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Lucy’s column for April 29
Not only was I a fat little kid, born weighing eleven pounds, but was lumbered with the kind of moniker, Lucy Seymour, which cried out for cat-calling of the Loose-Elastic, See-More-Knickers, variety.
I also wore specs from the age of five, so Speccy-Four-Eyes was never far from anybody’s lips, and I always had to sit on the front row of the class to see the blackboard, which had me down as a bit of a swot. Which I wasn’t, because my main aim in life was to move to the back and create mischief with my mates
It’s taken 64 years to move, metaphorically, to the back row. Because I’m writing this column without any visual aids. As from a couple of weeks ago, I can read a newspaper or book, spot sparrows and starlings without wondering which was which, identify a daffodil from a dandelion from the kitchen window at twenty paces, see number plates and bus destinations, all without peering, squinting, or resorting to the dreaded bi-focals.
And it’s all down to the skills, dedication, and patience of Mr Praknash Puri and his team in the eye clinic at the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary, a department long recognised as one of the finest in the country. Over many years on this newspaper, I’ve written stories on the miracles performed there on people who have been blind for most of their lives. This, it seems, is my very own miracle cure. I’ve had cataracts removed from my right eye. It’s like being re-born. Only the left eye to go. And aye, there’s the rub…..
Bear in mind that I’m a bit of a wimp in the eye department. Not only could I not consider popping contact lenses in and out without breaking out in a cold sweat, I come over all faint watching other people do the deed. So for me, it was not so much a sight-restoring experience, more an ordeal which will, once more, have to be faced. You see, there’s baddie in all this. So stand up and be counted, Dr Ian Whitehead. Oh, he’s handsome, humorous, reassuring, unassuming, apologetic….but he’s an anaesthetist, and earns a living freezing folks’s eyeballs. Not a pretty thought! And not the most pleasurable experience when you’re on the receiving end.
Actually, when Ian’s done his dastardly deed – and somebody has to be the fall guy – it’s all downhill as Mr Puri puts a bag over your head, clamps your eyelids open, and performs his magic. Hear the cataracts breaking down? It sounded like a chain saw at work in my head. And was I miffed when he suggested that if I stopped talking, he’d concentrate better? What do women do when their nerves are in shreds? They gabble.
I reckon the whole darned cataracts team on Ward 16 was aware they had a coward in their midst that day, from John, the theatre manager, to Gill whose job it is to meet and greet, and nurse Ann whose hands must still bear the scars left behind by my fingernails as I gripped her for support.
They worked their expertise in the preparation, operation, and importantly, comfort, department on 32 patients that day. Everybody else on theatre trolleys appeared up-beat and relaxed. All those I’ve spoken before or since, who’ve undergone the cataracts op, have taken it in their stride. One of them, my friend Rose Skivington, who can give me ten years when it comes to age, was bewildered by the fuss I made. Not only did she not give a jot about the entire operation, she even went home in a taxi, and was capable of putting in her own drops.
Oh heck, don’t mention the eye drops. Two lots are administered, eight times a day, for nigh-on three weeks. There’s more Maxidex and Chloramphenicol gurgling in my right ear because it’s failed to reach target, than you can find on a chemist’s shelf. Half-way through the blessed 21-day ritual, and we’re bordering on divorce. Himself has taken over the torturous task, and takes some perverse delight of being in charge of a dropper bottle, a highly-sensitive, blood-shot orifice, and a whimpering wreck who once was the brave, stoic wife who beat breast cancer.
He stands over me with a demonic gleam in his eye, positions my head at a neck-breaking angle, pulls down the lower lid, places the offending plastic thing too close for comfort, and, without fail, utters the words : "Hang on a minute. And don’t blink." The two comments don’t exactly go together. And neither will we, if this nightmare continues.
Eyelo..2
But so far, the resulting vistas and visions are well worth the pain, the traumas, and the rows. I trust this version of events hasn’t put off anybody on the eye clinic waiting list, because bear in mind that heroines are made of sterner stuff than yours truly, and there really are bright lights at the end of that cataract-infested tunnel.
I can’t thank enough Mr Puri and the eye-problem staff at the DRI.
I reserve judgement on Ian. He really should get a proper job…….
end
Tuesday 29 April 2008
Tuesday 15 April 2008
Mince
Lucy’s column for April 15th
Mincelo…1
I’ll never forget the look of downright horror on the old man’s face when he was presented with a plate of steak tartare.
It was during a working lunch at a rather smart restaurant in the village of Waterhouses. Guest of honour, in his role as designer of the greenery in the restaurant’s new conservatory, was none other than gardener-to-the-rich-and-famous Roddy Llewelyn. And, since it was around the time of his alleged affair with the late Princess Margaret, the Press were out in force. Including me and himself.
The idea was that we each selected a starter, tried it, and passed it on. It must have been that those old faithfuls – tomato soup or prawn cocktail, he never did have a sense of adventure – had already been chosen. So he was stuck with steak tartare, which he, who’d never been anywhere posh enough to come across it before, assumed was something fancy with a dollop of tartare sauce on the side. But as all we sophisticates know, it isn’t.
The dish of raw beef and uncooked egg turned his face forty shades of green. It hadn’t seen so much as a match. To my acute embarrassment, he left the table holding his stomach and his throat. Heaven knows what dear old Rodders made of it, and I thank my lucky stars that the rest of the gourmets had polished it off on its rounds before it got to my turn. I, too, like my meat cremated.
Apart from my choice – lobster, a portion so small I could have got it in my eye – it must have been with priciest piece on the menu. So over to the bureaucrats in Brussels, who are in the process of up-grading our humble mince, a family’s stable standby, to steak tartare standards.
Pretty soon, our favourite low-fat, Scottish beef mince – often two packs for a fiver at the supermarket, and perhaps even cheaper than that at a proper butcher’s – could be in the gourmet bracket. It may be even cheaper to dine on lobster. But lobster doesn’t have the same versatility.
We have mince at Orgill Towers at least once a week, in a variety of guises. What other commodity could a thrifty housewife turn into spag bol, rissoles, burgers, Cornish pasty, cottage pie, meat loaf, chilli con carne, lasagne, or simply turn out in delicious, runny mounds on to mash or rice? Life may be too short to stuff a mushroom, but lop the top off a pepper, or flatten a vine leaf, and they’re both crying out to have their innards lined with the tasty concoction.
The European Union has straightened our cucumbers, insisted on uniformity and labelling for every item of fruit and veg, and taken the flavouring from some of our crisps – not that I ever fancied the hedgehog variety, but that’s not the point.
But they can keep their mitts off the mince which has been the staple of suppers and snacks for generations. And we promise not to mess with their gritty mussels.
End
Domlo..1
There have been pub domino leagues, and the noble game played round our family’s tables, for as long as I can remember. In my childhood, if the grown-ups weren’t playing solo – which was a bit too complicated for kids to join in – they were playing dommies. Which we could. Given a strong wind, a half-decent handful of the spotted woods, and indulgent parents and older sisters, I could run to two ounces of pear drops with a weekend’s winnings by the time I was seven.
According to reports, dominoes is staging a comeback, taking over from computer games, with John Lewis claiming that sales of the game are up 20 per cent. And at £4 a box, compared with the extortionate cost of the battery-powered toys, electronic game consoles, or PlayStations, it’s entertainment value for money. (And on a serious side, it teaches kids how to count, be patient, use their mind and memory skills, and partake in team-play).
Domlo…2
This renaissance of such a simplistic yet joyful game has moved on a tad since we played for one old penny a game. A recent world championship in Jamaica had a £75,000 prize fund. And we also hear that the likes of the Beckhams, the Tom Cruises, and Demi Moore, are embracing it. And they’re the so-called trend-setters.
But it’s never been out of fashion in our neck-of-the-woods, and on a recent holiday in Mallorca, with Derby’s first lady of jazz Mave Pinkney and husband Ken Monk, we spent our evenings, in front of a log fire, arguing, amusing ourselves, falling off the sofas with hilarity, as we practised our skills at fives and threes. It’s a game for all the family.
So when you go shopping next, mums and dads, don’t go for a Wii. Get a box of dommies.
end
Mincelo…1
I’ll never forget the look of downright horror on the old man’s face when he was presented with a plate of steak tartare.
It was during a working lunch at a rather smart restaurant in the village of Waterhouses. Guest of honour, in his role as designer of the greenery in the restaurant’s new conservatory, was none other than gardener-to-the-rich-and-famous Roddy Llewelyn. And, since it was around the time of his alleged affair with the late Princess Margaret, the Press were out in force. Including me and himself.
The idea was that we each selected a starter, tried it, and passed it on. It must have been that those old faithfuls – tomato soup or prawn cocktail, he never did have a sense of adventure – had already been chosen. So he was stuck with steak tartare, which he, who’d never been anywhere posh enough to come across it before, assumed was something fancy with a dollop of tartare sauce on the side. But as all we sophisticates know, it isn’t.
The dish of raw beef and uncooked egg turned his face forty shades of green. It hadn’t seen so much as a match. To my acute embarrassment, he left the table holding his stomach and his throat. Heaven knows what dear old Rodders made of it, and I thank my lucky stars that the rest of the gourmets had polished it off on its rounds before it got to my turn. I, too, like my meat cremated.
Apart from my choice – lobster, a portion so small I could have got it in my eye – it must have been with priciest piece on the menu. So over to the bureaucrats in Brussels, who are in the process of up-grading our humble mince, a family’s stable standby, to steak tartare standards.
Pretty soon, our favourite low-fat, Scottish beef mince – often two packs for a fiver at the supermarket, and perhaps even cheaper than that at a proper butcher’s – could be in the gourmet bracket. It may be even cheaper to dine on lobster. But lobster doesn’t have the same versatility.
We have mince at Orgill Towers at least once a week, in a variety of guises. What other commodity could a thrifty housewife turn into spag bol, rissoles, burgers, Cornish pasty, cottage pie, meat loaf, chilli con carne, lasagne, or simply turn out in delicious, runny mounds on to mash or rice? Life may be too short to stuff a mushroom, but lop the top off a pepper, or flatten a vine leaf, and they’re both crying out to have their innards lined with the tasty concoction.
The European Union has straightened our cucumbers, insisted on uniformity and labelling for every item of fruit and veg, and taken the flavouring from some of our crisps – not that I ever fancied the hedgehog variety, but that’s not the point.
But they can keep their mitts off the mince which has been the staple of suppers and snacks for generations. And we promise not to mess with their gritty mussels.
End
Domlo..1
There have been pub domino leagues, and the noble game played round our family’s tables, for as long as I can remember. In my childhood, if the grown-ups weren’t playing solo – which was a bit too complicated for kids to join in – they were playing dommies. Which we could. Given a strong wind, a half-decent handful of the spotted woods, and indulgent parents and older sisters, I could run to two ounces of pear drops with a weekend’s winnings by the time I was seven.
According to reports, dominoes is staging a comeback, taking over from computer games, with John Lewis claiming that sales of the game are up 20 per cent. And at £4 a box, compared with the extortionate cost of the battery-powered toys, electronic game consoles, or PlayStations, it’s entertainment value for money. (And on a serious side, it teaches kids how to count, be patient, use their mind and memory skills, and partake in team-play).
Domlo…2
This renaissance of such a simplistic yet joyful game has moved on a tad since we played for one old penny a game. A recent world championship in Jamaica had a £75,000 prize fund. And we also hear that the likes of the Beckhams, the Tom Cruises, and Demi Moore, are embracing it. And they’re the so-called trend-setters.
But it’s never been out of fashion in our neck-of-the-woods, and on a recent holiday in Mallorca, with Derby’s first lady of jazz Mave Pinkney and husband Ken Monk, we spent our evenings, in front of a log fire, arguing, amusing ourselves, falling off the sofas with hilarity, as we practised our skills at fives and threes. It’s a game for all the family.
So when you go shopping next, mums and dads, don’t go for a Wii. Get a box of dommies.
end
Wednesday 9 April 2008
A Kept Woman
Lucy’s column for April 8th
Birthlo..1
If I’m reading it right, I’m about to become a kept woman.
It means giving up my day job, jetting hither and thither, first class, perhaps, weekly hair-dos and acrylic nail jobs, designer frocks, and no need to run for the hills when the bank statement comes. Yes, he’s recently reached the era of the old age pension. And my, isn’t it going to stretch us into the realms of luxury living?
As anybody on the receiving end of the pitiful pittance will confirm, all that is in my dreams. He means well, bless the hole-y socks he insists on wearing, when brand-new, still-in-the-pack, cotton-and-silk-mix pairs still languish, untouched, in his knicker drawer. The older he gets, the more like his late father he becomes. Eccentric. And slightly dotty.
Now, I loved my father-in-law to bits, and he indulged us all come Christmas and birthdays – I used to get such huge "coffrettes" of Clinique stuff that I often ended up giving some away. He wasn’t short of a bob or two. If him indoors mentioned a particular bottle of wine or brandy brand, it was in our booze cupboard before we could say "slurp". Our kids could always rely on a generous financial gesture. But to see him trundling his trolley on his twice-weekly shop to the village, you’d think he hadn’t two ha’pennies to rub together. His whole life was in that trolley pocket – bank books, photos of his late wife, rain hat, scarf, and a list of "things to do on my death", involving company pension, state pension, probate, chosen funeral director, whatever.
When, turned 80, he sadly shuffled off this mortal coil, we found brand new shirts, sweaters, gloves, jackets, we’d treated him to over the years. Then came the cut up cereal cartons he’d use as shopping lists, and a pantry full of tinned fruit salad, and Ambrosia Creamed Rice, Camp Coffee, and Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pies. Tinned.
And as I watch the old man doing the same daily trudge – we have two papers delivered, he insists on "popping out" for a couple more, plus the running-out-of-bread-and-milk essentials – I reckon he’s morphing into his dad. Which is no bad thing. Except he’s getting old before his time – nearly 15 years before his dad did.
Come his 65th, son Simon and daughter-in-law Claire displayed their powers of observation. How they must have hooted as they searched the stores – and Burton Market – for his commencement-of-old-age birthday gifts. Grandchildren Jacob and Grace trolled in with a balloon-bearing shopping trolley, rubber wheeled, adjustable handled, chav-checked design. From inside, beautifully wrapped, emerged tins of fruit salad, creamed rice, Camp Coffee, steak and kidney pies. These were, announced Simon, the sort of stuff you find in every old knacker’s pantry.
The parcels included a pair of slipper bootees with zips up the front. The design was only two pom-poms short of the ones they’ve promised me for my 70th.
But they did redeem themselves in their little joke. Because nestling in the trolley pocket, which is where, one day, he’ll keep the will, the pension book, and perhaps a photo of me, circa 1970, was Great British Menu Challenge winner Marcus Wareing’s cookery tome, on How to cook the perfect….. You see, when I had my recent loss-of-sight fright, he promised he’d learn to cook. This was their discreet hint.
I’m not holding my breath. A list of Mr Wareing’s suggestions, such as Plan Ahead, Make a Shopping List, Dress the Part (him, in a pinny?), Be Prepared, Tidy and Clean as you Go, Read the Recipe, Organise, and Enjoy Cooking, just aren’t in keeping with the man who, after 65 years, can just about perfect a pan of frozen peas – prodding knife, and stop-watch, at the ready.
Home-made soup, seared tuna, sichuan chicken, lemon posset with hot, spiced fruits, and pan-fried scallops may beckon. But given his easy-peasy larder starter, I envisage nothing more home made or exotic than a bit of Biddy Baxter’s gruel, tinned salmon, ditto fruit salad, and an economy portion from the local chippy. And if anybody sees a pensioner with a pull-along, he doesn’t belong to me.
Risklo..1
Meg Munn is the Foreign Office minister who’s issued a health warning to the over 55s : having a good time on holiday involves risks. I’m reminded of the late, and lovely, Agnes Lloyd, mother of the prematurely-demised Terry (ITN reporter) and Kevin (Tosh, The Bill), who was a regular holiday companion. I’ve witnessed Agnes fly – and fall off - round Cala Bona bay on a speedy sausage, and whizz down bumpy water chutes with grandchildren Chelsey and Oliver, at the speed of sound. She was nearer 80 than 70 at the time. She was the feisty one who’d protest : "Oh, I don’t really drink" – and three Bacardi and Cokes later, was chuckling her way to the next bar. She was the one who insisted on sharing a room with her hot, demanding and fidgety grandchildren – but was up at 7 am next day, whacking us all round the heads with our chosen newspaper. Risk? Happiness and satisfaction personified, I’d say.
Birthlo..1
If I’m reading it right, I’m about to become a kept woman.
It means giving up my day job, jetting hither and thither, first class, perhaps, weekly hair-dos and acrylic nail jobs, designer frocks, and no need to run for the hills when the bank statement comes. Yes, he’s recently reached the era of the old age pension. And my, isn’t it going to stretch us into the realms of luxury living?
As anybody on the receiving end of the pitiful pittance will confirm, all that is in my dreams. He means well, bless the hole-y socks he insists on wearing, when brand-new, still-in-the-pack, cotton-and-silk-mix pairs still languish, untouched, in his knicker drawer. The older he gets, the more like his late father he becomes. Eccentric. And slightly dotty.
Now, I loved my father-in-law to bits, and he indulged us all come Christmas and birthdays – I used to get such huge "coffrettes" of Clinique stuff that I often ended up giving some away. He wasn’t short of a bob or two. If him indoors mentioned a particular bottle of wine or brandy brand, it was in our booze cupboard before we could say "slurp". Our kids could always rely on a generous financial gesture. But to see him trundling his trolley on his twice-weekly shop to the village, you’d think he hadn’t two ha’pennies to rub together. His whole life was in that trolley pocket – bank books, photos of his late wife, rain hat, scarf, and a list of "things to do on my death", involving company pension, state pension, probate, chosen funeral director, whatever.
When, turned 80, he sadly shuffled off this mortal coil, we found brand new shirts, sweaters, gloves, jackets, we’d treated him to over the years. Then came the cut up cereal cartons he’d use as shopping lists, and a pantry full of tinned fruit salad, and Ambrosia Creamed Rice, Camp Coffee, and Fray Bentos Steak and Kidney Pies. Tinned.
And as I watch the old man doing the same daily trudge – we have two papers delivered, he insists on "popping out" for a couple more, plus the running-out-of-bread-and-milk essentials – I reckon he’s morphing into his dad. Which is no bad thing. Except he’s getting old before his time – nearly 15 years before his dad did.
Come his 65th, son Simon and daughter-in-law Claire displayed their powers of observation. How they must have hooted as they searched the stores – and Burton Market – for his commencement-of-old-age birthday gifts. Grandchildren Jacob and Grace trolled in with a balloon-bearing shopping trolley, rubber wheeled, adjustable handled, chav-checked design. From inside, beautifully wrapped, emerged tins of fruit salad, creamed rice, Camp Coffee, steak and kidney pies. These were, announced Simon, the sort of stuff you find in every old knacker’s pantry.
The parcels included a pair of slipper bootees with zips up the front. The design was only two pom-poms short of the ones they’ve promised me for my 70th.
But they did redeem themselves in their little joke. Because nestling in the trolley pocket, which is where, one day, he’ll keep the will, the pension book, and perhaps a photo of me, circa 1970, was Great British Menu Challenge winner Marcus Wareing’s cookery tome, on How to cook the perfect….. You see, when I had my recent loss-of-sight fright, he promised he’d learn to cook. This was their discreet hint.
I’m not holding my breath. A list of Mr Wareing’s suggestions, such as Plan Ahead, Make a Shopping List, Dress the Part (him, in a pinny?), Be Prepared, Tidy and Clean as you Go, Read the Recipe, Organise, and Enjoy Cooking, just aren’t in keeping with the man who, after 65 years, can just about perfect a pan of frozen peas – prodding knife, and stop-watch, at the ready.
Home-made soup, seared tuna, sichuan chicken, lemon posset with hot, spiced fruits, and pan-fried scallops may beckon. But given his easy-peasy larder starter, I envisage nothing more home made or exotic than a bit of Biddy Baxter’s gruel, tinned salmon, ditto fruit salad, and an economy portion from the local chippy. And if anybody sees a pensioner with a pull-along, he doesn’t belong to me.
Risklo..1
Meg Munn is the Foreign Office minister who’s issued a health warning to the over 55s : having a good time on holiday involves risks. I’m reminded of the late, and lovely, Agnes Lloyd, mother of the prematurely-demised Terry (ITN reporter) and Kevin (Tosh, The Bill), who was a regular holiday companion. I’ve witnessed Agnes fly – and fall off - round Cala Bona bay on a speedy sausage, and whizz down bumpy water chutes with grandchildren Chelsey and Oliver, at the speed of sound. She was nearer 80 than 70 at the time. She was the feisty one who’d protest : "Oh, I don’t really drink" – and three Bacardi and Cokes later, was chuckling her way to the next bar. She was the one who insisted on sharing a room with her hot, demanding and fidgety grandchildren – but was up at 7 am next day, whacking us all round the heads with our chosen newspaper. Risk? Happiness and satisfaction personified, I’d say.
Wednesday 2 April 2008
Rampant Rodents
Lucy’s column for April 1.
Mouselo..1
It’s all the cat’s fault.
Ower Annie, pushing nineteen, incontinent, spiteful, selectively blind, deaf, and slightly dotty, faddy, fussy but only on her own terms, with creaking joints, and the penchant for the hottest spot in the house which comes with old age, brought us a furry little present a couple of weeks ago – a tiny mouse.
As any cat owner will know, these feline pets bring in these little pests, drop them at your feet, whack ‘em round the head a couple of times, and dare them to move. Well, this one moved a bit too quickly for our geriatric, which shows such signs of wonky joints when she walks up the stairs we have been known to carry her. And her prey got away.
We had but a brief glimpse of this scuttling creature, but enough to take in the little brown body, big ears, twitching whiskers, and look of terror on its pretty face. Aaah, the poor, defenceless soul. We left it to the fate which usually ends in death at the claws of a cat. And sure enough, a couple of days later, after a bit of a battle going on outside the bedroom door at 5 am, it was there – dead, demised, a former field mouse. And she sat there with a grin of Cheshire proportions on her smug chops.
We were, actually, quite proud of Annie. For a couple of years now, she’s viewed birds from THEIR safety of her favourite spot on a windowsill by a radiator, where she’s made throaty noises and slobbered a lot, but done nothing like venturing out and going for the kill. It must be five years since we’ve had a moose, loose, aboot this hoose. She’s the gel who sits at the cat flap for hours, then hobbles off and tiddles on the dining room carpet (that’s another story – we’ve just taken it up and replaced it with something bordering on floor boards, which don’t have the same soak-ability appeal).
But it doesn’t end there.
After her triumph on the landing, our one-time garden-sport champion abandoned beds, radiators, and the back of the easy chair where the sun shines through, to keep a vigil in a corner of the kitchen. She sniffed, sighed occasionally, and focused her rheumy eyes on the space under a sofa-bed. Suspicious by now, we put down bits of chocolate, cheese, and cashew nuts, and morning after morning, they had disappeared. With our thoughts on the boldness and bravery of this reluctant rodent, we kept up the soup kitchen for a few days. Well, it was soooo cute to look at, and clever enough to outwit the cat, it deserved a bit of pampering.
But there are no fools like a couple of old fools. And when, in a sudden rush of blood to the head, I decided one night to plump up the cushions on the rather smart sofa ( Hunter’s, Derby, no less), we discovered that the rotten little rodent had chewed up a chunk of the fluff-filled mattress cover. And there, lurking betwixt the mouse droppings, were bits of chewed chocolate and nuts, making it all a veritable cosy home-from-home with en-suite pantry.
With one mouse in our garden graveyard, and another alive, kicking, obviously nesting, we put one and one together and had visions of an entire nursery. Panic struck. Traps were installed. And yes, we caught the little blighter. But just the one. Tempted by cheap-ish chocolate, it succumbed to the bait. But this wasn’t just an ordinary, zap-it, decapitate-it, trap. This was a cleverly-balanced, don’t-harm-it, humane trap. And as the cat hovered at a reasonable distance, I took it out, and released the pampered contents in the garden. Next door’s.
The "virgin" traps are still in position. And there’s a letter to Hunter’s, pleading for a new mattress cover.
end
Springlo…1
Easter-time, along with the traditional fare of spring lamb and spring greens, always involved the annual spring clean – you recall, that time of year when your mothers and grannies could polish off the pattern on the lino, beat seven bells out of the hearth-rugs, lime-wash the outside loo, and give the eiderdowns an airing. Out came the contents of cupboards and drawers, and the whole house was pandemonium for at least a week.
Those paragons of housework virtue, Aggie ‘n’ Kim, are still advocating this annual torture, to which, I confess, I’ve never felt the urge to subscribe, preferring the Quentin Crisp train of thought that, after four years, the dust doesn’t get any thicker. Or, to quote a plaque on my friend Granny Annie Colville’s sitting room wall : "The dust is here to protect the furniture." But the daffy queens of clean have teamed up with Sue Ryder Care, asking spring-cleaners to donate unwanted items lurking in those dim and dismal corners to SRC shops. It’s a commendable idea, and I’m willing to assist any charity.
They start off by suggesting : "Draw back the curtains, open the windows, and let the spring sunshine flood in." Yes, I’ve done that. Now what?
Mouselo..1
It’s all the cat’s fault.
Ower Annie, pushing nineteen, incontinent, spiteful, selectively blind, deaf, and slightly dotty, faddy, fussy but only on her own terms, with creaking joints, and the penchant for the hottest spot in the house which comes with old age, brought us a furry little present a couple of weeks ago – a tiny mouse.
As any cat owner will know, these feline pets bring in these little pests, drop them at your feet, whack ‘em round the head a couple of times, and dare them to move. Well, this one moved a bit too quickly for our geriatric, which shows such signs of wonky joints when she walks up the stairs we have been known to carry her. And her prey got away.
We had but a brief glimpse of this scuttling creature, but enough to take in the little brown body, big ears, twitching whiskers, and look of terror on its pretty face. Aaah, the poor, defenceless soul. We left it to the fate which usually ends in death at the claws of a cat. And sure enough, a couple of days later, after a bit of a battle going on outside the bedroom door at 5 am, it was there – dead, demised, a former field mouse. And she sat there with a grin of Cheshire proportions on her smug chops.
We were, actually, quite proud of Annie. For a couple of years now, she’s viewed birds from THEIR safety of her favourite spot on a windowsill by a radiator, where she’s made throaty noises and slobbered a lot, but done nothing like venturing out and going for the kill. It must be five years since we’ve had a moose, loose, aboot this hoose. She’s the gel who sits at the cat flap for hours, then hobbles off and tiddles on the dining room carpet (that’s another story – we’ve just taken it up and replaced it with something bordering on floor boards, which don’t have the same soak-ability appeal).
But it doesn’t end there.
After her triumph on the landing, our one-time garden-sport champion abandoned beds, radiators, and the back of the easy chair where the sun shines through, to keep a vigil in a corner of the kitchen. She sniffed, sighed occasionally, and focused her rheumy eyes on the space under a sofa-bed. Suspicious by now, we put down bits of chocolate, cheese, and cashew nuts, and morning after morning, they had disappeared. With our thoughts on the boldness and bravery of this reluctant rodent, we kept up the soup kitchen for a few days. Well, it was soooo cute to look at, and clever enough to outwit the cat, it deserved a bit of pampering.
But there are no fools like a couple of old fools. And when, in a sudden rush of blood to the head, I decided one night to plump up the cushions on the rather smart sofa ( Hunter’s, Derby, no less), we discovered that the rotten little rodent had chewed up a chunk of the fluff-filled mattress cover. And there, lurking betwixt the mouse droppings, were bits of chewed chocolate and nuts, making it all a veritable cosy home-from-home with en-suite pantry.
With one mouse in our garden graveyard, and another alive, kicking, obviously nesting, we put one and one together and had visions of an entire nursery. Panic struck. Traps were installed. And yes, we caught the little blighter. But just the one. Tempted by cheap-ish chocolate, it succumbed to the bait. But this wasn’t just an ordinary, zap-it, decapitate-it, trap. This was a cleverly-balanced, don’t-harm-it, humane trap. And as the cat hovered at a reasonable distance, I took it out, and released the pampered contents in the garden. Next door’s.
The "virgin" traps are still in position. And there’s a letter to Hunter’s, pleading for a new mattress cover.
end
Springlo…1
Easter-time, along with the traditional fare of spring lamb and spring greens, always involved the annual spring clean – you recall, that time of year when your mothers and grannies could polish off the pattern on the lino, beat seven bells out of the hearth-rugs, lime-wash the outside loo, and give the eiderdowns an airing. Out came the contents of cupboards and drawers, and the whole house was pandemonium for at least a week.
Those paragons of housework virtue, Aggie ‘n’ Kim, are still advocating this annual torture, to which, I confess, I’ve never felt the urge to subscribe, preferring the Quentin Crisp train of thought that, after four years, the dust doesn’t get any thicker. Or, to quote a plaque on my friend Granny Annie Colville’s sitting room wall : "The dust is here to protect the furniture." But the daffy queens of clean have teamed up with Sue Ryder Care, asking spring-cleaners to donate unwanted items lurking in those dim and dismal corners to SRC shops. It’s a commendable idea, and I’m willing to assist any charity.
They start off by suggesting : "Draw back the curtains, open the windows, and let the spring sunshine flood in." Yes, I’ve done that. Now what?
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