I'm a Blogger of Note!

Oh my giddy aunt. I feel like I'm on a cloud, floating high above my hovel, looking down on the scaffolding-encrusted west wing and down through the conservatory roof where I can see myself frantically typing on a tiny netbook.

Mr Grigg is down on Tom Tiddler's Ground, rearranging bits of wood with Mr Loggins. Oh, those boys and logs. I don't understand the appeal, personally, but it's better than ogling at girls. They go into raptures over the log store, they really do. If they were crafty, they would postion a few logs at jaunty angles and put the whole lot in for the Turner Prize.

And talking of prizes, yes, more about that great big fluffy cloud on which I am sitting. The World from My Window was chosen as yesterday's Blog of Note - 'interesting and noteworthy Blogger-powered blogs, compiled by the Blogger Team'.

And I wouldn't have known if my follower list hadn't suddenly shot up to 150. And to think I was going to pack in blogging for good a couple of months ago. What an honour.

So in my Oscar acceptance speech, I would like to thank my old flatmate Curious Girl for pointing me in the blogging direction, my village friends, especially Pelly and Mrs Bancroft, for encouraging me in my sideways look at life and the friends I have yet to meet - my blogging pals - spearheaded by the lovely Pondside, whose comments I so truly appreciate.

And then, of course, there is Mr Grigg. My imagination may get the better of me at times. But I can assure you every word I tell you about Mr Grigg is absolutely true. Honestly.

Now, enough of that guff. Being a Blogger of Note could become a bit of a burden. What are all you newbie followers expecting from this blog? Chummy cosiness, pearls of wisdom, beautiful prose? Well, whatever you think it is, it probably isn't. I'm just me, and this is my take on the Enchanted Village, this magical part of Dorset that has allowed me to make my home near the parish pump, at the point where several ley lines cross in the Square while a Ginster's pasty van* lurks around the corner.

It is a tale told by an idiot, for sure, but oh, what a tale. On Bluebell Hill, the flowers that give it its name are about to burst into full song. The beech trees are that beautiful lime green, the dainty white gypsy lace of the cow parsley lines the banks of the lanes, the pink campions are ladies-in-waiting and the swallows dart in and around and about the village square, chattering on the telephone wires.

We've had appearances from Johnnie Boden, Fay Weldon, eminent human rights lawyer Clive Stafford-Smith, tramps, thieves, posh and peasants, chickens and pheasants, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, Alistair Campbell, King Charles II, Clint Eastwood, doggers, 101 Dalmatians, Flat Stanley, flashers, the ladies of the WI, celebrity farmers, John Wayne, cattle, sheep, spaniels and Oliver Letwin.

Meanwhile, back to real life here at the Grigg house. The builder has just found a dead rat in the bathroom ceiling.

I feel bad about it. For weeks we have been blaming the smell on Number One Son, after his occasional visits from university and a break from the Pot Noodles. So allow me to send a message to my boy: your mother takes it all back. Please come home soon. A new bedroom will be waiting for you when you have completed your degree.

But now, just allow me to sit back and enjoy a nice glass of dry white wine. Anything as long as it's not a Chardonnay. Cheers!

That's about it.

Love Maddie x

* To understand how important the Ginsters pasty is to Mr Grigg, click on this link. But only if you are not easily offended...