Our bird feeder must to have a reputation like that of a 3 Michelin star restaurant by the amount of birds we attract. Starlings are always the ones who start off the feasting, followed by coupled doves (feisty little things), noisy sparrows, blue tits (no human affiliation whatsoever), and the lonely pantaloon-legged wood pigeon whom I fondly call "Gus"— to name just a few of the regulars. Sometimes we even get the odd pheasant chomping away, making loud clucking sounds (no gun jokes please).
There's one starling who I swear has six babies. Then again, she might be feeding the neighbor's kids too— a bit of bird babysitting if you will. She'll grab a piece of bread three times her weight and shove it into the nearest babe's mouth. I could almost hear her saying, "OPEN dammit!". Some chicks will swallow it, but others— well, they're a bit smarter. For instance one particular starling knows to appreciatively take the pound of bread from mum, then place it gently back on the floor and wait for the next round of grub instead of trying to choke it down. Quite funny to watch really. He's very methodical— but quite exasperating for mum I'm sure.
Starling Mum never stops. Like a well-oiled machine, she'll pick up a piece of bread (a daily on the menu), enthusiastically shoves it into baby's mouth, then moves onto the next one. Obviously part of her daily aerobics regime. By the time she finishes the last of her umpteen children, she goes back to the first. Well, whomever she remembers as the first. I've seen her feed the same chick several times while the others wait patiently. I guess its the loudest gets fed first— and often.
The doves on the other hand can be quite lazy. I've seen one belly-up to the bird box, plant himself down, and eat what was around him. Oh and God forbid you're "... not from around these here parts..." or you'd be dead meat as far as they're concerned. Those placid looking birds can be vicious little buggers. I've witnessed two males fighting a few feet from where I stood. If I hadn't've stopped it, one of them would surely have been the neighbor's cat's next dead meal— feathers flying everywhere. Heeee-uuuu-WEE — wadda fight!
Have I mentioned the bathing facilities lately? The two ton plastic mushroom container is never empty. It always has fresh water with the odd bird bathing and singing. No doubt the acoustics are accommodating. Of course the water is used for other things too— drinking for one, and the odd suicidal snail.
We have had a few hedgehogs too. When they walk, they look like rolly pollies with legs on a rounded peg. Strange little things— and their mating sound— yowza!— it's like a cat who's close to death or— worse— WET— and desperate to come in after some light drizzle. I'm sure they do that sound to psyche me out. Strangely enough I've heard, "Get this— watch what happens when I start wailing...!" from the bushes— then again that could've been the after effects of the pub's moonshine. Still, they're quite fascinating— and quite ticklish on the belly I've found.
It's never a day without an aviary or hedgehog adventure. Forget Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. I've got my own wild kingdom a few feet from my office door.
Thursday 29 May 2008
Saturday 24 May 2008
Summer's Here!
Here we are on the Bank Holiday weekend— Memorial Day weekend— the beginning of the summer season and the weather has started out brilliantly over here. Dreams of weeding and planting, planting and weeding fill my head. A barbeque or two are added for good measure, along with the traditional afternoon gin-laced Pims for medicinal purposes. Ahhhhh — *hic!* — lovely....
Our backyard grows diligently. In the nursery, I'm sprouting summer's essential sunflowers, sweet smelling spock (no relation to the Vulcan), green peppers, lupin (my husband's favorite), and corn flowers (porque me de la gana)— along with a multitude of aging avocados that I didn't have the heart to throw the seeds away (very Cuban).
In our allotment section at the bottom of the garden, we've planted broad beans (aka big ol' lima beans), rhubarb (tangent: leaves are poisonous but the stalks make an orgasmic crumble [dessert] according to hubby), and old potatoes (remember chippology?). Those accidentally started to sprout in the pantry and I saw a golden opportunity for an experiment. Incredibly enough, they didn't get blight or mold to the surprise of my husband.
(Potatoes are also are unintentionally growing in the compost heap. Frisky little buggers, aren't they?)
Unlike my finely manicured next door neighbor's yard, ours is a working experiment. Ne'er a year goes by without something different growing. Last year it was weeds. This year, its vegetables.
Speaking of my neighbor— bless him— he's always puttering about. Normally its something to do with bricks and paving only because he lucratively does that for a living, On occasion however (albeit unnecessary) he'll do a bit of weeding. Nice fellow, but doesn't stop for a moment. Oftentimes we'll hear him hauling a heavy thingymebob or another in the wee mornin' on any given day. Thankfully, the birds make a louder racket.
Complementary, their back yard is very inviting and peacefully entertaining— quite a feat when you have two young children. Play houses, toys, and the odd rabbit hutch meander through the civility of ornate lawn furniture. I do however have a sneaking suspicion that he and his wife live vicariously through our veggie gardening attempts. In the beginning, when I started to lay out my digging lines, I'd hear a voice over the fence, "Saw ye diggin'. Watya plantin' taday?" Frankly I wasn't sure if that was an attempt to keep abreast of my obscure planting habits or genuine curiosity. But I tried answering as best I could.
Admittedly, my answers are a bit obscure only because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Y'see, I too am what ya call a seedling— a transplanted, transferred, formerly closeted couch gardener. I used to live imaginatively through gardening books and catalogues.
But not anymore.
Now I'm trying to put all those years of gathered information into use... albeit with lots of effort. I've lost a few plants. I've killed a few (sorry). And even those blasted aphids have taken some. But it doesn't stop me from continually trying. When I'm in a horticultural bind, the internet is a huge source of information— even if my husband thinks its rubbish.
"Nahhhh that's a load of hogwash." when he sees me coddling a seedling. "Jus' chuck 'em inna ground."
"Hmmmm that's a bit rough...", I think, as I secretly tuck it into its bedding. Then again, there might be something in what he says. He's always lived in the country— they even teach horticulture in schools still. What's to doubt? Stubbornly though, I'm optimistic that my internet-fired gardening strategies and me will be able to gloat when it comes to harvest.
...assuming we get there....
Our backyard grows diligently. In the nursery, I'm sprouting summer's essential sunflowers, sweet smelling spock (no relation to the Vulcan), green peppers, lupin (my husband's favorite), and corn flowers (porque me de la gana)— along with a multitude of aging avocados that I didn't have the heart to throw the seeds away (very Cuban).
In our allotment section at the bottom of the garden, we've planted broad beans (aka big ol' lima beans), rhubarb (tangent: leaves are poisonous but the stalks make an orgasmic crumble [dessert] according to hubby), and old potatoes (remember chippology?). Those accidentally started to sprout in the pantry and I saw a golden opportunity for an experiment. Incredibly enough, they didn't get blight or mold to the surprise of my husband.
(Potatoes are also are unintentionally growing in the compost heap. Frisky little buggers, aren't they?)
Unlike my finely manicured next door neighbor's yard, ours is a working experiment. Ne'er a year goes by without something different growing. Last year it was weeds. This year, its vegetables.
Speaking of my neighbor— bless him— he's always puttering about. Normally its something to do with bricks and paving only because he lucratively does that for a living, On occasion however (albeit unnecessary) he'll do a bit of weeding. Nice fellow, but doesn't stop for a moment. Oftentimes we'll hear him hauling a heavy thingymebob or another in the wee mornin' on any given day. Thankfully, the birds make a louder racket.
Complementary, their back yard is very inviting and peacefully entertaining— quite a feat when you have two young children. Play houses, toys, and the odd rabbit hutch meander through the civility of ornate lawn furniture. I do however have a sneaking suspicion that he and his wife live vicariously through our veggie gardening attempts. In the beginning, when I started to lay out my digging lines, I'd hear a voice over the fence, "Saw ye diggin'. Watya plantin' taday?" Frankly I wasn't sure if that was an attempt to keep abreast of my obscure planting habits or genuine curiosity. But I tried answering as best I could.
Admittedly, my answers are a bit obscure only because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Y'see, I too am what ya call a seedling— a transplanted, transferred, formerly closeted couch gardener. I used to live imaginatively through gardening books and catalogues.
But not anymore.
Now I'm trying to put all those years of gathered information into use... albeit with lots of effort. I've lost a few plants. I've killed a few (sorry). And even those blasted aphids have taken some. But it doesn't stop me from continually trying. When I'm in a horticultural bind, the internet is a huge source of information— even if my husband thinks its rubbish.
"Nahhhh that's a load of hogwash." when he sees me coddling a seedling. "Jus' chuck 'em inna ground."
"Hmmmm that's a bit rough...", I think, as I secretly tuck it into its bedding. Then again, there might be something in what he says. He's always lived in the country— they even teach horticulture in schools still. What's to doubt? Stubbornly though, I'm optimistic that my internet-fired gardening strategies and me will be able to gloat when it comes to harvest.
...assuming we get there....
Thursday 22 May 2008
Alotta Hooey
I love the internet headlines...
"Working class 'has lower IQ'"
That was the first one that got me reeling this morning (which doesn't take much some days).
It continues...
"Bruce Charlton, reader in evolutionary psychiatry at Newcastle University, suggested that the low numbers of working-class students at elite universities was the "natural outcome" of IQ differences between classes."
Ho boy... right... soapbox please... *cough-cough*
If you were to ask any Briton if there was a class system still in place, you could tell their class by their answer.
The upper echelon would say, "No, no— of course not. Long gone fa fa fa wot? Everyone is free to blah blah blah blah as they please wot wot...." I start zoning out once the first "blah-blahs" start— normally at the beginning.
If you tried to ask the people in the middle (affectionately our version of the Yuppies), you wouldn't get an answer. They're forever trying to get into the higher stratosphere that they forget to breath. They drop like flies eventually. Like the ol' cliche, "Hamsters on the perpetual wheel." Unfortunately, they never get any higher to the Queen's classification than you or me (or her son for that matter), but— hell— don't tell them that. They're forever lost in public (private) schools and petrol-guzzling thingamejig whatnots, they won't hear you.
But they seem happy.
On the other hand if you were to ask any ol' bloke— a laborer— a farmer— a mechanic— hands dirty, obviously from some engine or field, he'd unequivocally say that there was an almost ironclad classification system. Ironically, its also the dirty hand class that are the most prosperous and educated at the moment. Makes me kick m'self for not being a farmer.
But I'ma lurnin'!
I say bugger this working class stigma. At least in the States you can achieve wealth, position, and honors if you wanted to despite your background. Hell, it makes for better copy if you were from the lower classes, preferably starving, couldn't read, or on the streets living in your car before you made your first million, then lost it, then made it again threefold. Success by any means (preferably, honestly) is what counts— and says something for your status— you earned it. And it makes for a nice jingle in your pockets too.
So to conclude m'lawd, I can safely say that the class system is alive and well in the United Kingdom. Of course, that my friends, is the good ol' Yankee Doodle Dandy know-how coming out. We are still free in these (those?) United States.
Then again, soon I will be in a position to help vote out any idiot MP who'll agree with statements like these in the first place. Then we'll see who's who in which what class thinking blah blah.
Wot wot. Hrmph wot.
"Working class 'has lower IQ'"
That was the first one that got me reeling this morning (which doesn't take much some days).
It continues...
"Bruce Charlton, reader in evolutionary psychiatry at Newcastle University, suggested that the low numbers of working-class students at elite universities was the "natural outcome" of IQ differences between classes."
Ho boy... right... soapbox please... *cough-cough*
If you were to ask any Briton if there was a class system still in place, you could tell their class by their answer.
The upper echelon would say, "No, no— of course not. Long gone fa fa fa wot? Everyone is free to blah blah blah blah as they please wot wot...." I start zoning out once the first "blah-blahs" start— normally at the beginning.
If you tried to ask the people in the middle (affectionately our version of the Yuppies), you wouldn't get an answer. They're forever trying to get into the higher stratosphere that they forget to breath. They drop like flies eventually. Like the ol' cliche, "Hamsters on the perpetual wheel." Unfortunately, they never get any higher to the Queen's classification than you or me (or her son for that matter), but— hell— don't tell them that. They're forever lost in public (private) schools and petrol-guzzling thingamejig whatnots, they won't hear you.
But they seem happy.
On the other hand if you were to ask any ol' bloke— a laborer— a farmer— a mechanic— hands dirty, obviously from some engine or field, he'd unequivocally say that there was an almost ironclad classification system. Ironically, its also the dirty hand class that are the most prosperous and educated at the moment. Makes me kick m'self for not being a farmer.
But I'ma lurnin'!
I say bugger this working class stigma. At least in the States you can achieve wealth, position, and honors if you wanted to despite your background. Hell, it makes for better copy if you were from the lower classes, preferably starving, couldn't read, or on the streets living in your car before you made your first million, then lost it, then made it again threefold. Success by any means (preferably, honestly) is what counts— and says something for your status— you earned it. And it makes for a nice jingle in your pockets too.
So to conclude m'lawd, I can safely say that the class system is alive and well in the United Kingdom. Of course, that my friends, is the good ol' Yankee Doodle Dandy know-how coming out. We are still free in these (those?) United States.
Then again, soon I will be in a position to help vote out any idiot MP who'll agree with statements like these in the first place. Then we'll see who's who in which what class thinking blah blah.
Wot wot. Hrmph wot.
Monday 19 May 2008
Wet, wet and uh wet
The weather in England is so unpredictable. Well, any local could tell you that. But me, myself and I are so unbelieving, we need it to be proved without a shadow of doubt that what they say about its unpredictability is in fact true before I take it as truth.
Its true.
From just days ago wearing shorts, I scampered back into my woolies, namely my tried and true guernsey– a gorgeously handmade jumper – uh sweater– with all the stitching telling a sailor's tale. To coin Timex, "it takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'." An expensive investment for me, but it has paid off several times over with the amount of usage its gotten. It looks brand new even after five years of incredible abuse.
Saturday for example, started out promising— lovely and sunny. Then we decided to go to Felixstowe. Apparently the clouds heard this so they started to gather. However we've learned not to let that put a damper on things. So my trusty companion– my husband– and I ventured off to the seaside town of Felixstowe— the premier port in England I'm told by all the signs upon entry.
Surprisingly finding a parking spot right on the main drag, we immediately went to the chip shop and grabbed us a bag a'chips– de rigueur if you're to take a looooong stroll along the boardwalk. Hell, it wouldn't be Felixstowe if you didn't have a bag a'chips.
Also let me be the first (of many) to dispel the myth of chips being served in newspaper. They are not served in newspaper– well not anymore I'm told. Because I am no longer a virginal chippy, I can meticulously report that they do not come in printed newsprint paper, but do come in newsprint nonetheless. The printed newspaper parts are used to hold it after the grease has gone through the unprinted part. Get it? Its also an unfortunate reality that because of this preponderance of grease, some chippies have gone to the dreaded stirofoam container.
But that's another soapbox.
I have to admit, I've become an every so often devotee of the English french-fry. Forget Micky D's– ya just can't beat these delicately chucked and fried spuds. Some people are so well versed in Chippology that they can tell you if its an old spud, a new one, whether it was produce in the whatever-region, or one that was well-we-won't-go-there-but-still-edible-one just by looking at it. Cholesterolically speaking (yes my word), I also like to tell myself that a looooooong walk whilst devouring them will undo some of the damage you know these fat-vat fried beauties do.
"Lotsa vinegar – oh– and a side'a statins please."
During our boardwalk stroll, the clouds continued to threaten but only pathetically spit. The wind (and I'm not talkin' about my husband's) was another story. Needless to say, my guernsey was held close. I think I even used some of my husband's. Still, the hour walk was briskly leisure and energizing. I'd earned my guernsey stripes that day.
On a sidenote (yes tangent), I've decided that once my husband retires and becomes a man of leisure, I will put him to an additional use and book him as the local rainman. Well not locally really – I thought more like Ethiopia, or the Sahara– places were it seldom rains but could use a few drops. If my husband goes there, it will surely rain. It has so far– in every port of call. And I ain't kiddin'.
Sunday was moderately better. The day– as most days– started out clear, blue and comparatively warm. So we decided to check out the Caravan Club we've booked for late June in Cromer (yes, this city girl camps now). So off to Norfolk we and our guernseys went...and so did the clouds. Ironically (and I say that optimistically), the clouds did follow us again, but surprisingly didn't produce. Even better, upon crossing a few millimeters over the Norfolk county line, it miraculously cleared.
Is the curse broken?
I'll tell ya in June.
Its true.
From just days ago wearing shorts, I scampered back into my woolies, namely my tried and true guernsey– a gorgeously handmade jumper – uh sweater– with all the stitching telling a sailor's tale. To coin Timex, "it takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'." An expensive investment for me, but it has paid off several times over with the amount of usage its gotten. It looks brand new even after five years of incredible abuse.
Saturday for example, started out promising— lovely and sunny. Then we decided to go to Felixstowe. Apparently the clouds heard this so they started to gather. However we've learned not to let that put a damper on things. So my trusty companion– my husband– and I ventured off to the seaside town of Felixstowe— the premier port in England I'm told by all the signs upon entry.
Surprisingly finding a parking spot right on the main drag, we immediately went to the chip shop and grabbed us a bag a'chips– de rigueur if you're to take a looooong stroll along the boardwalk. Hell, it wouldn't be Felixstowe if you didn't have a bag a'chips.
Also let me be the first (of many) to dispel the myth of chips being served in newspaper. They are not served in newspaper– well not anymore I'm told. Because I am no longer a virginal chippy, I can meticulously report that they do not come in printed newsprint paper, but do come in newsprint nonetheless. The printed newspaper parts are used to hold it after the grease has gone through the unprinted part. Get it? Its also an unfortunate reality that because of this preponderance of grease, some chippies have gone to the dreaded stirofoam container.
But that's another soapbox.
I have to admit, I've become an every so often devotee of the English french-fry. Forget Micky D's– ya just can't beat these delicately chucked and fried spuds. Some people are so well versed in Chippology that they can tell you if its an old spud, a new one, whether it was produce in the whatever-region, or one that was well-we-won't-go-there-but-still-edible-one just by looking at it. Cholesterolically speaking (yes my word), I also like to tell myself that a looooooong walk whilst devouring them will undo some of the damage you know these fat-vat fried beauties do.
"Lotsa vinegar – oh– and a side'a statins please."
During our boardwalk stroll, the clouds continued to threaten but only pathetically spit. The wind (and I'm not talkin' about my husband's) was another story. Needless to say, my guernsey was held close. I think I even used some of my husband's. Still, the hour walk was briskly leisure and energizing. I'd earned my guernsey stripes that day.
On a sidenote (yes tangent), I've decided that once my husband retires and becomes a man of leisure, I will put him to an additional use and book him as the local rainman. Well not locally really – I thought more like Ethiopia, or the Sahara– places were it seldom rains but could use a few drops. If my husband goes there, it will surely rain. It has so far– in every port of call. And I ain't kiddin'.
Sunday was moderately better. The day– as most days– started out clear, blue and comparatively warm. So we decided to check out the Caravan Club we've booked for late June in Cromer (yes, this city girl camps now). So off to Norfolk we and our guernseys went...and so did the clouds. Ironically (and I say that optimistically), the clouds did follow us again, but surprisingly didn't produce. Even better, upon crossing a few millimeters over the Norfolk county line, it miraculously cleared.
Is the curse broken?
I'll tell ya in June.
Thursday 15 May 2008
Than'Gawd Ima Cuntree Gurl!
For some reason I have John Denver's classic Thank God I'm a Country Boy! filling my head— modified of course, with me belting out "GIRL!" on que every time.
Who woulda thunk it – me, a glorified City Girl, more Mary Tyler Moore than Sarah Jessica Parker really, but a city girl nonetheless. God forbid you caught me out of makeup or dressed up but instead in the dirt especially with wellies. Now it's part of my new uniform. My wellies stay close to the office door, just in case I have to do a mad dash to spontaneously plant something or pull out more never ending nettles– which as a side note (my family loves tangents) nettles make a very nourishing tea for plants. Mine is currently brewing as we speak. I guess you'd say I was a cross between the English Rose gardener and Dr Jekyl with the amount of concoctions I –uh– concoct.
Speaking of concoctions (double tangent), my mother is Queen of Concoctdom. My childhood was spent trying to analyze what type of 'ickkies' she put in the dinner soup today.
"Not bad..." we'd all node to each other, secretly conferring after one taste. But after 3 spoonfuls, we were stuffed. It wasn't long after in my early adulthood I had the courage to ask, "...what exactly went into those soups?"
After going through the long list of veggies, liver and gelatine– and me going "ugh" "yuk" "ohhhh bleck" to every ingredient– was I sorry I did asked. Everything but the kitchen sink went in. Luckily she would try it first, so if it tasted good to her, she knew we'd eat it. Now I know why I used to hear strange giggles from the kitchen in between the wrrrrrrrrr of the blender... or was it– nahhhhhhhhhh. Nevermind.
What was I talking about?
Who woulda thunk it – me, a glorified City Girl, more Mary Tyler Moore than Sarah Jessica Parker really, but a city girl nonetheless. God forbid you caught me out of makeup or dressed up but instead in the dirt especially with wellies. Now it's part of my new uniform. My wellies stay close to the office door, just in case I have to do a mad dash to spontaneously plant something or pull out more never ending nettles– which as a side note (my family loves tangents) nettles make a very nourishing tea for plants. Mine is currently brewing as we speak. I guess you'd say I was a cross between the English Rose gardener and Dr Jekyl with the amount of concoctions I –uh– concoct.
Speaking of concoctions (double tangent), my mother is Queen of Concoctdom. My childhood was spent trying to analyze what type of 'ickkies' she put in the dinner soup today.
"Not bad..." we'd all node to each other, secretly conferring after one taste. But after 3 spoonfuls, we were stuffed. It wasn't long after in my early adulthood I had the courage to ask, "...what exactly went into those soups?"
After going through the long list of veggies, liver and gelatine– and me going "ugh" "yuk" "ohhhh bleck" to every ingredient– was I sorry I did asked. Everything but the kitchen sink went in. Luckily she would try it first, so if it tasted good to her, she knew we'd eat it. Now I know why I used to hear strange giggles from the kitchen in between the wrrrrrrrrr of the blender... or was it– nahhhhhhhhhh. Nevermind.
What was I talking about?
Wednesday 14 May 2008
Is THIS Spring?
It boggles the mind the weather we're having. I'll call home and ask what weather they're having and you'd think they were living in England. Here I am— in the office with the door wide open— in my moderately Daisy-Duked cut offs, the sun is shining, the temperature is sea-breezy and mild, and the birds continue to sing... and propagate. Boy are they a'propagatin'.
Encouraging the birds and the uh nudge nudge wink wink propagatin' is one way— the green way— of keeping the bug population down though. From midges (nasty little flea-like things that attack when the-everything-harvest is in full swing) to the big ol' flies, its me wee li'l friends that keep the pests at bay. Well, tolerable at least. So I find little ways to entice them to our lovely garden. From the top-knotch cuisine ("They'll like sausages right?") to the roman style bathing facilities (gotta love those plastic mushroom containers), I'm never a day without them. Even my cat enjoys the bird tea my bathing guests leave behind. Now if I could only find a way to keep the bird excrement down... hmmm....
Speaking of pests, mosquitos have found their way to this little island. Mosquitos???? Hell these things are so big and vicious you'd think I was back in Taiwan.
Bugger.
No pun intended.
Encouraging the birds and the uh nudge nudge wink wink propagatin' is one way— the green way— of keeping the bug population down though. From midges (nasty little flea-like things that attack when the-everything-harvest is in full swing) to the big ol' flies, its me wee li'l friends that keep the pests at bay. Well, tolerable at least. So I find little ways to entice them to our lovely garden. From the top-knotch cuisine ("They'll like sausages right?") to the roman style bathing facilities (gotta love those plastic mushroom containers), I'm never a day without them. Even my cat enjoys the bird tea my bathing guests leave behind. Now if I could only find a way to keep the bird excrement down... hmmm....
Speaking of pests, mosquitos have found their way to this little island. Mosquitos???? Hell these things are so big and vicious you'd think I was back in Taiwan.
Bugger.
No pun intended.
Friday 9 May 2008
Ahhhhh lov-a-lee
Its come to my attention— by my subconscious— that I've been a tad negative... and I've only written 2 entries... so I thought I'd write about the things I love about living in Suffolk, the province I consider the "51st State".
This village for one-- stunning views of low lying green valleys, flowing yellow rapeseed fields gleaming in the sun, fresh clean air.... and the people. Absolutely love the people. Can't fault them—okay well, maybe a few— but that's what makes it rich (I was gonna be positive, remember?)
Take for instance this morning. Walking to the post office, I bade a "'Mornin'" to everyone I met— and they responded! Try doing that in Florham Park, New Jersey. Even chatted to the local "Ban the Bomb" bloke— lovely fellow— who the burgermeister (yes he's back) deemed "a dangerous fellow" for his environmental views (99% of them of which I subscribe to). And all this poor man wants to do is make more wild flower meadows to enrich the ecological growth. Hmmm, sounds dangerous to me.
Right now the sun is still shining at seven in the evening. Our well-fed robins, black birds, finches, thrushes, doves and wood pigeons have stopped knicking the cat's food and are happily singing. Can't fault that.
Love it— love it.
This village for one-- stunning views of low lying green valleys, flowing yellow rapeseed fields gleaming in the sun, fresh clean air.... and the people. Absolutely love the people. Can't fault them—okay well, maybe a few— but that's what makes it rich (I was gonna be positive, remember?)
Take for instance this morning. Walking to the post office, I bade a "'Mornin'" to everyone I met— and they responded! Try doing that in Florham Park, New Jersey. Even chatted to the local "Ban the Bomb" bloke— lovely fellow— who the burgermeister (yes he's back) deemed "a dangerous fellow" for his environmental views (99% of them of which I subscribe to). And all this poor man wants to do is make more wild flower meadows to enrich the ecological growth. Hmmm, sounds dangerous to me.
Right now the sun is still shining at seven in the evening. Our well-fed robins, black birds, finches, thrushes, doves and wood pigeons have stopped knicking the cat's food and are happily singing. Can't fault that.
Love it— love it.
Thursday 8 May 2008
Hell Would've Been Better
Right-- just came back from a week in the Isle of Wight. Shouldn't been called the Isle of Wrong. Well that's not entirely true. The natives were friendly but the hotel (and I use that word loosely) was a nightmare. Spending the week in hell would've been more hospitable than a week there. Unfortunately, it was a packaged holiday-- all paid for-- and no chance of getting the money back. We were trapped like rats on a sinking ship.
The manager had more time for cashing in her check than for the guests. When one of the guests asked why they advertised TV in every bedroom when they clearly didn't work (in ANY room), the manager quickly answered, "Well you have a TV, right? We didn't say it would work."
Between moldy toasted bread for breakfast and surprise vegetarian options (the menu option was one thing but one was served some completely different slop with an indescribable sauce covering up the evidence), the food was barely edible. Serving sizes also diminished as the week progressed (perhaps a blessing in disguise.) Drinking copious amounts of overpriced, mediocre wine was the only option one had to avoid food poisoning.
Speaking of mold, black was a very popular color in (not on) their walls. We won't go there.
One night we were honored to have been served cheese with a bit of our over zealous waitress's blood on the cheddar-- yummy. And to think that on the last night, the other waitress tried to convince us that we couldn't have cheese and biscuits because "...then everyone else would want some." No problem. We'll skip the Hepatitis C tonight.
Also on the last morning the Marmite (similar to Vegemite) was not on the buffet table so we asked for more but were told there was none. Fortunately for us, a young lad found one on the floor of the kitchen which he proudly presented. What a nice boy. And to think that he found it amongst the cockroaches the kitchen is purported to have. Good eyes.
If you should decide this is the place for you (the Sherw@@d Court in Shanklin, but you didn't hear it from me) one would highly recommend getting every imaginable vaccine against all known diseases.... or plan on drinking substantial amounts of gin and tonic. For the quinine of course.
On the other hand, if you decide to visit the Isle of Wight, camping in the rough would be enormously more hygienic. THAT you heard from me.
The manager had more time for cashing in her check than for the guests. When one of the guests asked why they advertised TV in every bedroom when they clearly didn't work (in ANY room), the manager quickly answered, "Well you have a TV, right? We didn't say it would work."
Between moldy toasted bread for breakfast and surprise vegetarian options (the menu option was one thing but one was served some completely different slop with an indescribable sauce covering up the evidence), the food was barely edible. Serving sizes also diminished as the week progressed (perhaps a blessing in disguise.) Drinking copious amounts of overpriced, mediocre wine was the only option one had to avoid food poisoning.
Speaking of mold, black was a very popular color in (not on) their walls. We won't go there.
One night we were honored to have been served cheese with a bit of our over zealous waitress's blood on the cheddar-- yummy. And to think that on the last night, the other waitress tried to convince us that we couldn't have cheese and biscuits because "...then everyone else would want some." No problem. We'll skip the Hepatitis C tonight.
Also on the last morning the Marmite (similar to Vegemite) was not on the buffet table so we asked for more but were told there was none. Fortunately for us, a young lad found one on the floor of the kitchen which he proudly presented. What a nice boy. And to think that he found it amongst the cockroaches the kitchen is purported to have. Good eyes.
If you should decide this is the place for you (the Sherw@@d Court in Shanklin, but you didn't hear it from me) one would highly recommend getting every imaginable vaccine against all known diseases.... or plan on drinking substantial amounts of gin and tonic. For the quinine of course.
On the other hand, if you decide to visit the Isle of Wight, camping in the rough would be enormously more hygienic. THAT you heard from me.
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