The world from my window

A silver sliver of moon is suspended in the early morning sky. A family of rooks fights over the best spot on a gargoyle jutting out from the church tower. Blackbirds skedaddle across a lawn as if they’re on strings. The mornings are much lighter now, as the daffodils poke their heads out and think about flowering. The spring cycle button has been pushed and it will be March before we know it. Another month, another week, another day. Meanwhile, at the Enchanted Village pub quiz, brains are on top form. The quizmaster asks: ‘What’s the capital of Kuwait?’ The village news correspondent shouts out: ‘K!’ After the laughter subsides, the quizmaster moves on. ‘What’s the name for a group of beavers?’ he says. Mr Grigg has that look on his face, that smutty, naughty schoolboy grin. He opens his mouth, he's about to say something. I deliver a well-aimed kick under the table. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ I snarl, rather too loudly. ‘You’re going to write that on your computer of yours, n

We are at the Enchanted Village book club. My friend Pelly, tonight's hostess, pulls me to one side. 'I've got something for you,' she says, scrabbling around in the kitchen while the other ladies in the living room prepare to talk about The Janissary Tree by local author Jason Goodwin. The latest book club guest, Number One Grand Daughter, aged five, is holding court as Mrs Champagne-Charlie, Mrs Bancroft, a Rolling Stones' Aunt-Once-Removed and Mrs Mabel Lucie Attwell hear about the books she has brought. Pelly huddles closer to me: 'I went for a walk up Bluebell Hill and was on the road by the tin hut.' She produces a plastic bag. 'I found this in a layby,' she says. A sofa or two away, Number One Grand Daughter is telling the Book Club ladies why Mutant Ninja Turtles are so cool and why she quite likes the pictures, even though they are in black and white. She then turns to her Batman book and shows them her favourite illustration, a rather dr

So here we are, walking through Camden at 11 o’clock at night, in a surreal kind of haze, rubbing shoulders with the bohos and the young. We’re in a London bubble, away for the weekend and mouths agape at the ever-changing tableau before us. Mr Grigg comes over all poetic: ‘As I walk along the street every person that I meet no-one is older than me.’ Everyone is under twenty five, apart from two drunks in a broken-up phone box. We wander down to Mornington Crescent tube station, which for years we thought really only existed in the Radio 4 panel game I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue . We’re heading for Club Koko , a majestic-looking former theatre and now a music venue for the hip and trendy. The music hits us, boom, boom, boom, as we make our way through the young throng and head for the tea house downstairs for a nice cuppa. This, you see, is a sell-out gig by Mr Scruff, a DJ-extraordinaire whose music Wikipedia describes as downtempo, trip-hop and nu-jazz. He is also a huge tea fan. I o

I get home and struggle out of the car with the shopping. The Lidl bags nearly split open with shock when I trip over a large, fluffy rabbit on the doorstep. It's bright eyed and bushy tailed but very dead. Like me, it's gutted. Mr Grigg is dispatched to Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie's to say thank you, but it wasn't from them. Mr Grigg decides to skin the thing on my beautiful kitchen island and I wince and bristle and then end up shouting when he spills blood on the beech wood surface. I remove myself from the scene and look at Facebook, where I am brought down to earth by Number One Daughter's status: I apologised to The Child this morning as Mummy and Daddy had an argument in front of her last night. Her response...'Mum, it's about friendship, love and keeping your trust - you have to be friends.' Such maturity for a five-year-old. So I cuddle up to my big bunny, Mr Grigg. But only after the rabbit has been put in a bag in the freezer. That's abo

Everyone is talking about The King's Speech . Mr Grigg and I are off to see it this weekend,with Mr and Mrs Sheepwash and Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie, in The Enchanted Village hall. We've reserved seats because it's already a sell-out. We're lucky in these parts to enjoy the wonderful services of Moviola, a touring cinema celebrating ten years this year. You can find out more by going to Smitten by Britain , where I've just done a guest blog post. That's about it. Love Maddie x

A few months ago, a talented young scriptwriter moved into The Enchanted Village. 'Your blog would make a great film or maybe a TV series,' she said.  She'd had a few to drink of course - it was Christmas and the Griggs and the Champagne-Charlies were hitting the gin and tonics - but the idea galloped away with her, and with me. I could see myself being feted by celebrity interviewers, hiring a dresser, being on the front cover of the Sunday supplements or maybe even The Marshwood Vale Magazine . We drew up a fantasy cast list. I became the willowy Joely Richardson and Mr Grigg Ray Winstone. All the other British actors slotted into place. It would be her spring project, the scriptwriter said, as if she didn't have enough to do to while away her time. And then I made the mistake of telling Mr Grigg, who now insists on saying 'shut it' every five minutes while looking at me with a wide-boy grin. We've become Ray and Joely and I'm not sure how i

It’s been a grey old day here in The Enchanted Village. When I passed the BBC World Service transmitting station this morning, there was so much mist swirling around, the tops of the masts blended in with the sky. I felt like scrambling to the summit of one of them and stepping off into the clouds in search of the Giant’s golden eggs. The weather is much milder now, there is soft mud in the gateways and spring bulbs are creeping onwards and upwards before our eyes. Soon, a new season will be upon us, and tete a tete narcissi will be having animated conversations outside the Grigg abode. They’ll be joined later by Queen of Night tulips and sweet-smelling wallflowers. Before then, though, in March, it’ll be Pancake Day, the clocks will go forward and Mr St John will be wearing shorts. We’ll be planning a mad hatters’ tea party for the Royal Wedding (any excuse for a knees-up) at the end of April and a fete in June with the theme of carnival (expect Mr Grigg in skimpy Rio outfit and lots

Emerging pussy willow, dung spread fields, sodden log piles and a saturated, watercolour sky. It is half past seven in the morning as I walk the spaniels down through the village. But it might as well be the middle of the night. Curtains are closed, with just the odd light here and there indicating someone is up and having breakfast. I feel like a benign stalker as I glance around me. Night Nurse is still in bed (as usual), as are Manual and Mrs Regal Bird. There is no sign of life at Tuppence's house as I push a note through the catflap. And the Sheepwashes are still snuggily tucked up when I walk past their cottage at ten past eight. The Champagne-Charlies are awake, thanks to the morning alarm call of our barking dogs excited at going for a walk. And I see the shapely silhouette of Poshy Totty behind her kitchen window, dishing up something for the children and her husband, MDF Man. Mr Grigg will be sorry he missed that, I think. Walking back up through the village, I meet Mr F-