The world from my window

Mr Grigg and I are on our hols, all at sea in Greece . See you there soon. That's about it. Love Maddie x

I have just received an award from two lovely bloggers, Cheryl from Kangaroos of the Scrubby Bush (sorry Cheryl, but I'm from the Benny Hill generation and a title like that is bound to make me snigger), and Kelly Garriott Waite at Writing in the Margins, Bursting At The Seams (now that makes me think of an educated Victorian woman scribbling in stays, working hard to be noticed for her body and her prose). Now, as well as saying thank you, I know I am meant to do something before I can accept this award. I know you don't get anything for nothing. But while I figure out just what it is I have to do, hop across to my other blog, The World from My Porthole , for a sweet slice of life in the Ionian as Mr Grigg and I celebrate his special birthday today in western Greece. That's about it. Love Maddie x

So it's Mr Grigg's Big Birthday. He walks into the office to find his desk covered in balloons, cards, presents and a big Happy 60th banner. He is overwhelmed by the surprise, which includes a large box from The Bristol Cider Shop , full of bottles, a polypin and rather nice looking chutney. A little later he goes to the gents and comes back to find two young women dressed as police officers in his office. He sits in his chair, leans forward and rubs his hands together and says: 'OK. So get on with it then.' His secretary, behind them, shakes her head and waves her arms. Very slowly and with exaggerated mouthing, she mimes: 'No, they really are police officers.' Sometimes I think I am married to Del Boy Trotter . That's about it. Love Maddie x

The sky today is very strange. I drop off a letter to the county council Death Star and walk to the gym, to sign up for a stone off in weight and a reduction in wobble factor. As I walk to the gym entrance, with pictures of toned physiques and body-sculpted, weird looking people accosting me, I look up at the sky. There are two sets of clouds, one close and one distant. The close ones are whirring to the right and the distant ones are going to the left. I look away. It makes me feel dizzy. I think this is how going to the gym on a regular basis will make me feel. Back at the Grigg abode, I discover via Facebook that I can't have my Pelly Sheepwash fix because my friend has shingles and I haven't even had chicken pox. Now I am not good at close contact, even with family, but I make an exception with people like Pelly (and Mrs Bancroft, Tuppence and the fragrant Mrs Putter). It's not all about me, for goodness sake, Pelly is in pain, but this reluctant hugger is a b

High up on Blubell Hill, if you look out between the twin pines, a tableau is laid out before you, a tableau of green and brown with a ceiling of blue. In the distance you can see the sea, a few miles away. Turn around back towards the hill top and you will see Mr Grigg doing his exercises. He touches his toes and a spaniel runs through his legs. He reaches down one side of his thigh and then down to the other. This is his three-times-a-week routine, so if you ever venture up here and see a strange man stretching on the hilltop, you will know exactly who it is. Inland, you gaze from a gateway down through the fields planted with maize, the straight lines giving perspective to this picture and pointing you in the direction of The Enchanted Village. In the Square, the church bells are ringing for a farming wedding. You see people in their village finery, women with fascinators in blow-dried hair, little children in Sunday best and strapping young men in top hats and tails. Toni

The mist clouds encircled The Enchanted Village either side of Fun Day and scarecrow festival weekend, as the international bunting flapped against a backdrop of an ominous grey sky. My global village scarecrow fell apart three times, his straw innards billowing out in protest at the indignity of it all. He was meant to be a French onion seller but a distinct lack of onions in the Grigg household called for a sign proclaiming an EC onion shortage due to the E.coli crisis. This led to Monty Chocs-Away putting up a competing notice that pointed people to E.coli-free onions 200 yards away, where a much superior French onion seller scarecrow was on display outside his mansion. As the parade roared around the village toward the opening ceremony, like a boy racer in search of a speed trap, Ding Dong Daddy and his merry men and women tried to keep pace with thestandard bearer from the Royal British Legion. Up on the village green, the gastropods in the snail race were refusing to co

There's a bishop's mitre in the hallway, a Greek urn on the bed. There's a pair of Gladiator sandals on the cushion and an old sheet about to be transformed into a gown for an Athenian goddess. The Lidl bags are full of cider, little beers and dozens of fruit shots. And there's a handful of kids' colouring books from the pound shop, ready for unwrapping to be used as prizes on the wheel spinner. In Champagne-Charlie's garden next door, a frame hangs like a crucifix waiting to be dressed. In the Grigg household, there are a few props and an idea ready to explode if only I had the inclination to feel creative. Across the way at the Bancrofts, they haven't even started to think about what they're going to make. And as the village fete, parade of banners and scarecrow festival gets nearer by the hour, there are curses from garages as chicken wire is stuffed into trousers, straw into old checked shirts. A limb here, a limb there, a headless torso, a head with