The world from my window

I was reading my Kindle and was about seven percent of my way through the novel. ' I talked her out of her pants, cupped the twin, tiny globes of her *** with my palms, and pushed my lips right inside her soft, vital ***** .' Christ. I zapped the Kindle a few more random pages more: ' I am so sick of making out with girls .' Oh, please no, please no. Not my choice for Book Club. I could imagine in front rooms throughout The Enchanted Village, Mrs Bancroft choking on her melba toast or Mrs Champagne-Charlie spluttering on her gin and tonic. Pelly Sheepwash would be tut-tutting, Darling Loggins would be in bed with her nightie laced up to the neck and, over in the Caribbean, the fragrant Mrs Putter would be chuckling on a sunbed on her 18 to 70 holiday, with Mr Putter coming out of the sea in snorkel and flippers like Sean Connery in Dr No. And the lovely Mabel Lucie-Attwell would be quite stern, a look I have never seen her wearing before. It had to happen

Something slinky crosses the road ahead. But at this time of year? The special signs haven't even gone up yet. But it's not hopping and it's too small to be a toad, too long to be a frog. It's walking a bit weirdly and then picks up speed as my car gets closer. It's a bit like a weasel but it isn't. It's shiny and it's tiny. And then the punchlines of several jokes come into my head just as I am about to almost run the tiny thing over. It gets faster the closer I get. But it's not tiny, it's minute. Lordy, lordy, that's it. A newt. I drive past, wincing as I go over the spot. I look in my rear view mirror. Nothing. It's reached the safety of the other side of the road. Newt's first law of motion: when you see a car approaching, leg it quick. That's about it. Love Maddie x 'Oh please don

And so the Village Hall Arms calls time for the last time. The beer barrel is empty, there are red wine stains on the floor, a table tennis bat is broken and, in the morning, at least two ladies will be nursing hangovers the size of Devon. Mr Grigg gives a little speech and then I climb above the hubbub to give a little speech of my own. 'I'd like to thank Mr Grigg for organising these community bar sessions,' I say, to a big round of applause. 'And I'd like to welcome our new publicans. But most of all, I'm glad this is the last session. It means I've got my husband back.' 'I think he deserves some sort of award,' Mr Champagne-Charlie mutters. 'I'll see if I can have a little word in the right ear.' This, coming from the man whose new best friend is featured on the front page of the Daily Telegraph's  weekend supplement, our very own Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix

It's been raining hard here today.  But not in my picture library, from which I've pulled these shots of blue skies. Colleton Crescent, Exeter.  Terrier racing, Yarcombe, Devon.   The field above The Enchanted Village. The Wills Building, Bristol University. That's about it. Love Maddie x

As regular readers of this blog will know, The Enchanted Village pub has been closed for a fair few months. And oh, how we've missed it. If you hop across to Real West Dorset , you'll see the poem penned by villagers when it was closed. Each of us contributed a line or two. I hope you enjoy it. We certainly enjoyed writing it. That's about it. Love Maddie x

There is a milky sunrise this morning and a heart-shaped hole in the clouds where the sun should be. Looking out across the horizon to our own twin peaks and Dorset's highest points, I am sure I can see Bluebell Hill blowing kisses to that lofty and normally aloof Flat-Top Pen. It's Valentine's Day and even the landscape is loved up. Back at home, Mr Grigg looks at me admiringly. 'You look very smart,' he says. 'Not too smart though?' I say, peering down at my White Stuff skirt, Monsoon cardigan from the charity shop and a pair of cut-price, brown suede Clarks boots, complete with high wedges and zipped up to my knees. 'No,' he says. 'And you've got those boots on. I like those boots. They're like the sort of boots you might see naughty ladies wearing.' I pull the spectacles down from the top of my head and put them on, looking at him in a very stern Grigg way. 'And I just love you in those glasses.' It's

I proudly show off the new hat Mr Grigg bought me for dog walking. It's pink tweed and lined with grey fake-fur and, more importantly, has the most wonderful ear flaps to keep my lugholes warm. 'That's nothing,' Mr Champage-Charlie says, running to the cupboard under the stairs. 'Oh, Charles,' his wife, Bubble, says. 'Please don't.' She leans forward, in that conspiratorial Delia-Smith-meets-clear-skinned-pixie way of hers, and explains what Champagne-Charlie is about to model for us. It came from a place in Poland with a name I can't pronounce. 'Wear the fox hat,' Mr Grigg says, as Mr Champage-Charlie comes in with the most hideous fur bonce cover you have ever seen. 'I am ,' he says, under a bright red and bushy creation, his nose poking out like a Reynard snout. 'Do you like it?' just as Bubble says: 'I told you where it's from ,   it's a town in Poland .' It could only happen here. That&#

I am using the blog today as a little bit of propaganda. It's not something I'd usually do, but it's my blog, so I guess I can do what I want. There is a plan to redevelop an old industrial estate in My Kind of Town into a massive housing development. It's sparked a lot of controversy, not least because of the jobs that will be lost to make way for shiny new homes. It will also mean a newly-emerged artistic and vintage quarter will be wiped out quicker than you can say restoration, restoration, restoration. This is the gist of the objection I've just submitted. It's an emotional response but I make no apologies for that. My US and Canadian readers might not be interested but, on the other hand, they are people with good hearts so they just might. So here goes: I've known Bridport for thirty years and St Michael's trading estate has always been a thriving place for creative enterprise. The look of it hasn’t changed much in that time either. Back t