We live in fear, haunted by the prospect of the imminent budget of the Orwellian-Cromwellian Socialist Crusaders-
These days, a 6am a sleepless night is not disturbed by birds waking up and going for a swoop in blue skies. Instead its darkness with howling sideways winds with a hint of rain. The cat now lies with its belly flat against oven Aga bathing. Violin winds and a cat? Must be Halloween coming!
Actually hints of Halloween have been sneaking up on us like it or not.
For a change from the usual bad back my shoulder/arm is crook. If I have to lift anything as heavy as a kettle, I have to support my right elbow with my left hand as if doing an impression of an elephant. Also, as it has been going on for some months I have now adapted and don’t think about it though the contortions which for me are now normal do earn me the odd quizzical look.
In our household however being injured is strictly competitive and not to be out done GS has a sore foot. It is caused by driving my old banger as opposed to his (automatic) soft top. Since I gave up upholstery and sold my little van, my banger does all the heavy lifting whilst the soft top goes on occasional outing. However, recently his car has been used as target practice by a bird. I say bird, but from the size and liberal splattering of the poo, I’m going to go full David Attenborough and say its a pterodactyls kierasstarmerous living in my Magnolia Grandi Flora.
GS bought some shoe inserts but all these achieved were to raise his foot to the bit where his heel rubbed against his boot leading to a blister. Whilst always as sympathetic as Florence Nightingale to each and every of his ailments I did have to stifle a tiny giggle as there was a hint of novice drag queen practising in heels in his gait.
A dear friend of ours suggested special shoes and GS is now the proud owner of a pair of Bondi Hoka. They are not so much shoes as an enormous foot tramplene. GS reports that he now feels as if he has Gecko feet and could walk up the wall.
Despite being variously incapacitated I have thrown myself into a fitness regime. I’ve set the bar low. #Justshowup #rediscovering the fine art of dawdling.
Basically provided I actually get out of bed and go for a walk I think I deserve a Blue Peter Badge and shout my success from the Instagram rooftops. Day 1, I strode out, blissfully enjoying the autumn glory. Dad 2, I got a blister, Day 3, GS came with and found ourselves lured into the Majestic wine shop being offered free champagne, Day 4, we decided to combine walking with visiting every pub within walking distance. Day 5, we missed out the ‘walk to’ the pub bit…
So between my waving my arm around as if trying to be an elephant and various contortions, GS limping away moaning, and ensuring the financial survival of our local hostelries despite the Puritans being in power, we have have been doing a good impression of Zombie twins of the Apocalypse wandering around our local village.
The shed (currently being bombed by the endless supply of apples from our fabulous tree) definitely has our box of halloween decorations and the dressing up box. We just have to find a gap in the sideways rain and the enthusiasm to excavate them from the jenga stacks of boxes.
But who needs shop bought Halloween decorations? Yesterday, having lost my spectacles, I was just popping out to garden at dusk when I spied a kestrel, dead in front of the backdoor.
I should state at this time that we seem to have a fox with a sense of humour/attitude as often I go outside to find a huge curled poo delicately balanced on the edge of a terracotta pot. At least I think it is a fox. I did google poo but decided that it was unlikely to be a Wolverine in the Surrey hills.
However, on closer inspection (though the glass) the carcass turned out to have toes, not talons, and tooth marks. I screeched like an owl and GS bravely moved the recently departed. Rat? It was the size of a capybara. It think next door’s sausage dog may have ravaged it (or the pterodactyls) I draw the line at rotting corpses for halloween decs so to the bin it went.
I hosted a halloween party once. Someone actually bought a hulk of meat, bizarrely, which we left on the gatepost. I remember drinking too much of our home made witch’s potion, waking up like a sort of halloween hedgehog in a duvet which was stuck with half licked liquorice lolly pops, and swearing off port for life.
Now that the Aga is back on its healthy eating for us. I have given up eating my bodyweight in cooking apples everyday as there are still thousands of apples on the tree, and thousands more on the ground. Our garden now smells of cider.
I did however cook us a lamb tagine. I cooked one about 6 months ago and it was delicious. The problem is I have no idea what recipe I followed, and my cooking style is… experimental.
So we had ‘lamb tagine with coriander’ which was actually tonnes of chickpeas with a generous bag of apricot halves, some lamb and bunches of mint still in the garden. Albeit sweeter than expected GS scoffed it.
‘How did you sleep?’ I asked next morning over our usual Lavazza rosso.
‘It was somewhat volatile’ he said, ‘I’m surprised the duvet wasn’t nailed to the bedroom ceiling’
The next night he got revenge with his Scotch bonnet tear-gas strength chilli.
Thank God it wasn’t pub and curry night. I can lie away listening to gentle snoring punctuated by something that sounds like the opening bars of the theme to Eastenders.
But things are better all round these days. When we were first courting and the cat was young, it used to catch mice, filleting them so we came down stairs to body parts. Grim. Or, unbeknownst to us, he would secret them behind the sofa and over a number of days the house would warm to the smell of a dead animal. I didn’t like to say anything. I thought it was GS’s digestion.
I hope you have enjoyed the gravitas of my political commentary and insights into life in our corner of the Surrey hills.
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With love from GS and me
