Spoons

We have a new addition to the household: four weeks ago Bendigo arrived to cause chaos.

Right now we have a twelve-week-old golden retriever, and a nearly twelve-year-old golden retriever.

When Bendigo turned up, Kempton was unsurprisingly NOT IMPRESSED. She 'tolerated' the chewing on her ears, the wet puddles on her bed, the lack of manners, the general irritations - but only just. It took eleven days for the frost to thaw, and for more playful wrestling matches to begin. Now they are inseperable.

My hope was that Kempton, with her calm sensibility and seniority would teach the youngster how to behave. In fact, Bendigo has been teaching the old dog some new tricks, including how to dig in the garden. (The garden that we worked so hard on during lockdown.) I imagine that the pair will make it to central Australia at some point next week. So it's lucky that they snuggle up and do this, really:

Spoons: Kempton and Bendigo, nearly 12 years and nearly 12 weeks

 

Currently reading: The Rules by Tracy Darnton

To Her Adjusting Husband

Hearth-father has been backwards and forwards to work from time to time, when he hasn't been able to work from home, but mostly he has been here, self-isolating with the rest of us.

It's me who's been getting out to walk the dog daily, visit the chemist for prescriptions, get the essentials from the little supermarket at the end of the road. Me, therefore, who has seen ordinary things daily metamorphose since this 'not-lockdown lockdown' began two and half weeks ago, and accepted them without question.

It, was, therefore, something of a surprise when Hearth-father decided to come with me to walk Hearth-dog, and seemed unaware of how some of the basic 'rules' had changed.

So this comes with enormous apology to Andrew Marvell.

To Her Adjusting Husband

In this new world of ours, no time

to learn, husband, etiquette crime.

We must work out, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

To walk though, is complicated.

Our destination located

by public Station Road Gardens

Where people are; begging pardons.

Why is that gate left wide open,

you complain.  I sigh. You slope in.

(You haven't been out in ten days

- folk have already changed their ways.)

Because people are hoping not 

to touch I say, and dance gavotte

around the offending handle

trying not to be a vandal.

Let’s walk this way you enthuse

and are surprised when I refuse.

A one way system operates

while round this path we circulate

in wide two metre interval

giving good berth in principal

that we not pass by our neighbours,

make inadvertent germ transfers.

I see, you say. Is there a sign?

(How big a sign would you design?

I think, but do not out loud say.)

And we pass further on our way.

What's up with her? Her face so long, 

vaster than empires and more wrong.

Well, you should have moved out and slowed.

She had to step out in the road.

How can I tell it should be me?

She's older than you. So you see,

It’s your responsibility.

On age at least we can agree.

      But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

For one short hour is all allowed

that public space not overcrowd.

Process of self isolation 

not be taken like vacation.

At home, first task is wash our hands.

Still he argues, not understands.

We haven't touched a single thing.

But that's the world we’re living in.

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace.

     Now therefore, while we can't meet

with family just up the street,

we FaceTime to communicate.

here, husband’s in his element.

And while his willing soul transpires, 

it isn't what my heart requires.

Conversations with no concerns

to play by the rules and take turns,

all talking at once right over 

each other so that thoughts devour.

A tiny screen split into four: 

three heads in each, and maybe more.

It clefts my skull. I cannot take 

the demands on me that it make.

But that's the world we’re living in;

somehow I rise above the din.

I see I am learning to hew

a new type of etiquette too.

    Thus, though coronavirus stun

our lives, yet we will make it run.


I'm very much struggling with the compulsion for everyone to 'Zoom' and 'HouseParty' the whole time, as the final part makes clear. But we all have our crosses to bear.


Currently reading: Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift.

Parklife

I love my morning dog walk. It is a quiet time for contemplation and preparation; some fresh air and exercise; an opportunity to fortify myself for the day ahead. 

Before we moved house a couple of years ago, our walks were in wild woodland. Now that we are back in the village they are in a little public gardens up the road. I thought Kempton, our Golden Retriever and sixth family member (who suffers under the illusion that she can talk like a human), would miss the fields and acres; but actually, the fact that is more of a sociable event since she sees other dogs these days seems to be just as exciting for her. It is me who misses the fields and woods of rural Sussex living.

But Kempy has now found a new way to make what is generally a delightful experience something of a torture.

It has long been her particular mischief to do her morning business right in the middle of the large grassy area in the gardens. Now it's worth saying that this is a minor irritant. In olden days I would be 'wellied-up', (not to mention no £1000 fine for failing to pick up poo - a smart kick into the undergrowth was all that was required). Given that we now go for a walk in the nicely landscaped and pave-pathed park, I'm usually in smart clothes and work shoes. Not sartorial choices conducive to walking across muddy grass in order for one of my first actions of the day to be a poo-scoop.

But Kempy has now taken the 'central vantage point' to a whole new level. Did I mention the nice landscaping? Which has resulted in a giant grassy mound, to mimic the nearby undulating South Downs in miniature, perhaps. This is now Kempy's early-morning-dump spot of choice.

I don't know if you have, by chance, noticed the unseasonably inclement weather this June, but earlier this week it was...persistently raining. Cue me, scrabbling my way up the mound on all fours, mud-splattered and mostly slip-sliding away in an ungainly fashion, just to retrieve a wet turd.

Not exactly the blissful contemplative experience I once enjoyed. Thanks, Kempy.

Just for that, I'm going to include one of you not looking at your best:

Currently reading: Bloody Brilliant Women by Cathy Newman

Carry on Not Camping

Easter 2015 was the time that Hearth-Mother decided it would be a Good Thing to have a camping adventure in the garden.  The little people had been looking for a good excuse to set up their 'dens' and there would be space enough to pitch a proper tent close by. It might even be considered 'glamping' given the proximity and availability of electricity, heat and lighting. She reckoned without the chickens, the commuters on the A29, the three-year-old's tantrum, a snuffling retriever and a Chinook helicopter.

Two sets of our friends are camping this Easter, and reluctant to join in since our last outing two years ago when I had to be chipped from a block of ice in the middle of the night, I thought a garden expedition would be a happy compromise.

It took one evening to pitch the tent so that everything was ready for the following night. Youngest, Eddie, came home from nursery in the filthiest, blackest of exhausted tempers, and refused to wait for his campfire supper. He fell asleep in a stroppy huff on the sofa.  One down.  Not the holiday bliss I had imagined.

Three of the chickens had 'escaped' from and were careering round the garden doing what chickens do, which is mostly to poo everywhere.  Hearth-father thought it was time their wings were clipped again.  My less rational explanation was that the sight of a large purple canvas erection next to their coop was enough to send them on the run.

Kempton got over-excited and got in to the bin, so that as well as chicken excrement, our campsite was also now littered with a week's worth of decomposing rubbish.

We cooked beans and sausages on the campfire, followed by marshmallows. In a fit of guilt at all the fun we were having I decided to wake up Eddie to see if he wanted to join in.  Big mistake. The pre-supper tantrum was just a warm-up for the screaming and relentless sobbing all over the garden he had planned for the rest of the evening.

Just as we got all three sleeping (and overcame the difficulty of Eddie getting his bottom all the way into his sleeping bag) a pair of helicopters decided to circle low over the house with searchlights, so that we felt like we were in the middle of a James Bond film at the very least.

By the time we settled everyone again the roaring traffic of the A29 was just about to begin for the morning rush hour. (Or so it seemed!)  I was under this strange illusion that we lived in a rural area, but it transpires that our main road is more like the M1 first thing in the morning. The over-efficiency of the heater meant that the previous year's defrosting wasn't necessary; in fact we all woke up with a bit of a sweat on.  One that had absolutely no relation to the amount of red wine I felt it necessary to consume in order to sleep five in our four-man tent.

'Again, again!' said the kids in the morning, like demented Teletubbies.

But that nonsense is all over for another year, at least.

(Although I do, inadvertently, appear to have book a yurt for us all to stay in for the Hay Festival next month.  Whoops...)



Currently reading: A Handful of Dust by Evelyn Waugh

A Bird in the Hand...

This morning it was my turn to walk the dog. (I say 'turn', which suggests that we alternate in an equal sharing of responsibility. In practice it usually works in a weekly ratio of about 1:6, so more often than not, it is my 'turn'. Never mind, I like it.)

Since we are 'not far from the madding crowd', I feel a quotation from Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is apt to illustrate this story. It describes Fanny Robin trying to fling a lump of snow at the correct window of the barracks to catch the attention of her lover, Sergeant Troy:

'...a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth window. It smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark. The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a woman. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown here.'

Far from accusing dear Thomas Hardy of blatant sexism, I am, on this occasion, forced to agree with him in relation to the quality of my own throwing ability. A fact which has not gone unnoticed (or indeed uncommented on) by my cricket-playing husband. So, for Christmas last year, said husband bought me a strange apparatus known as a 'ballflinger' which, with the aid of a flexible plastic arm enables the user to perform a throw, the resulting arc and distance of which James Anderson would be proud. This is very useful for tiring out a big dog on short walks.

This morning I employed the ball-flinger and several retrievals of the ball were made by our retriever. She is always very good at finding the ball, but occasionally reluctant to relinquish it. I have to coax it from her, or drag it forcibly from her mouth. But it was about the fourth go that I got a little more than I bargained for. She took a little while longer than usual to locate the ball, but then came bounding back with her usual enthusiasm. The tail wag and playful pounce alerted me to the fact that she was unlikely to let the ball go easily, so I reached down ready for slimy tennis ball....and got a handful of...dead bird. Definitely not worth two in the bush, I can tell you.

Thanks, Kempy.

Starry Nights, Red Wine and Birdshot

Last night the two big kids got to stay with Grumps and Mumps, leaving Daddy and I in charge of one baby who sleeps from 7pm right through to at least 7am without a murmur.

The Saturday night excitement was palpable as we settled down with Thai take-away in front of 'Strictly'. Knowing that an easy morning and a lie-in of sorts awaited, I poured myself a generous glass of red wine whilst Daddy got a roaring fire going (one of life's true pleasures for this Hearth-mother).

The mountain of dirty washing resulting from Gertie's bout of sickness could momentarily be forgotten. I think it may have been caused by the overwhelming responsibility of playing the 'star' in her nativity:

Me: The Star? Why that's lovely darling, is it a speaking part?
Gertie: No, Mummy, but I have to lead the wise men!

So whilst the evening couldn't exactly be described as rock 'n roll, it was what counts as blissful these days.

Until Kempton, our still very puppy-ish golden retriever, knocked the red wine glass flying with an errant tail. Half a bottle of red wine (I told you it was a generous glass) over cream carpet doth not a happy husband make. Kempton was briefly banished and much swearing and scrubbing ensued. But I was cheered by the entry in 'IT MUST BE TRUE...I read it in the tabloids from Friday's The Week:

A man from Utah was rushed to hospital after being shot in the buttocks by his own dog. The unnamed 46-year-old was out duck hunting when the dog stepped on his 12-gauge shotgun, causing it to go off. Police said the man was hit from ten feet away with 27 pellets of birdshot.

It rather put Kempton's misdemeanour into perspective. The stain will always remind me that at least I wasn't shot in the buttocks.

It's Such a Perfect Day Until...

Let me paint a picture of the Easter harmony and domestic bliss that issued forth from our home yesterday.

The sun is shining and we are in a kind of paradise, our very own walled garden. The children are having fun and their shrieks and laughter drown out the noise of the traffic from the A29 rushing past, so that you could almost imagine you were really in the countryside.

Both children had a sleep simultaneously following their morning swim, so that I have been able to get lots of housework done and do some of the enormous pile of Easter marking that I have brought home with me, so that I don't have The Guilt, and am actually able to sit outside and enjoy the afternoon.

I am on a sun lounger with a book. And although at 20 weeks I already resemble a beach ball with protruding limbs, my children are not judgemental. They are both smothered in enough factor-bastard suncream to last the England cricket team on an entire tour of Australia, so I don't have to worry about sunburn. Gertie is alternating between bouncing on her trampoline and splashing in the paddling pool with her little brother. We had the foresight to fill it up early this morning, so it is now sun-warmed and a very pleasant temperature. Gilby is content to sit in the two inches of water and steadily empty it out using a variety of plastic cups and containers onto the lawn (recently mown and not entirely overgrown). The bare patches of grass are covered with strips of turf, which, whilst not yet properly laid, at least give the impression of an expanse of green instead of a sea of mud.

The three vines we planted in a fit of optimism are still standing upright in their respective places rather than having been uprooted and dragged across the garden by the puppy as they have been most mornings this week. In fact, Kempton is uncharacteristically restrained, and none of the children's toys have yet been chewed today. She is not bothering the chickens, and the cat, in turn, is not bothering Kempton. The new garden furniture is fully assembled and in a shady part of the garden ready for when we all get too hot later on. It is 'rattan effect' and not the rattan itself that we thought we were buying, but we are over that now.

Peace reigns.

In my head, I hear the strains of Lou Reed: It's such a perfect day/I'm glad I spent it with you....

Gilby decides that he wants to strip off and be a 'nunga punga', and so his sister joins him. Together they run around the garden playing happily and cool off in the water from time to time.

And then, I suddenly hear, "Naughty Kempton, naughty Kempton!" I look up from my book. Something is wrong with the paddling pool. It has gone a funny colour. Strange things are floating in it. What on earth could Kempton have done? And then the truth reveals itself.

I mentally change the words of the song in my head: It's such a perfect day/Until Gilby does a poo...

I'm not sure which was worse; the fact that he did it, or the fact that he tried to blame it on the dog!