The world from my window

This village gets weirder by the minute.  Not content with scaring the granddaughter by letting her watch the witch scene from Snow White just before bedtime and then act surprised when she has a nightmare, Mr Grigg takes me on an afternoon stroll up to Bluebell Hill.  I gaze out over the gate at the lush views beyond. I look out across the maize, which is shining in the sun. And then I turn around again.  I'm in the film Donnie Darko. Don't ask. The only consolation is that little grandchildren legs could never have climbed this far. I won't sleep for weeks. That's about it. Love Maddie x

So who will be lighting up the torch tonight? The union jack bunting is rather tattered now, as it flips and flaps against the drainpipes and fascia boards of The Enchanted Village. We've kept it up for the Olympics, which start officially this evening. Whether you like sport or not, you can't escape it. Not even here in Lush Places, where the Olympic bells are ringing at twelve minutes past eight this morning. (My feature writing friend on the Dorset Echo is trying to work the word 'bongtastic' into her colour piece.) Just down the road, the people of Weymouth and Portland are gearing up to go bananas tonight as the Olympic sailing events get underway. And our own Mrs Bancroft, my sweet neighbour who is as dear to me as a big sister, is working flat out over the next fortnight in her 'meet and greet' gear as a volunteer in the Olympic park. Thank God she managed to get into the trousers again after the final fitting a few weeks ago. There is much s

So there we were, Mrs Bubbles Champagne-Charlie, Mrs Bancroft and me, sitting at the bar, swinging our legs from the stools while the men talked about the Olympics. As their chatter got on to the women's volleyball team (yawn), I decided to pep up the ladies' conversation by asking their thoughts on  Fifty Shades of Grey . Not that it's on The Enchanted Village's book club list but we've all read it anyway. Champagne-Charlie's ears pricked up immediately. ' Fifty Shades ...that's not the mucky book Bubbles has been reading?' he said. Mr Grigg snorted. 'Maddie said she'd read me extracts of that on holiday but she never did. I was most disappointed.' 'That's because it was rubbish,' I said, having read Erica Jong's Fear of Flying at an impressionable age. ( Fifty Shades hurt my feminist bone. And not in a good way). 'Rubbish?' said Mrs Bancroft. 'It was like a sexed-up Mills and Boon.' '

I’m fifty, with a good job, a lovely home, fabulous friends, neighbours and grown-up children and some gorgeous grandchildren.  And Lush Places, this magical corner of Dorset where I live, is the lushest place you could ever imagine. Those of you who have called in on my blog over the past five years can vouch for that. From our front door we can walk up through the fields to the highest point in the county. We can look out and breathe in this beautiful landscape which envelops us like a cosy blanket. It’s familiar and it’s gorgeous. It’s our life. I should be counting my blessings and rejoicing in everything around me. So what am I doing?  Mr Grigg is retiring, I’m giving up the day job, we’re going to let our home in Lush Places and rent a house on the island of Corfu.   We're taking the plunge and going on a grown-up gap year in September.  My Big Fat Greek Gap Year. For I’ve become exhausted by the demands of living in The Enchanted Village, where the two of u

There are loads of sirens all over the village. Mr Grigg is tied to the mast Emergency vehicles are tearing around. There are floods everywhere, the rain is lashing down like stair-rods and the wind blew my Union Jack umbrella inside out. I wish I was back in Greece. In the pub, the landlord sits behind the bar, wedged into a small stepladder, his face level with the pumps. He is listening to t he talk in Compost Corner, which turns to Nobby Odd-Job and his miraculous recovery after his heart stopped for forty minutes on the operating table. He was instantly put on ice and was woken four days later. He squeezed his partner's hand but didn't register her presence. The next day, though, Posh Totty poked her head around the door and Nobby woke up like Sleeping Beauty and gazed lovingly into those piercing blue eyes. The village ladies are furious. It should have been them. However, we are pleased he is making good progress. Especially when the church flag was flying at

Back home and the pub is full. We just about manage to squeeze on to a table for two after booking by phone on our way back from the airport earlier in the day. We've quickly learned that if we want to eat in our pub, we need to book beforehand. The Pub Landlord makes a face through the window of the kitchen door and I retaliate  from the safety of a bar stool  by drawing a 'heart' sign in the air to embarrass him. I once had an onion ring with my steak which I swear was shaped like a heart. I haven't stopped going on about it since. (In Greece,  my garlic mash arranged was deliberately arranged in a heart shape. Oh those romantic Mediterraneans...) 'He's told me to wind you up,' says the barmaid. 'Something about chicken fajitas being really complicated. But I couldn't do that, it wouldn't be fair.' And then when the Pub Landlady clears away, she says: 'The Pub Landlord wanted me to tell you he was really cross with you about you