The world from my window

Would you believe it? A thief in the night has stolen the bonnet from Mrs Home-Under-The-Hammer's car. One evening it was there, next morning gone. We wait with bated breath at what might be taken next. A windscreen, perhaps, from a Land Rover? A rear passenger's side door from a Volvo? I wouldn't be at all surprised if in a week's time we discover a strange hybrid car parked in the Square, made up of lots of different bits. Maybe the thief is a kind of auto version of the killer in Silence of the Lambs and making himself a car suit. He will screech into the Square singing: 'I've got a bonnet trimmed in blue, do you wear it, yes I do'. Or more likely 'Transformers, robots in disguise...' Picture: Optimus Prime Talking of Volvos, we were being taken to a wedding by a friend who is occasionally loaned cars to test drive and write about them. I got in and thought 'this is a nice Volvo' (they are usually only fit to be driven by old men with caps

Everyone in the know down these parts is talking about it (mostly in the Westcountry burr I was born with). Morris: A Life with Bells On is a film that ought to be the next Calendar Girls or Hot Fuzz without so much of the swearing. One of those heartwarming, idiosyncratic comedies the English do so well. But strangely, a national distributor has yet to take it on. This low budget movie cost just £500,000 to make, which is peanuts in film-making terms. Its cast boasts the likes of Sir Derek Jacobi, Harriet Walter and Greg Wise. But at the moment it is showing in just a few score village halls across Dorset and neighbouring counties. Which is great for me, because it'll be right on my doorstep. And I've already booked my ticket! Hoorah! Moviola , the touring film company about which I've previously blogged , has a local hit on its hands. Says administrator Christina Walkley: 'I thought we must have this, our audiences will love it'. And after speaking to Twist Fi

The ravens were circling above The Hill. Cawing 'Nevermore' or whatever it is they say, flying like buzzards over our heads. Mr Sheepwash was terribly excited. His twitching would have made Bill Oddie envious. Up until now the ravens had taken on mythical significance for Mr Sheepwash, rather like the big black cat no-one believes in until they actually see it. Celebrity Farmer's mother once told me the ravens were the bane of their lives. Protected by law, the birds have carte blanche to cause terror among the sheep, ripping out their eyes without fear of persecution. Pelly Sheepwash says she was told by another farmer's wife that the ravens would move in on a ewe as it gave birth, helping to pull the lamb out and then spiriting it away in their beaks. I find this rather hard to believe. But, who knows, anything is possible in this village. It's a bit like a dark, reverse version of the stork as midwife. I once saw the black beast making its way across a field.

What's the weirdest compliment you've ever had? That's the question posed by my friend Tuppence who says the nicest thing anyone ever said about her was 'Tuppence, the good thing about you is you don't mind having the p*** taken out of you'. Which is just as well really, as I will be soon be blogging about the time she took me headbanging with a bunch of hillbillies let out by their mothers for music night at the Honiton Motel. Mrs Darling Loggins says she was once told after she'd had a haircut: 'Your hair looks really nice now.' It's a bit like when people say 'you look really well' and you think 'did I look ill before?' But a compliment's a compliment. Another friend was told:' My God, Rubens would have had a field day with that body'. She says it was a long time ago and is grateful she didn't have body issues back then. Mind you, what Mr Grigg said to her sister-in-law was worse. She'd just announced sh

I am just about to tuck into Mr Grigg's special sausages, with mash and Pelly's homemade chilli jam. Mr Grigg has returned, triumphantly, from a day's course at the wonderful Magdalen Project , bringing home not the bacon but two large containers of sausages and a huge pate. There were just three students and the tutor, lots of huffing and stuffing, and crude remarks about 60ft long condoms. Mr Grigg's partner for the day, a 70+ man called Les with a colonel's white moustache, got into trouble with the mincer end of the sausage making machine. Mr Grigg waited anxiously at the other end, ready to catch the sausage meat in an awesome length of skin. But the more Les stuffed, the more he huffed. A quick check by the tutor revealed the attachment was on the wrong way round and Les had been sucking rather than blowing. Oo-er missus. It was like a scene from a Carry On film. Just up Mr Grigg's street. He has been a bit stressed lately, with lots of work, lots of tra

I would like to make one thing very clear. I am not a swinger. And neither is Mr Grigg. Nor, for that matter, are the Sheepwashes. I say this because we have just returned from a weekend together on snowy Exmoor. And as it was Valentine's weekend, Number One daughter and several others have been sniggering quite openly at what the four of us might be getting up to. I can assure you it was walking. And more walking. Lots and lots of walking. My calf muscles are aching just thinking about it. Although I did worry when a couple of weeks ago, as the four of us were driving to the cinema, Pelly turned to me from the front seat and said, sort of conspiratorially, 'now that we know one another better...' My heart sank. God, what on earth was coming next? I needn't have worried. She continued:'...maybe we should do the washing up when we come round to each other's houses?' The relief was etched like ley lines across my face. Anyway, we have had a lovely weeken

In case it has escaped your notice, it is Valentine's Day tomorrow. I only know this because I was in a card shop on Wednesday when a young lady said to the assistant: 'I know it's against the spirit of the thing, but do you sell Valentine's cards in multi-packs?' I could see her point. When you're young, why put all your bets on one horse? It reminded me that from about the ages of five to 10, I used to get a card every year. I now realise my mystery admirer was my maiden aunt who lived next door. Then when I got to secondary school age, she didn't send one. Which really upset me. When I was 12, I had a big padded card with a donkey on the front from a genuine admirer, who couldn't even spell my name properly. I was so embarrassed, I hid it in a drawer. I was worried my mother would find it. She is a stickler for spelling and grammar. I'm not very romantic. Bit of a cold fish really. I used to get a bit tearful at the J R Hartley advert for Yellow

The great February Storm Moon greeted me as I took the dogs out just after dawn this morning. The patchwork square fields were lined with white all around the edges. You couldn't see the top of the hill for fog. The roads were awash with water and on my way into the Death Star I saw a car submerged under a bridge. Picture: Bad moon rising above the hill. Celebrity Farmer has been moving dung all through the village. Mr Loggins has been using udder cream for his chapped hands. No word of Mr St John. During the snowy season, we could tell he was elsewhere because there were no tracks to and from his door. More importantly, there is no word from Nobby Odd-Job, which is a worry because he is on holiday in Australia. We hope he was not visiting Melbourne. I have been flicking news channels, fed up with the way television broadcasters now have to stand up and jig around and compete against crass graphics. All that makes me do is criticise their footwear or think what chubby hands they h

Our usual Sunday lie-in has been rudely interrupted. Something was going on downstairs. I thought it might have been Mr Loggins. We have seen a lot of him this weekend. Maybe he couldn't sleep. I looked out from the window but there was no-one at the door. There was just this tap-tap-tapping and Mr Grigg suddenly leapt out of bed like Sher Khan the Tiger with a flaming branch attached to his tail. Naked, he tiptoed down the stairs and thrust open the door to the front room. Two beady eyes gazed at him. Mr Grigg glared back. It was a crow sitting on the radiator. They squared up to each other as if in a staring contest. It was a bit like Sumo TV. They did a little dance around the room, not taking their eyes off each other. Mr Grigg went for the window, undid the latch and threw it open. The crow looked one way and then the other. Should it fly out the window, risking the wrath of Grigg or back up the chimney? It didn't take long. It made a break for the window, looked over its

Well, thank goodness for the book of witchcraft and practical magic I had for Christmas. The snow spell worked a treat. That's about it Love Maddie x

The snow is melting but, hey, as I write, big dollops are coming down outside my window in the Square . A severe weather warning has been issued for the South West over the next 24 hours and with both of us working from home tomorrow, we are hoping for another snow day. It's looking good. There was a Blitz-like community spirit here for a while when the snow was at its deepest. But for every action there is a reaction. Night Nurse nearly got run over by a lorry because she was was worried I would see her tip-toeing like an old lady on the pavement outside the shop so walked in the road instead. Rubbish bags and recycling boxes are still piled up outside people's houses because the bin men broke down. And a coffin had to be quickly concealed in a hearse's secret compartment when the vehicle came to a grinding halt on the corner and stopped overnight. Celebrity Farmer's dad is not happy after the field in which he had sown grass seed late last year was trampled by assorte

Today's snow turned the village into a Bruegel painting. The primary school was closed, as was the local comp. The village fields were full of children, making snowmen, sledging, snowboarding and even skiing. Huge snow balls like the statues from Easter Island littered the hillside. The land echoed to the sound of excited shrieks and laughter. And that was just the adults. 'It's like Hampstead Heath up there,' said Mrs Pelly Sheepwash (but without the lewd goings on). We were tucking into warm pancakes and Nutella in her kitchen after a brisk walk. Mr Grigg, sadly, missed it all after braving the snow early this morning to the train station for a conference in London. It is now a blizzard outside and he has just rung from the Hole in the Wall outside Waterloo about to catch the next train. Let's hope he makes it home safely. I, meanwhile, managed to forgo the delights of the Death Star and soaked up the bluey, pinky air on an early morning walk with the dogs, befor

We are hit by snow and freezing temperatures. The forecasts have been grim for days. And guess what? Mr Grigg forgot to order the bloody oil. As the level went precariously low, he switched the central heating off, shut down the Aga and piled loads of logs on the woodburner in the front hall. We went to the cinema with Mr and Mrs Sheepwash to keep warm. Last night I wore a woolly hat in bed. So, as this was accompanied by colourful pyjamas and pink socks, I looked rather fetching. And do you know? I didn't care. I thought if Mr Grigg turns over and sees he is sleeping with a creature from the Baltic States, tough. It's his fault for not ordering the bloody oil. He spent the morning scouring around for stray oil tankers, thinking he could stop one and buy some. When he returned, our lovely oil men, from Minster Fuels, were knocking on the door with a delivery. So all is well. Apart from the fact that the central heating doesn't seem to work. But all those logging sessions ar