The world from my window

The union flags fluttered in the breeze as Champagne-Charlie walked into the village shop for dog food and a paper. He doffed his top hat at the shop assistant, who minutes later was serving an equally elegant Mrs Bancroft and the fragrant Mrs Putter. We watched the wedding in between mouthfuls of bacon and scallops and sips of champagne. The Archbishop of Canterbury looked like the holy goat and the trees were brought into Westminster Abbey for Prince Charles to talk to. We loved the kiss on the balcony but there were gasps at the hideous kinky sisters , Beatrice and Eugenie, who had come as pantomime dames for the day. Timmy Mallet and Christopher Biggins had never looked finer. 'What has she got on her head?' Champagne-Charlie said. 'It looks like something I shot in Africa.' It knocked all of the creations at our afternoon tea party in the village hall into a cocked hat. There were multi-coloured stovepipes, Carmen Mirandas, union flag bowlers and t...

A nation holds its collective breath as one half of the country is gripped by Royal Wedding fever and the other decides to use the extra day off work to go shopping. It’s a bit like that in The Enchanted Village. There will be those of us who will ignore all the fuss this Friday and instead climb up to Bluebell Hill. Our souls will vacuum up the carpet of loveliness in between the beech trees. And then we'll gaze out from the Scots pine to the sublime view across vale and sea. I’d like to think that would be me: free spirit, free thinker and not even a conservative with a small ‘c’. But that’ll be the Sheepwash household then. A family of principles and no time for tosh. And then there will be others, like the Griggs, the Bancrofts, the Champagne-Charlies and the Putters who will be rah-rah-rah-ing it in the village hall in the afternoon. We’ll have bunting, union flags and jelly and ice cream. We’ll drink from pretty teacups collected by the elfin Tuppence, using teapots ...

As the church strikes eight o'clock across a still village square, the blinds come up on the shop window and customers line up on the pavement outside to get their Good Friday paper. Even on a bank holiday, there is not much time for a rest for the shopkeeper and his little band of helpers. Dandelion clocks breeze across the fields, much too early for this time of year. We are living in a hazy heatwave this past week, summer has arrived and it is still only April. On the church tower, the union flag is still flying to mark the Queen's (real) birthday yesterday. Hot cross buns are waiting in the wings to come out at The Enchanted Village hall a little while later. We will gather and natter, have tea and coffee, sitting out at tables and chairs arranged in the car park and soaking up this glorious weather. And we will say: 'I just can't believe all this sunshine. Isn't it wonderful?' This morning we emerge from the hovel after a surreal night on the tiles ...

On Bluebell Hill, the fronds of ferns are beginning to uncurl. The bluebells are beginning to burst into bloom and the hill is beginning to come alive with the sound of walkers. Mr Grigg, on two weeks' leave, decides to have an early morning route march up and over the hill during the next fortnight, to reclaim his once-trim figure. He wants it back, you see, and the daily brisk walk up Bluebell Hill is the only way to achieve it. I found this commitment highly commendable, until I accompanied him at the weekend. We walked past Tuppence's house, where the petite householder was busy pushing a flymo up and down the grass, like a dolly trying to manhandle a supermarket trolley. As she paused for breath, Mr Grigg went by and did his jaw-dropping-to-the-floor stare. She was wearing the sort of skimpy shorts I last saw on a savvy and provocative fifteen-year-old. He complimented her on her attire. 'Oh, these are my pyjamas,' she said. Now he's talking about...

The cuckoo flowers are in drifts across the fields There are dandelions, nettles, honesty. Bluebells line the banks and a new baby is born to the Sheepwash household. Welcome to the world, little one. In The Enchanted Village, the lovely Mrs Bancroft and I are planning a mad hatter's tea party to celebrate the impending nuptials of Prince William and Kate Middleton. My friend, Tuppence, has helped me collect lots of pretty china and we'll dot it around long trestle tables lined with union jacks, jelly, sandwiches and cake. As I showed Mrs B the poster I had prepared for the event, she said: 'Yes, it's very nice. But you haven't actually mentioned the royal wedding.' 'Oh, do I have to?' I said like a petulant teenager. I, you see, am by no means a monarchist. I get tired of all the hangers-on, the cap doffing, the cow-towing. But any excuse for a party and I'm right there in amongst it all. Any excuse for the village to get together and have a...

I am sitting here, sipping champagne as Mr Grigg does some DIY in the garage just before the sun goes down. Forgive the decadence, but if you read my last post, you'll understand why I'm celebrating. Not only did my knitting Land Girl colleague and I win the best exhibition stand, we also had a visit from a certain former MP. Yay! Here he is trying to put the country's economic woes to rights by having a go on the roll-a-penny, which my dear old aunt made before decimalisation. From those dizzy heights, it was off to Maiden Castle, near Dorchester, where the grandchildren, Mr Grigg and I played Ancient Romans. 'Not sure you did very much,' Mr Grigg said, weary after all that marching. 'I had a very important job,' I said. 'I was giving out the orders. My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius .' And today, as the sun beat down on our backs, they were under starters orders for the annual point-to-point races just a hop, skip and a tro...

The world from my window is very different this evening. Instead of looking out on to the village square, with its red telephone box, pub, corner shop and parish pump, I'm gazing out across the sea from the South Devon Riveria. It's a warm and balmy night and the sea is like blue mercury, still and silent. I can hear birds tweeting and the television in the room upstairs where my colleague is putting her feet up after a long, hard day. Mr Grigg is keeping the home fires burning while I am in Torquay, staying at the hotel that inspired John Cleese to write Fawlty Towers . Honestly. Although the view from my hotel room is absoluletly stunning. If I squint my eyes a bit I can just make out a herd of wildebeest sweeping majestically across the plain. This evening we will be putting on our posh frocks and dancing shoes for a gala dinner before retiring sensibly to prepare ourselves for another long day tomorrow manning an exhibition stand. The theme is Opportunities in The T...

This morning we scrabble around for the electric kettle after turning off the Aga. This might not seem a very exciting first sentence to a blog post but there is a point to it, believe me. Mr Grigg finds the lead, sprays me with water as he attempts to fill the kettle up at the sink while I'm peeling potatoes and then goes off in a huff to see his dear old mum with an orchid after I tell him off for whistling tunelessly to the theme from Gladiator . Peace at last. I contemplate a pottering kind of morning, preparing a family buffet while listening to music as loud and tuneful as I like. Today it is the stirring tunes of Hans Zimmer. It is Mothering Sunday, it is my day and I get to choose the music. 'My name is Maximus Decimus Meridius, Commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix Legions, loyal servant to the true emperor, Marcus Aurelius. Father to a murdered son, husband to a murdered wife. And I will have my vengeance, in this life or the next.' I put the ...

No sooner is the cherry blossom out then down comes the wind, swooping off the mist-encrusted top of Bluebell Hill, down, down into The Enchanted Village. At the front of Monty Chocs-Away's house, the blossom forms a carpet of pink, blown up like confetti by the breeze, swirling around in ever decreasing circles. Down the road, Bellows Packman's goats bleat and the sheep in the field call out. A woodpecker rat-a-tats and a jackdaw dives down Champagne-Charlie's chimney with a large twig in its beak. Past Tuppence's house there is an exotic smell of patchouli. In the Sheepwash pond the frog spawn is holding its breath before bursting into life. The village is a tableau, poised, ready and waiting for something to happen. That's about it. Love Maddie x