love autumn. I don’t think it had really occurred to me that autumn was even here, I suspect because it didn’t seem to vary in any way from the previous few months of non-summer.

One sure sign that winter is on the way though is the lighting of the first fire of the year. It was a bit like watching Bambi on ice to start with, as Keith and I had both forgotten the intricacies of tempting our often reluctant fireplace into action. It didn’t help that I had acquired a car full of free wood from Freecycle which had come in 8ft lengths, and I was too tired after a day at work to bother cutting it down to a suitable size. The result? Several 2ft chunks of wood were precariously balanced half in, half out of the fire on the premise that they would eventually fit when the blazing end burned down. I was also making dinner at the time so I was forced to employ my spidey senses and issue bellows of LEEEEEAAAAAVVVVE to the thieving hound at regular intervals. Luckily Keith returned and stopped the madness, stomping laps from the barn to the lounge muttering darkly about women and saws.

On the subject of fires, we are currently trying to purchase one for the barn and it proving to be a lot more difficult than anticipated. Who knew that the market for second hand log burners was so cutthroat?! You bid a sensible price on a fire, and then in the five seconds before the auction ends, there are camels being traded, first born children sacrificed, and you’re left wondering what just happened. Not easily deterred I have now started doing something I hate, contacting the sellers and making deals. I am currently in negotiations for one particular fire and having had my best offer bumped up by £25 I am now trying to play hardball while juggling the fact that I might get it cheaper if I just hold out until the auction ends. Sometimes it’s all a bit too much like hard work.

My favourite moment at this time of year is the Changing of the Duvet (much less popular than the similarly titled ceremony in London, but much more personally satisfying). There is something about putting away the puny covering of summer and stuffing the cumulonimbus of a winter duvet into the arm achingly heavy covers that makes me smile. I find that the chances of me oversleeping at this time of year are dramatically increased, not just by the fading light, but by the fact that I need to build up a serious amount of muscle to even fight my way out from under the weight of the duvet in the mornings!

In keeping with the responsibilities of having a kitchen garden, there was a flurry of activity last weekend as plants were given their winter trim. Keith also weeded the area around the pond in his own inimitable way giving it something of the look of a WWI battlefield. The only job left to do before the frosts is a damn good mulching, which I may attempt this weekend, depending on whether we are taken up with motorbike based activities.

It is around the garden that the title of this entry comes. As most of you will know we live next door to a social club which in the main, has brought us a lot of frustration and annoyance, but it has also brought us a man of what could be called ‘character’. Shamefully, I can’t remember his name right now, but this guy has lived in Arlesey since God was a boy, and was one of the first people to stick his head over the wall and welcome us to our new home. He has kept a weather eye on my gardening and given me advice (wanted or not) about where I was going wrong. He seems to enjoy leaning over the wall and talking to “Henry”, who in return shows his appreciation by not barking at him and occasionally wagging his tail.

Now this lovely old boy collects stamps – so if any of you have any, especially foreign ones then PLEASE may I have them!! – and I have tried to keep him supplied on the odd occasion we’ve received something of interest. The other day I came home to another surprise though. Going down the line of peppers on the top of the plant nursery, I suddenly realised there was one extra, and not one that looked very pepper like either.

It was a jasmine cutting that I vaguely remember I had said I would really appreciate having that he had taken from his yellow flowering jasmine and grown on for me. I was really, really touched. I’m going to plant it this weekend in the area formerly occupied by the rosemary bush so that with any luck, next summer, the side of the barn will be covered with a profusion of flowers and the heady scent of the jasmine will fill the garden.

As long as I can get the social to move the “smoking area” that is. Hmmm.

A Tale of Two Gazebos … and the wisdom of Weebl and Bob.

I’m sitting here with a nice glass of Spain’s finest watching a surprisingly large spider climb down the wall in perfect safety (the hound has fallen fast asleep on my feet) and it occurs to me that I haven’t given you an update since last weekend’s BBQ.

The photos are now online http://picasaweb.google.com/natasha.garcia/FirstWeddingAnniversaryJune2008

and in case there is any question of whether it was a camera or a daguerreotype pressed into reluctant action, the photos were taken by someone who, despite being a snifter short of la-la-land, had the presence of mind to pick the camera up and point it in the vaguely the right direction. Huzzah Rob, I salute you!!

Anyway, I’m a little ahead of myself, because those photos were in fact the culmination of one of the party that was everything we could have hoped. The lead up was, in all honesty a little less perfect and a bit more of the usual “poking the backside of chaos with a sharp stick” that I’m sure you’ve all come to expect.

Friday night was a bit of a blur of cooking, until Keith finally realised that his huffs and puffs weren’t penetrating my fog of concentration and was forced to get off the sofa in order to express his vexation at dinner being 3 hours late and counting.

After that it was a blur of tandem huffing and none too subtle hints that there was always the chippy next door if it was just too difficult to wait. The sofa being mightier than the belly, peace was restored until the ham, courgette fritters, champagne jelly and chicken were all safely in the fridge.

Despite the mad rush to get cooking and cleaning done ahead of time, it was pretty obvious as soon as the curtains were lustily thrown back on Saturday morning that the biggest dark cloud hanging over the party was in fact the dark cloud hanging over the party – but no fear, because we have in our possession a gazebo of such magnitude, we were pondering a call to nearby Luton airport to discuss a temporary change to the flight path. The gazebo, originally bought to house my race car in the pits at Santa Pod was in a bit of a state, having apparently taken the fancy of some squatter rats who had exercised their constitutional right to residency in the barn over winter (until we exercised our constitutional right to poison them back to the Stone Age) but it was large enough to house all the guests and it was waterproof. And missing the bag of connectors.

I’m sure we’ve all been there, standing indignantly explaining that you are SURE you’ve seen “it” since you moved. You remember it all clearly, “it” was in that box labelled “random shite you don’t need but can’t be bothered to get rid of” and you’ve searched that box five times now and “it” has obviously been moved by someone else, since you so carefully packed “it”.

Obviously, that conversation either ends in one of two ways, either the person you are spouting this pointless drivel to will patiently point out that of course “it” has moved, you moved “it” yourself several months ago and “it” is in actual fact in this other entirely obvious place. Option B is that you both search the same box again (and all surrounding boxes), in case “it” has found the door to Narnia and was just off on a bit of a jolly last time you looked.

We took option B. The door to Narnia stayed firmly closed and I accused the ex rats of some very uncharitable behaviour.

We bandied about some ideas, and having ruled out gaffer tape, or welding as a viable alternative, Keith made some calls to our friends. Despite a total of three other racers set to join the festivities, not one of them had a bag of connectors between them. Those rats had obviously been on top form. I’d resigned myself to squashing everyone into the house, when Keith called with the news that we had a live one.

An hour later a fine specimen of a gazebo was being unpacked onto the lawn, poles sorted into numbered piles, canvass unfolded. And the connectors?

An hour later and ANOTHER fine specimen of a gazebo was being unpacked onto the lawn. All parts present and correct. A little while later the women folk stood proudly by while the men folk made shelter.

Food was brought out, drinks were consumed and our wonderful friends and family made the effort to come and share an incredibly special day with us. We were, in all honesty, overwhelmed, and to everyone that came, thank you, from the bottom of our hearts.

Those who stayed over were somewhat broken the next morning, so Keith took over his usual duties as chef extraordinaire, and outdid himself in the breakfast department with the invention of …. The breakfast pizza!! None of us were in a fit state to commit the moment to photographic memory but I think it will live long in the physical memory, and set the standard by which all future hangover cures will be judged. The fried egg in the middle possibly a leap too far for fragile stomachs though.

Since then things have returned to normal, and save a lemon tree called Korma, an olive tree in full bloom, a stack of fabulous vino, a fabulous foraging Carluccio cookbook, a pair of tickets back to Gibraltar (excited? Moi?) and the large stack of poles still piled in the middle of the lawn you’d never have known we ever had a party.

The Carluccio book, is indirectly the reason why I’m currently sitting here looking like I’ve just been indulging in a spot of slaughter. I haven’t of course, by dear lord sour cherries can stain.

Last year we discovered that on our regular riverside walk, there are a row of cherry trees that, with the gentle hand of my dear husband, can become the most delicious cherry pie in the world. And the hardest won too.

It took us hours to collect half a bag of cherries, Keith swaying gently in the breeze up some precariously thin branches, me on the ground, humming away as I collected the few unspoiled cherries within my magnificent 5’ 4” reach. Then, we had to drive to Hitchin to buy a cherry stoner after I refused point blank to repeat last year’s marathon of finger pruning, and finally, having set up a nice little conveyor belt in front of The Doctor I got going.

After having lost my fingerprints, painted myself, the coffee table, hounds and TV remotes in exploding cherry juice, we now have an entire ice cream tub of cherries waiting Keith’s ministrations, or in the immortal words of Weebl and Bob … when come back, bring pie!!

P-A-R-T Y? Because it’s our Anniversary (Nearly)!!

Now that it is officially the right month, I’m allowed to start getting excited about our anniversary party. WOOT!!

To remind those of you already invited, and those of you Keith hasn’t yet mailed, we’re having a bit of a get together to celebrate one whole year of married life, and come rain or shine, we will be stuffing ourselves with BBQ all day and possibly most of the night as well.

Seeing as we’ve had an awful summer so far, I have already started evicting spiders from the gazebo just in case it needs to be called into action on the day. I have also double checked the bunting which was lovingly made by cutting up Keith’s old work shirts for a friend’s surprise party recently, and ‘accidentally’ left up for the rest of the week. (I freely admit there was a certain childish thrill to walking under a canopy of fluttering flags on my way in from work, and a total lack of desire on my part to return to adulthood. It was only the threat of rain that made me regain my senses.)

Most of my attention, however, has been given over (in true Gibraltarian style) to the menu for the day, and I have to admit, I’m pretty excited …

Big slabs of Spanish omelette, crunchy hot and sour salad and soft centred spiced courgette fritters will make up the bulk of the vegetable offering.

Cumberland sausages, chicken skewers marinated in buttermilk and black treacle, and slices of Coca Cola ham, should satisfy the meat eaters.

And for pudding, honey buns with nuts sprinkled on the top, home made scones with lashings of FTC’s very own fig jam and a very special jelly, which I hope will make even the most ardent grown up smile with nostalgia.

Drinks are entirely up to you – anyone brave enough can help us enjoy the apple and plum home brew from last year – anyone with a more sense might well be advised to bring along a little of what they fancy.

Only 15 more sleeps to go!! Anyone in need of directions or sleeping space might do well to let me know before I lose what’s small amount of common sense I have left!!