The world from my window

As the mists swirl around this village like something out of The Land That Time Forgot, the hall is ready to open its doors for the annual flower show. Last year, I had the honour of opening this event, much to the dismay of my oldest sister, a primary school deputy head in a neighbouring county. So far, the extent of her duties in the village in which she has lived for 35 years has been to judge a children's art class. I am sure she did admirably. However, she has not yet forgiven me for usurping her. 'I'm the queen,' she hissed. 'And I can't believe you wore a hat.' Given the opportunity, I will wear a hat every time. I am toying between hats for Number One Daughter's wedding. I am reluctant to wear the huge pink panama from Snooks the hatters for fear of obscuring the view of the guests behind me. 'But you're the bride's mother,' Mrs Bancroft sagely says. 'You can wear what ever hat you like.' So I'm thinking about it. Hat

Tractors towing trailers full of potatoes have been thundering through the village over the past few days. We initially thought it was Mrs Bancroft's supply for a mass baked potato supper but it transpires they are on their way to become Walkers crisps. Mr Grigg and I have been lying in wait for them next to the speed bumps. With arms outstretched, in the hope of catching a few strays. I remember seeing a potato trailer going up a hill once, the tractor driver oblivious as the spuds escaped and rolled out cheerfully in his wake. Like something from medieval times, locals came out of their front doors to scoop up their rewards. That happened with a meat lorry in Chard once when I was on a school lunch break. It did a U-turn, its back doors flew open and joints fired out in all directions. I have never seen so many 1970s teenagers act so quickly, running out into the street en masse, picking up legs of lamb, chickens and rib of beef and scuttling home to mother with enough food to

The wedding is getting nearer. Number One Daughter is behaving like Bridezilla, stressed up to the eyeballs, thinking she's talking about people behind their backs but actually saying it to their faces, wittering about table plans, spray tans and eyelash tints and praying for good weather. The wedding coincides with Number One Grand-Daughter starting school (at only four years and two months) and the bridegroom going into business, on his own, in a recession. 'You can back out you know,' Mr Grigg, the snake, whispers to Number One Daughter's intended. Like a shot, Number One Daughter, with the ears of a bat, retorts: 'I keep telling him that.' Future son-in-law rather wisely keeps his mouth shut. My old school friend is paying me another visit tonight. The one whose partner is top-notch fashion designer Jacques Azagury . (Just look at the Diana pages on his website). I thought my plea from earlier in the year about having a little something from the cutting-r

We're having a bit of trouble with the compost bin. Every time we open it, a load of fruit flies come roaring out in a hornet-shaped cloud. I have asked Mr Grigg to bring his fork back from the plot to turn the contents over to bury the blighters but to no avail. It has something to do with the weather, which has taken a turn for the better. Ever the optimist, I have been predicting a heatwave for weeks. And finally it arrives. The village comes and goes, cars still park this way and that in the Square and a large lorry tries to go up the one-way system. There is a rumour that Thomas Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is about to be remade around these parts. Hence the picture at the top of this posting. I couldn't bear to use one of flies. I cannot see it working without Julie Christie and Terence Stamp. Sergeant Troy's devil-may-care attitude is not unlike Mr Grigg's, who underneath it all is as dependable as Gabriel Oak. Some 80 cast and crew are looking for sel

There are compensations working from home. This morning, as I amble around the field at seven o'clock with the dogs, dozens of swallows dart in and out the trees. I hear a buzzard mewing and then the comical noise of six Canada geese honking as they fly in graceful formation overhead. Two crows flap far apart high in the sky and a lone seagull cries on a chimney pot above Alf's cottage. Now back in the house, I reflect on the weekend gone by. It has been one spent with friends - a dinner party chez Mr St John and Lady Friend, a barbecue with Mrs Bancroft and Nobby Odd-Job just before the carnival in Bridport, a classic car charity breakfast the next morning and then a veggie supper at the Grigg abode with the Sheepwashes and the Logginses. A non-stop circle of friendship. The carnival could have been better but it was good to see community groups out in force. And in between the majorettes and the drab collecting vehicles, there were flashes of brilliance and a great deal of

A dry spell in August means haymaking. The cut fields smell of my childhood, and the tractors thunder through the Square to pick up the bales before the rains come. This week, Mr Grigg has been victorious, picking up a medal in the battle for the Crosby Plate, a major cricket competition around these parts. Here he is at the presentation with his team mates. But you'll have to guess which one he is. The team should get a mention on Radio 4 on August 25 - my birthday - when human rights lawyer Clive Stafford Smith presents With Great Pleasure. This is a Desert Island Discs -style programme with guests presenters and literature at its heart. I know this because on Monday, the ever-resourceful Pelly managed to get us tickets for two recordings of the show at The Electric Palace in Bridport. This is an old cinema that has risen phoenix-like from the dust of years of closure to become one of the best and most diverse entertainment venues around. I feared an intense, highbrow performan

After a weekend of fine weather to remind us just how fortunate we are to live in this part of the world, Monday dawns with grey skies and drizzly rain. Mr Grigg and I are recovering from grandparents' duties during which the four-year-old impressed us with her care and kindness towards the baby, 14 months. The weekend, however, began and ended at the Sheepwashes, with a simple supper (more like a banquet, actually. Anyone would think Pelly was working towards her cookery badge in the Girl Guides) on Friday and then Pimms yesterday evening. And when the sun went down, the chimnea kept us warm and cosy. It was a good weekend after a harrowing Friday in which 401 people attended the funeral of a local man whose death has hit us all so badly. He was 53 and took his own life. In the words of his father, such a wicked waste of a brilliant mind. As his coffin lay with the Union Flag draped over it in front of the altar, his two lovely children being comforted by their mother, a swallow s

For a tribute to Harry Patch in the words of my grandfather, the 'lost' war poet of Somerset, please visit Westcountry Miscellany .

I'm taking a break today and I'm sitting here with laptop on lap, four-year-old grand-daughter cuddling in to the left of me, black cat Lou-Lou curled up next to us on the sofa. Balamory is on the television and we're thrilled because today's main character is Archie the Inventor. He has red curly hair and sideburns, a posh English voice, wears spectacles, a pink jumper and a kilt and lives in a pink castle. He's our favourite even though the things he tends to invite are pretty rubbish. He has just given Pocket from the shop a rope to help her swing around. Duh. He then made a telephone out of a polystyrene cup and a piece of string. Clearly no Alexander Graham Bell. Watching Archie made me wonder about the actor who plays him. The beauty of the internet is you can find out all sorts of things, some more useful than others. So I have just googled Archie and found an interview with Miles Jupp . The article from The Scotsman is five years old but the actor comes ac

Mr Grigg, the Sheepwashes and I are recovering from a village charabanc trip to the Sidmouth Folk Festival. Living in the square meant the coach pulled up right outside our house. It really was door-to-door service and the one-legged trip organiser pledged to be legless on the way back. Super Mario and Princess Peach nestled in to one of the seats up front while we spread ourselves out in the back seat just in front of an already inebriated General Custer. There were 35 of us in all, most from the neighbouring village. One of the highlights was the drunken community singing on the return journey, led by a man with a guitar and his tipsy wife in a flowery straw hat. We all joined in, apart from Mr Sheepwash who spent the entire half-hour with his mouth agape. The seaside town was full of mellow folk, with jingly bells on their legs, carrying double basses in cases, dancing in pub gardens, enjoying picnics in public parks, queuing for the lavatories, sitting outside genteel hotels whil