The world from my window

Looking around the house, the tree is up, the lights are twinkling and the cards are on display. We've come off one friend's Christmas card list, and not because they're saving paper. It's a bid sad, really, but if it's a small victory to them and makes them feel better, than I'm okay with that. I love Christmas cards and I love bumping into people in Lush Places dashing all over the village as they deliver their festive messages. Despite rancour and division, this is a time for goodwill to all. It's a time for kindness, happiness and being thankful for all we have. It's also a time to think - and do something about - those less fortunate than ourselves, whether it's in a hands-on way or something as simple as donating to Crisis at Christmas or giving your winter fuel allowance over to Dorset Community Foundation who will find someone who really needs it. The lights are on the trees outside, it'll be Midnight Mass this evening and, af...

Christmas is just a week away and that sounds about right as a cough and cold has just descended on me like the Angel Gabriel. I've had the flu jab so it isn't a full-on thing, but it's annoying, nonetheless, and I hope it'll have burnt itself out by this time next week. The village square is looking very sparkly as are all roads leading to it. While walking the dogs just before dusk last night, a five-bar gate across someone's drive suddenly lit up as I went past, flashing and going as if Christmas was about to arrive, which indeed it is. Carol singing in church is done and dusted although, sadly, our vicar was unable to lead the service because she's ill. Still, it was a great way to start the festive season and the last minute choir practice in church accompanied by ringing bells was worthy of The Vicar of Dibley because none of us could hear ourselves think, let alone sing. Thankfully, there were no sniggers from the congregation when I read the sec...

It's blowing a hooley out there.  The wind is lashing against the windows and the dogs are play fighting in front of the Aga before one of them goes too far and I have to break up the party. It's recycling day today and the wind knows it, whipping up through the street into the square and down the alleyway from the church to present the village with a soggy mess of paper, cereal packets and plastic all along the side of the road, a twice-monthly confetti for the marriage of consumerism and environmental guilt. You can tell a lot about people from what's in their rubbish. Forget about stealing ID, I'm talking about their character - where they shop, the type of people they are. A small, white bottle with a label denoting that it's  kefir,  a fermented milk drink good for the gut, rolls around my doorstep. It's not mine.  I pick it up to dispose of it and can feel there is still some miracle juice inside. It was clearly not to the user's l...

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas here in Lush Places. The trees are up above our doors and the lights are due to go on officially this coming Saturday, although I've thrown caution to the wind and switched mine on already.  The lights are warm white, more's the pity. You see, I have once again bottled out of following my non-conformist heart and gone for coloured ones. My lights may be warm white but in an act of quiet rebellion I've already got them on, several days before they are supposed to be. On Saturday evening, the vicar will throw the switch of the giant tree on the village green and then all of us will sing  We Wish You a Merry Christmas  before scuttling out of the cold and into the pub for mince pies, mulled wine and Christmas carols. Meanwhile, my little tree, with its wispy tail of lights across the front of my house, will be saying triumphantly to the rest of the spruce bunch, 'well, I beat you to it. I've had a whole week to shin...

I've just had the most delightful morning at Cricket St Thomas , speaking about Maddie's World to People's Friend readers who were on a five-day break at the Warner's leisure hotel in Somerset. Maddie's World is the one I inhabit in Lush Places and which I share news from each week in my column for the magazine. I was hoping to take Mr Grigg with me but he's busy in France, although currently tucking into a rather nice pizza in the bar just down the road. Pelly Sheepwash was otherwise engaged so I took The Angel of the North along for the ride as well as moral support. I introduced her several times as I got into my stride, telling my audience about myself and my family and pets, why I wanted to be a journalist (it was the film His Girl Friday and the character of Hildy Johnson played by Rosalind Russell. Who could resist her sense of style and wit?) and, then, what they really wanted to hear, all about Lush Places. The burning question was where exactl...

On Halloween, I head out under the cover of darkness, a tub of sweets by the front door for young trick or treaters on the prowl with their parents, waiting in the shadows. The theory is that if we get any fancy-dressed callers, then Mr Grigg can deal with them while I'm out. I'm off to Dorchester to see Doctor Sleep , Stephen King's follow up to The Shining . I enjoyed the book but it's nowhere near as focused and tight as its predecessor, which I've also read, so I'm interested to see what the film is like. To be honest, I'm not a fan of horror movies. Why pay to be scared witless or to have sleepless nights for days to come? But it's only a 15 rating, so it can't be that bad. My brother and sister-in-law pick me up and we make our to way to Dorchester, the mist a-swirling and the rain a-drizzling, perfect conditions for the witching hour. We enjoy a great pizza from the wood-fired oven of Basilico , a new, unpretentious and independ...

Forty years ago (I can't believe it's forty years ago), I entered with great trepidation the Portakabin of Life as part of the Mirror Group Newspapers training scheme in Plymouth. I was eighteen and rather nervous. I didn't really feel like I belonged there, alongside clever graduates from Oxford and similarly lofty establishments. I was a comprehensive school girl from Somerset. But English was the only subject I was ever any good at. And since the age of about nine or ten, I'd wanted to be a journalist. I put that down to having watched the wisecracking Rosalind Russell in the 1940s film His Girl Friday . I wanted to be like her - smart, sassy, witty, independent. I also wanted to wear those suits. And maybe catch the heart of Cary Grant. The school's careers adviser said journalism was a competitive business and I'd be better off in retail management or train to be a librarian. I can't sell anything for toffee and I'm not particula...

I went on the march yesterday. It was an early start, driving into Bridport accompanied by Tony Blackburn on Radio 2 to catch the seven o'clock bus to London, and then back home again at ten at night to Craig Charles's House Party. In the interim, my friend won a 'I'm one of the Liberal Elite (apparently)' T-shirt in the raffle on the coach and I acquired a Union Jack-meets-the-EU-stars flag as we waited for the march to set off. It was the first time I've been on a mass protest since 1983. In a country torn apart by Brexit, it was the most positive many have felt in a long time. Surrounded by people of all faiths, colours, creed, all united for a common cause. We, the forty-eight percent, others who have changed their minds in the last three-and-half years and those who, in June 2016, had been too young to vote. There were teenagers, old people, the middle-aged, millennials and children. There were dogs and unicorns, masses of drums and big, bold ...

I’m on the Isles of Scilly with friends, the weather’s been glorious and there’s been lots of walking, paddling in the clear waters and spirited conversation. But the thing I’ve been most looking forward to, ever since I discovered a cairn at the top of the hill behind the house we’re staying in, is to take myself off for a couple of hours to read in complete solitude. Not just any book, though. The novel is one in which I’ve wanted to immerse myself ever since I ordered it. After it arrived, it sat on the chest of drawers next to my bed, on top of David Nicholl’s Sweet Sorrow , John Lanchester’s The Wall , and Stephen King’s The Outsider . I’d been given a book token and went a bit mad. My literary tastes are somewhat eclectic but a good friend tells me the common denominator is the quality of the prose. ‘You like good writing, don’t you?’ she said. I hadn’t actually thought much about it before but she’s absolutely right. I wince at adverbs (...

The school holidays have come to an end, with children already hunkered down in the new school year. University students are settling into their accommodation before the studying begins, and college kids are getting used to a different routine every morning. I love autumn and that change in the seasons, from the hurly burly of summer to a more contemplative, meditative time of year. New beginnings and all that. For me, that means returning to that wonderful place of learning, The Open University , where I'm just about to start a masters degree in creative writing. At fifty-eight, it was now or never because my eligibility for a student loan runs out at the age of sixty. As soon as I discovered that, the choice was already made. It was, in an expression I absolutely loathe, a no-brainer. My degree years with the OU from 2007-2011 were among the most creative I've ever experienced.  The culture of supportive learning was a real tonic and stood me in good stead. I'...

On Sunday morning, there are two sheep sauntering in a very confident manner down the street. Unfazed by the local peloton of cyclists zooming past in formation, the sheep look right, look left and then look right again before crossing the main road, heading in the direction of Lyme Regis. They'll be corralled in a garden soon, way before they have the chance to place their towels out on the sand or frolic about with buckets and spades. Their adventure will probably be over within minutes. But they're out there, giving it a go. I am out here too, with two little girls laden with sweets from the village shop, each one far exceeding their £2 allowance, Young children are canny like that. They knew I'd lose count once the liquorice bootlaces and fried egg candies started going in the basket at speed. There were just too many figures to add up in my head. Unlike the sheep or indeed their grandmother, who got a grade three CSE in maths three times (even with private tu...

I'm back in my old haunts, up on the hill, dog walking when I make an interesting discovery. I haven't been up here for months but  I vow to thee my country that I'll get back to my old routine and do this early morning walk at least three times every week. At 28 kilos, Arty certainly needs the exercise. And me, at ahem I prefer not to mention but said quickly in imperial measures is at least a stone too heavy, well, I need to exercise too. It's late summer and the children are still on holiday but ready to go back to school soon, with new uniforms, shoes backpacks, sandwich boxes and pencil cases all to shop for this week.  (It always irritated me immensely that high street stores insisted on 'Back to School' displays as soon as the children broke up for the summer. How dare these commercial types spoil the magic of holiday time. Talk about pressure.) This morning, it's quiet on the hill until the rain starts dropping in ever increasingly large spl...

It's the height of fete time here in France, with the weirdest, wildest, wackiest festivals you could ever imagine. Most of them involve eating and drinking, which is perfectly fine if you're into that sort of thing. Luckily, I am. I think I'm going native. August is the time to have fun with friends. However old or young you are. I could be here for some time. This one involved rows of mussels in soaked paper and then straw put on the top and set alight. Seems rather a convoluted way of cooking mussels en masse, but ho hum, why keep things simple? Later this week we'll be enjoying an omelette made with two and a half thousand eggs. Porquoi? Porquoi pas. That's about it. Love Maddie x

So there we were, enjoying France at its liveliest when someone pointed to the sky. The moon. There was a great chunk missing from it, as if it were made from fromage and someone - or some thing - had taken a bite. A clanger maybe. (I love The Clangers. Here they are on my windowsill at home, courtesy of the good knitters of Lush Places WI). We sitting outside at a village marche gourmand when we witnessed a partial lunar eclipse. What made it even more exciting was that we'd had no prior knowledge it was going to happen. This is because I've stopped listening to the news, too depressed by the whole Brexit debacle, the state of the world in general and the idiots who run it. It's almost fifty years to the day that Neil Armstrong took that one small step and a giant leap for mankind. Back then, I was coming up to nine years old. The moon landing filled me with awe and hope, hope for the bright future that surely lay ahead of all of us.  I still love the idea of s...

There is a welcome breeze in the French air today, after more than a week of sweltering temperatures. It's warm but not as crazily hot as the last two weeks. A day without sweating is a day to be savoured, as are the early types of fruit from the purple-leafed plum trees encircling the village. In the garden, there is a Mirabelle and the fruits are delicious lightly stewed and served with ice cream. In the markets, the fruit and vegetables are equally fresh. It’s a joy to wander around, soaking up the sights, sounds and smells of the rural French way of life. In the supermarkets E Leclerc and Carrefour, the fruit and veg sections groan under the array of melons, lettuce by the yard and apricots, lots of lovely apricots, and nectarines. The fish counters are works of art and the cheese section has me salivating at the choice laid out before us. Prices are not cheap – this is not Spain – but the quality and freshness is most excellent. There is a pr...

It’s morning and the sun is streaming through the windows. It’s early but it’s light as anything out there and in here. And cool, at least for for the moment. We both wake at the same time, the disturbed look on Mr Grigg's face reflecting exactly how I am feeling at this moment. I’ve just had a very strange dream. Remember, we are in south west France in the middle of a heatwave. Oddly and as if on cue, he says: “I had a really funny dream last night. We were hosting a dinner party. But it was a disaster.” “That’s odd,” say I, barely able to lift my head from the pillow it was so hot last night. “So did I.”   “Really? Well, I dreamt I’d invited someone you really didn’t want there as a guest.” “An ex-wife?” “No, worse than that.” “I don’t know,” I say. “Give me a clue.” And he tousles his hair and makes an idiot face. “Not Boorish Johnson?” I am intrigued. “Exactly him.” I sigh with affront and turn over to look at Mr Grigg as ...