The world from my window

Miss Pettigrew lived for a day, at least in our village hall last night. Every month or so, we have a visit from the cinema, right on our doorstep, and last night Mrs Pelly Sheepwash and I sauntered up and took our seats. It's a light film, with plenty of froth, stagey acting and lovely 30s sets and costumes. Nothing much happens, plenty of people pretending to be what they are not, falling in love and the leading lady gets her man at the end. I love film, from highbrow serious to Star Wars and Jungle Book. And I love the experience of going 'out' to watch one. What I am not too keen on is noisy people behind me. And last night there were three of them. Hooting with laughter at scenes that were really not that funny, stating the obvious at quiet, poignant moments and wolfing down three Tupperware containers full of salad and cous cous. I remember once, at one of these film shows, a man at the front complained very loudly to the projectionist that there was the shadow of a h

I heard on the radio yesterday that all you need to keep well and fit is 30 seconds of exercise at full blast every day. So if you get on an exercise bike and pedal like mad for half a minute, hey presto you become fit. Sounds good to me. At the risk of sounding like Deryck Guyler, who played the caretaker in Please Sir ('I used to be in't Desert Rats y'know'), I once cycled from Italy to Spain across the foothills of the Alps and the Pyrenees. But now I would struggle to get to the next village. So I don't. My exercise these days is walking briskly with the dogs in the field at the top of this blog. Mr Grigg on the other hand is always talking about getting fit but that's all he does - talk about it. The closest he got was last Sunday when he did bar press ups in the pub and sipped his pint of cider on the way down before coming back up again. It is the Year of the Ox and I am delighted. Why? It's my year. I seem to have missed it last time around, 12 yea

I don't wish to pile more gloom and doom on an already saturated gloomy and doomy situation. But someone asked me a couple of weeks ago if I actually knew anyone who had been affected by the recession. At the time, it was only my daughter who had been hit. I say 'only'. As a young mum with a mortgage and a wedding later this year, she wasn't expecting it. But the people she worked for had to trim their cloth according to their sails and, woomph, Number One Daughter was pushed overboard. She coped, of course. She always does. Got herself work within days via Facebook and now juggles three jobs and breeds rabbits for a living. A few weeks on and I hear more friends and acquaintances are suffering. Well respected people I have worked with for years are suddenly made redundant, or expected to do the jobs of three people. Others whose contracts just aren't being renewed. And there's me, with about a month to go at the Death Star and then what? Who knows. Something w

The hunt came and went yesterday, the only evidence afterwards being piles of horse muck in the square. Never one to miss an opportunity, Mr Grigg got out there before anyone else did. He put some on the passion flower and wisteria at the front of the house. And then he got told off by a passer-by for not clearing up the rest of it. Mr Grigg managed to avoid handing round the sherry and sausage rolls to the assembled huntsmen and women. He could instead be seen chatting to Mrs Posh Totty and our solicitor with a mouthful of sausage roll and mulled wine. I stayed in the window, taking photos and marvelling at the ever-changing pictures in this small rural community. There was a time when I would have been a lone voice, walking around wearing an anti-hunt sandwich board and spraying the hounds with aniseed. But that was when I was young and opinionated . I am now older, still with opinions but I tend to keep them to myself. Especially as Mr Grigg is more aligned to the hang 'em and s

It is one of the those lovely winter days, with a low sun and cold wind. It is muddy underfoot and the chill air gets to your cheekbones. The children squeal in the playground before school begins, as Packman's bellowing obliterates the morning call of Russell's Crow across the valley. The sky to the west this morning was like a painting by a Dutch old master. Beautiful. In the early evening, Venus leads the charge to make way for an incredible array of stars and the waning Wolf Moon of January. Back in the real world, away from this dreamscape, it would appear the oil thieves have been at work again, this time at the village hall. One minute, there were litres of black gold in the tank. Then the heating packed up, Why? Because someone had gone round the back and siphoned the stuff off. Thankfully, Mr Grigg's offer of providing a padlock has now been taken up. There's nothing like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted. Bin wars has also apparently broken

As I watched President Obama being sworn in on telly yesterday, I looked out for Mrs Pelly Sheepwash and family. It was hardly likely I would see them in among the two million or so lining the Washington mall. But I knew they were there. When they got the chance to be in on such a slice of history, they jumped at it, with various Pelly-lets joining them along the way. Who wouldn't, if you had a sister with Democrat connections? It was an awe inspiring moment, even if he did fluff his initial lines. His words were magical, musical, although like Wife in the North I flinched when I heard the bit about America being ready to lead the world once more. Says who? Apart from that, I enjoyed the flag waving, the specacle and the sheer thought something like that could happen. I don't expect Obama to save the world, but he'll make a good crack of saving his country. I think. We should all give him the time he needs and not expect miracles overnight. As I watched the historic moment

With the threat of the debtor's prison lifted, life seems a little more rosy these days. The wall has come down and the room that was once my office will soon reverberate to the sound of a crackling log fire and Film Four. True, little things like replastering, decorating and a new carpet have all to be sorted out and paid for. But it will happen. Of that I am sure. We rounded off the weekend with the most superb piece of venison I have ever tasted. The haunch was supplied by one of my colleagues from the Death Star and not only was it beautiful to eat, it was also very cheap. Which always helps. I cooked it in the Aga atop roasted root vegetables and with a lemon and rosemary marinade, mingled with beef stock. The meat was so succulent, I may never watch the film Bambi again without thinking about it. Had I known when I first watched that film how good venison tasted, I probably wouldn't have cried when Bambi's mother got shot. The nymph could do with a bit more clothing.

It was Mr Grigg's turn to have it bad yesterday. He was almost obliterated when an articulated lorry ripped the front off the Freeloader as he stopped at a junction. And then, when he got over the shock, he spent an hour putting an Argos filing cabinet together, which he has been doing on and off all week, only to find it will our files won't fit in it. Bugger. So we cut our losses, took delivery of a brand new vehicle while the insurance people sort things out and went to the pub. I was not looking forward to it. I thought one of my blog characters was going to hit me. But no, we sat down, talked about someone else and were best friends for half an hour. So that's a relief. I do not need to wear the disguise. It was Mrs Packman's 40th birthday party. Mamma Mia was there, Mrs Robinson, Muscle and Randy, Celebrity Farmer and a whole host of other people. Mr St John was notable by his absence. These days he is like a teenager in the first stage of love. People are worri

It's been a bad week. I missed out on going to see the film Australia with Mrs Robinson because I was too tired after the London Boat Show. My puppy is still peeing every time anyone makes a fuss of it. I broke wind to impress Mr Grigg but almost followed through. I thought I had downloaded The Cinematic Orchestra on to my iPod but got someone called Chubby Chunks instead. It is wet, muddy and miserable. But more seriously, I am broke. I am waiting for the Death Star to pay me for work I did in November but somehow I have been put on the payroll so won't see it for another fortnight. And the other company for whom I also do some work has suddenly become slower than usual in paying. For the self-employed like me, money is everything. Especially when you have the taxman ready to pounce at the end of the month. Debtors prison, here I come. I have also managed to wipe out an entire intranet, which is used by thousands of people including those who work with vulnerable clients. J

I was rather hoping Mr St John had left a comment. I received a text message saying as much today. But as he has only just mastered texting, posting a comment is too much to hope for. I can see it now, Mr St John (in long trousers) at the computer while his Lady Friend guides him through the process from behind. The London Boat Show was quiet yesterday. Mr Grigg, Mr Loggins and I bumbled across the rail network from Richmond to the Excel centre like country mice. We marvelled at ticket machines, the things you put your ticket in to get past the barrier and the variety of faces on the tube. We don't get out much. This became clear when a Lord Snooty-stockbroking-type glared at us when we talked to each other. I had forgotten that people become mute on the tube. I remember being on the underground in Barcelona when some musicians got on and had an impromptu jamming session. Rather than just enjoy it, my biggest fear was they would ask for money at the end of it. But they were just do

Despite the best of intentions, the only prizes we came away with last night were raffle prizes. We entered three teams for the wine and wisdom quiz, came first on a round that had neither points nor prizes and those on the neighbouring table were joint third. We got told off for having our tables too close together, the wine ran out and they changed the format from last year - obviously worried our pillaging team would run away with the prizes again. There is always next year. However, our B team (pictured above) broke the table they were sitting at and Mr Loggins cut his finger, spilling blood and red wine all over the floor, so maybe not. This is the man who is a dab hand with a chainsaw. Luckily, the ever-ready Mrs Sheepwash had a pack of plasters in her cavernous handbag. Mr St John has been seen in the village wearing smart, long trousers. Dark cords, apparently. This is a revelation because, whatever the weather, he always wears shorts. We understand his Lady Friend prefers lon

Mr Grigg has gone out with that chainsaw man Mr Loggins again. We were meant to be clearing out rooms, tidying up before we do a bit of DIY . And then Mr Loggins asked if Mr Grigg could come out to play. Well, what could I say? We are in dire need of some seasoned wood. The wood burning stove coughs and spits like an old man. The house is desperately cold so I have put on the heating and a pair of Steptoe gloves as I type. The picture, above, shows Mr Loggins, Mr Sheepwash and Mr Grigg earlier this year. Scary eh? I call it Boyz in the Wood. Three rooms in the house now have books, files, boxes, stray furniture all over the floor. We're never going to get it tidied up by the end of the weekend. The cats are getting into laptop cases, the dogs are sniffing everything and I am looking at things I last looked at when we had a similar tidy up and thought I ought to keep them because they might come in handy. They didn't. But they still might. I have no more to report on Mr St Joh

Where to start? Celebrity Farmer's story, About a Bird, or why Mr St John Has Two Tails ? I think I'll fill you in on Mr St John first. After a number of mishaps - see previous posting on the evening that naked Twister didn't happen - the eligible Mr St John now has a Lady Friend on his arm. She is attractive, stylish, intelligent and, most importantly, has her own money. She is also a crack shot, so I need to be careful what I say. On New Year's Eve I apparently told her (over and over again) she was my new best friend, which is amazing really as friendship is one thing I am not at all good at, as Mrs Curious Girl will tell you from our days as flatmates. However, when you have had a few glasses of white wine combined with Night Nurse it is easy to become bosom buddies with everyone you meet. Her appearance at our New Year's Eve party caused a bit of a stir. "She's very glamorous," growled another female guest through gritted teeth until I pointed o

I expect everyone's house is the same. The tinsel and baubles packed away, the spindly, sad Christmas tree ready to go to the tip. The house is clean, dusted - and dull. It is the same in the Square. From my window over the festive period, you could see the twinkling white lights of Christmas trees. Mr Grigg helped the neighbours take them down yesterday and now the magic has gone. Just dull, mushiness. Cold, wet, dreary. Before the real world kicked back in, our festivities continued this weekend with a safari supper for 14. We had pre-dinner drinks and nibbles at one house, walked down to the next for starters, strode up to ours for main course, ambled down the lane for puddings at Mr and Mrs Sheepwash's, back up next door for cheese and biscuits and then staggered across the road for after-dinner drinks. We were stuffed with goats cheese, venison, veggie delights and all sorts. As we made our way across the road, someone had written 'Sex Bom' in the frost on my car w

The World from my Window is quiet at the moment, after the shenanigans of the past few days. The odd car pulls up and parks, French-style in the middle of the road, to grab something from the shop. Villagers cough 'good morning' to each other in the queue for the milk and papers. With dry mouths and bleary eyes. Our house became the venue for a New Year's Eve party, with 35 people bringing either sweet or savoury and plenty of wine and beer. The theme was 'posh'. There were plenty of twinsets, pearls and shooting breeches. I tried on two outfits before I remembered my late aunt's original 1920s flapper dress. With purple Primark tights and an appropriate pair of Jones' shoes I found in a hospice shop last year, I almost looked the part. But something was missing. I needed a band around my head. Inspiration came when I looked through the sock drawer. I found a pair of silvery tights and with these knotted around my forehead, a long set of pearls and a lovely