The world from my window

As I write, Mr Grigg is involved in the post-match analysis going on in the pub. I am not there because I don't have a clue when it comes to cricket, nor do I much care. However, they are lucky there is at least one solicitor on the opposition side. When I walked up to the pitch earlier, past the wild honesty, dead nettles and red campions, I heard leather on willow, closely followed by 'clunk' as the ball whizzed over the top of the hedge and on to a 4x4. The elderly occupants ducked when the blow struck but amazingly drove on. They looked terrified. Probably thought they had strayed into a parallel universe (which would be correct) and hit by molten lava from Dantes Peak or caught in the Millennium Falcon as it stormed through the asteroid belt. After that, I felt the best course of action was to stay just long enough to take a few pictures. Get that ball will you? Skipper Super Mario lets Celebrity Farmer's nephew do the running . With my reputation? Mr St John, l

Pelly is like a cooing new mother. And all because of five French pullets and a Light Sussex named Jane. We picked them up in a cloak and dagger operation yesterday, armed with three cat baskets and a wadge of cash. We weren't sure where we were going, only that we were meeting at an agreed location and taking it from there. Our contact, a 6ft 5ins former banker we knew only as Piers, apologised for the secrecy and explained in an incomer London accent: 'I've been having trouble with pikeys. They nicked 200 birds last year.' It occurred to me that Piers could in fact have been a very clever pikey and the birds he sold us were someone else's. But it was clear he knew a great deal about hens and good animal husbandry. And as soon as we saw the lavender marans, that was it, Pelly and I were in love. They matched our tops. Darling Loggins, however, reserved judgment and her money. She is rethinking her hen strategy and may well end up at the Gaggle of Geese at Buckland

I have been tagged in something called a 'meme'. It took me a while to realise the word rhymed with neither 'hem' nor 'seem'. It's all about me, me, me, me, me, me. I'm squirming. It's usually me behind the camera, not in front. The one listening rather than talking. Except when I get drunk and then I can't stop talking, shortly before waving my arms about wildly and then falling asleep. It's all Exmoor Jane's fault. I've never met the woman but feel as if I have known her for years. If a friend had sent me a chain letter I would have cheerfully thumped them and they would take it with good grace. However, as I have not mastered the art of virtual thumping, I am laying my soul bare and seeing if I can throw Jane a virtual Chinese burn through cyberspace at the same time. So here goes: What are your current obsessions? 1. Work, work and more work to pay looming bills. 2. Shoes. Lots of shoes. 3. Cushions. I can't walk past a nice

The sun beat down in Dorset again yesterday for a glorious afternoon at the point-to-point races . Turning up just after the first race, we managed to miss the £25 per car entrance fee, which was just as well because Mr Grigg would probably have turned back. We could have walked because the course is only about a mile away as the crow flies. But then crows fly, and we don't. I got very excited when my horse jumped in first place over the last fence. Until I realised they had another circuit to go. I am not very up on this horse racing business. I still call racecards 'programmes'. Posh Totty was there and so was Celebrity Farmer. I have candid photos to prove it. But other friends, who shall remain nameless, kept away because of the amateur steeplechase's association with hunting. As a former placard-carrying, aniseed-spraying sab, I have mellowed in recent years and almost turned completely the other way when hunting was banned. It's not that I approve of hunting.

A group of us is thinking about pooling some of our resources and investing in a communal boat. A boat, at a time when the credit crunch is biting hard and we are all meant to be pulling in our horns because nearly all of us are feeling the pinch. So what better time to get a boat, when prices are low and everyone is fed up? Especially when the village is so near the sea. Near enough, but not so near that we get tangled up with day trippers and second homers. The reason for this possibility is that we suddenly have an opportunity. And we're not sure what to do with it. Some years ago, when Mr Grigg was having a Howard's Way moment, he put his name down for a mooring at Lyme Regis . This is the place made famous by fossil collector Mary Anning, in Jane Austen's novel Persuasion and John Fowles's The French Lieutenant's Woman. The place where ichthyosaur skeletons were discovered, where Austen's heroine Louisa Musgrove dramatically banged her head because of her

There is a world beyond my window. I see it sometimes when I am out and about. But more often than not, it comes to me through the power of the television screen. Reality TV, game shows and talent competitions? I avoid them whenever possible. But after a busy day on Sunday (see previous post), I plonked myself on the sofa next to the kids and prepared to switch off for Britain's Got Talent . This is the show our pub landlord once auditioned for. His fine rendition of a Frank Sinatra number was upstaged by sword-swallowing, egg-juggling unicyclists. So I was prepared to be underwhelmed. And then, out of of the blue, a woman the same age as me but who looked a bit like my mum, came on the stage. She was wearing the kind of gold dress you see languishing in the corner of a charity shop, black tights and even blacker eyebrows. The audience and the 'celebrity' judging panel sniggered. And then Susan Boyle began to sing. It made me cry - and it's already had more than two an

The sun is belting through my window as I look out on a quiet village square. The shop is closed, people have gone to the beach and Mr Grigg and friends have jumped in the car to watch Bristol City at home. I have just seen my first swallow, chattering away to himself on the telephone wires. Yesterday, this house was choc-a-bloc with family. I am one of five and there are hordes of us. Mr Grigg is one of three and there are not so many in his family. And with some relatives on holiday, working or perhaps deciding it was just all too much, he was a little outnumbered. He took it well. But I felt rather sorry for him. He has been working very hard lately. Being in the bosum of his family would have been good for him. Still, my 'all-talking-at-once' family more than made up for it. He was on good form as we prepared for Easter Sunday, making a massively hot chilli while I rustled up a vegetarian lasagne, cous cous with Mediterranean vegetables and a kind of bread and butter puddin

As a former wild child, or as I tell people, a child bride, I am lucky enough to have a three-year-old grand-daughter at an age where fellow bloggers have children. She is a delight, the love of my life and nudging Number One Son in the Chosen One Stakes. This week, I spent a delightful day at the donkey sanctuary with my grand-daughter, along with Number One Son and my friend Pelly. This was a good place to visit because 1) it's close by 2) it's free 3) it takes care of abused animals. I have mixed feelings about this place. It's rather like Old Ladies' Legacy Land. The donkeys live a life of luxury with no expense spared. The donations boards are full of the names of the great and the good, predominately single females with double barreled names, whose bequests help keep it going. This is not a bad thing. It is lovely to see otherwise abused donkeys enjoying their senior years in the paddocks of Devon. But I always think if I won the lottery, I would set up a cow san

Mr Grigg returned yesterday from the boss-eyed doctor's after a 'little operation'. He walked in to the kitchen as if he were John Wayne and had just got off his horse. He had tousled hair and the top two buttons of his work shirt were undone . He looked rather raffish, like the man in the Golf GTi advert who lost all his money in Monte Carlo. He smiled. He was still intact. I had been worried about him. Our doctor is notorious for keeping people waiting. You can be his first appointment of the day and he still manages to be running half an hour late. Mr Grigg had already flounced out of the waiting room a couple of weeks ago when it slowly dawned on him he would be there at least an hour before seeing the doctor. I wish receptionists would tell people the state of play when patients check in. Mr Grigg hates being kept waiting. He also hates needles. So those two things, together with having what is called a 'tag' removed from a rather intimate place, did not bode w

The village has been full of shiny, happy people this weekend as the sun beat down on walkers, gardeners and people just going to and from the shop. My wallflowers are just about to come out, although obscured by orange brick dust created by builder (with shirt on). Yesterday, Mr Grigg, still bathing in the glow of organising a very successful work-related event on Friday, used his bartering skills to great effect, swapping stone for bricks with Packman. The latter's garden is taken over by long-haired guinea pigs, goats and children's toys, which is just how a family lawn should be. Further down the lane, Mr Sheepwash was digging out the foundations for a hen house and run. As Mr Grigg and I wandered down with a bucket to get some tadpoles from the pond, we saw Mr Sheepwash through the trees, digging furiously with his shirt off and listening to his iPod. He spotted us, sucked in his stomach and quickly put his shirt back on. Pelly says I can keep two hens on their patch of gr

Number One Son was poked and prodded as we ventured into the pub last night for the football. The deal was that Mr Grigg could watch the match in return for the three of us taking advantage of the pub's weekly steak night. This meant the pub was full of World From My Window characters including Celebrity Farmer, MDF Man and Posh Totty, Packman and Sparky Mark. The latter told my boy: 'Ah, you must be The Chosen One.' At which the undergraduate blushed deeply. I was then reprimanded for not updating the blog often enough, especially with tales from the village. My retort is that they need to do something to make it interesting. Sparky Mark then proceeded to explain his rather complicated living arrangements in two counties. It sounded more like a sitcom script than real-life. Celebrity Farmer, meanwhile, has just returned from London with my radio recording equipment including a large microphone. He was pretending to be a researcher from Farmer Wants A Wife. He says the wo