The world from my window

We were sitting down watching the end credits of Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again . I always make a point of staying for the credits. I mean, if I were involved in a movie, I'd want people to see my name in lights, albeit only briefly. It's only polite. Also, increasingly, there are often 'unseen' extras during the credits which are worth remaining in your seat for. We weren't disappointed as there's a funny bit with the comedian Omid Djalili right at the end. As the lights went up, I turned to Mr Grigg and asked him if he'd enjoyed the film. "Well, actually, I found it quite emotional," he said. "I cried at one point." "Which point was that?" I asked him. "The bit where she was walking through the olive groves. It reminded me of when we lived on Corfu for a year and I'd like to go back." We're off on holiday there soon, so hopefully that will satiate his desire. And then he said: &

Typical.  The sky's clouded over now we're due a spectacular red lunar eclipse . The so-called Blood Moon should be on show tonight from nine o'clock until quarter past ten. But it doesn't look likely from where I'm standing, as the sky is currently a light grey. Shame. Still, we need the rain, and the little we've had so far today is not even as much as the salt and vinegar the lady in the chip van puts on my Tuesday night treat of battered sausage, chips and curry sauce. I wish the heavens would open, spill their load and then the clouds part just before nine o'clock to reveal an orb of striking red. If wishes were horses, I'd have enough to enter the Grand National for each year of my life. The lunar eclipse would be a fitting end to the working week in which people in un-air conditioned offices have sweltered and local builders worked in the heat on rooftops and took on the shape of human finials. Trees stooped in the hedgerows, g

It's a beautiful morning as I find my way to the central path up through the maize field. We've not been up here for weeks, the dog and I, what with cattle, sheep and then, before that, lots of mud. But today we're up on the highest hill in Dorset and it's only eight o'clock. It's like a cathedral to nature up here, with the rising sun peeping through the branches to illuminate the trees, elevating them into something even more special than they already are. We soak up the hazy view from the top before meandering around the summit, taking in the sights, sounds and smells and feel of this lovely rural spot. There's a rope swing in front of me. It's pretty low on the ground but no-one's looking. So I lift my leg over and swing through the morning. The dog thinks I'm mad. The sun throws a spotlight on my antics and then it's down the hill again, before anyone spots me. The scornful look on the dog's face is

How’s your World Cup going? I’m not even a football fan. For years I thought Baddiel and Skinner were singing about  Three Lines . But I got well and truly sucked into it last night. The England games are being shown on a big screen in the village hall, thanks to my soccer-mad husband, who took no persuading in setting it up after learning that the pub was going to be a footie-free zone during the tournament. Last night, the chip van in the village square was doing a roaring trade. “But it’s funny,” said the young woman in between battering cod and haddock. “I’ve never seen so many ladies queuing up. Obviously the men have something better to do.” Up at the hall, the smell of testosterone on a warm, sunny night hit me as I walked in at half-time with our supper. “Just in time,” said my husband behind the makeshift bar, before he was inundated with requests for ice-cold pints of Thatchers and Branscombe beer straight from the barrel. “You couldn’t do