The world from my window

Be careful with that pasty Mr Osborne - you don't know where it might have been... We think the Chancellor of the Exchequer might be reading the blog. He's just announced a tax on warmed-up pasties, which has gone down in this country about as quietly as Monica Lewinsky did with Bill Clinton. Mr Grigg is a tad worried. The award-winning blog post, Pasty tea and toast will you , was written nearly three years ago. So he's worried the Government might be after his arrears - a rather unsavoury venture if you ask me. And with The Sun giving out free pasties in Parliament Square , we'd just like to point out the name's Grigg, not Greggs. That's about it. Love Maddie x

And so I'm back. From outer space. I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face... You should have changed that stupid lock , you should have made me leave my key , if you'd known for just one second I'd be back to bother thee...   It's been two weeks since I've blogged - two long weeks - and I've missed you, I really have. Whether you've even noticed I'd gone is another matter. I'm sorry about that Darzet version of I Will Survive , but I needed to make an entrance just to see if you were still awake. I have been up to my neck in stupid essays for this stupid MA. The one in stupid classics and ancient stupid history I thought I'd do because I love Greek mythology and poncing around the stupid Ionian a couple of times a stupid year. Talk about jumping in without thinking. Stupid. I'm a skimmer, a scratcher-of-the-surface so it's been a struggle, combing the day job and such intense study in such a short ti

It's bin day in the Enchanted Village. I peer across at Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie's recycling box to see how many cases of gin they've got through this week. What's this, an empty bottle of soy sauce and a rather fancy designer cider? Oops, it's our box. I'd forgotten Mr Grigg had put it outside the back door instead of the front. At least we have a box. And a bin. Poor old Tuppence hasn't. Her bin has been nicked from the end of her lane. That's well rubbish. That's about it. Love Maddie x

There is much frivolity in the village. Two weeks in and the Enchanted Village Arms is alive and kicking. It's like the pub had never closed. Our new landlord and landlady have thrown themselves into community life with gusto. Things are looking good. 'You can call me Shrek,' he said, when I told him about the blog. 'I couldn't possibly do that,' I said. 'Why not? Everyone else does.' But there's already someone in the village known as Shrek. So I'll just call him The Pub Landlord. You get the picture. So we have a bar full of people, eating, drinking and being merry. There's the dour Mr Putter talking about life after death, Mr Champagne-Charlie with ruffled feathers because the Tory Party keeps referring to him as Mr Asti-Spumante when they send him invitations to cheese and wine evenings. In the corner is a lesser-spotted, shorts-wearing Mr St John, who has been reunited with a long-lost love but tonight is sharing su

The night was dark as Nobby-Odd Job made his way through the village hall car park. Luckily, he had his trusty torch with him. A retired policeman is Nobby, so always prepared. There was some kind of cooking demonstration going on in the hall. The car park was full. But as he walked down through the village green, he heard strange noises coming from a VW Golf parked near the basketball hoop. He was just about to go back to the old days of spoiling people's fun by shining his torch through a steamed-up window when something strange happened. 'Baaaaa!' Closer inspection revealed a bale of hay in the boot and a large sheep standing up on the back seat, with two legs resting on the front passenger seat. Nobby (now known as Little Boy Blue), beat on, hastily. Shepherd's Spy anyone? That's about it. Love Maddie x

Once again, the early morning mist descends on The Enchanted Village. We are all wrapped up in a cellular blanket of fog, cocooned and safe from the outside world, but just a little bit damp. Our only shop is still closed but there is something on our doorstep, next to the empty beer barrel that still hasn't been collected after the last Village Hall Arms before the pub's long-awaited re-opening. It's a pint of milk brought to us by the silent milkman, who floats through the streets of The Enchanted Village like a ghost, with bottles that don't rattle.  He makes his way slowly down through the village, in a job he has done for years. Then wailing and shrieking sounds, more like peacocks than children, strike up from the village school playground. Their song becomes louder, rising into a crescendo before a clanging bell calls them into class. Daffodils, snowdrops and primroses are popping up, the catkins dance as the dogs dash by and a wood pigeon coo-coo-coos