The world from my window

There are dads and young sons here with matching haircuts, some nicely styled and graduated and others like cowpats sitting on top of heads.  I am surrounded by testosterone-charged men and some for whom surging male hormones are but yet a dream, yelling in unison that the referee doesn't know what he's doing.    I expected the overriding aroma to be one of body odour and the great scent of Lynx. But all I can smell is washing powder on freshly-laundered fan kits. We're at Ashton Gate for Bristol City's last game of the season. There's a record crowd of 25,404 for this match against Birmingham City.  I don't like football but I love the fact that Mr Grigg's team has Drink Up Thy Zider as a theme tune. There are lots of male bonding moments. Bristol City lose 1-0 but there's a consolation prize later as the home team does a parade around the ground. Mr Grigg buys me a new red hoodie, just to annoy our neighbour, and then we have a couple o...

They're playing Drink Up Thy Zider at Bristol City's ground, Ashton Gate. It's their song. So we drink up our cider and head for our seats, having gone through the turnstiles in a numbered entry system devised by the Romans for the Coliseum and other public buildings like it. But, unlike Ancient Rome, we're not segregated, we're all in this together. So we're sitting in front of a row of people in wheelchairs, a mother and young child two seats away... ...and, next to us, wafting across the stadium, are the strong smells of body odour, pasties and something with the aroma of Marmite (which, in this context, you wouldn't like at all even if you usually loved this foul, black yeast extract on your toast). It's approaching three o'clock and the crowd behind us starts singing. Their musical programme begins with the adaptation of a song by 70s glam rock group Slade, which starts off with an expletive followed by the words  Swindon Town  an...

Funny thing, homesickness. Back in Lush Places, the soggy, syrupy mist swoops down all of a sudden and I want to grab hold of it. It's my security blanket, wrapped around me, as I gaze at water droplets on sodden and bare trees and rotten cider apples lying on the ground. I love this place. And the sunlight bounces off the bantams' backs as we pack up and get ready to go back to Corfu. Even in winter, when Dorset's Enchanted Village is up to her neck in fog, in my head it's the theme music to A Summer Place . 'Who do you miss the most?' my friend Tuppence asks. I have to think. My family, my friends? But, no, it isn't a single person. It's the place. For the first three months of living in Corfu, guilt has picked me up and dropped me down again as I fight the urge to go home. Who wouldn't be happy in this lovely place, this lovely island of Corfu, with its beautiful, kind people and wonderful scenery? 'It's just the way yo...

Back in the UK from Corfu for a week and it’s like we’ve never been away. Mrs Bancroft mans the stocking filler stall at the Christmas bazaar in Lush Places village hall and the Parson’s Daughter, in Santa hat and baubles, reaches across and gives me a hug. ‘It’s so nice to see you,’ says Night Nurse, as the Loveliest Lady in the Village comes along and gives me a playful prod in the back. Mrs Champagne-Charlie is the most wonderful hostess while her husband is on a big game hunt in the Black Forest (despite the jolly music, you honestly should never take a walk there). He is cross he has completely missed our grand homecoming. But there are cuddles galore from Pelly and Anakin Sheepwash, Mr Loggins and his wife, Darling, Nobby Odd-Job and then a fleeting visit from Mr Putter and the fragrant Mrs Putter, who still manages to smell fragrant even after a long-haul flight from Florida. I just want to bury my face in her neck and hair. There is a card through the letter box from Ca...

It’s amazing what brings people to a blog. The more people who come here and gaze through my window the better, but only virtual gazing. I couldn’t cope with hundreds of people from all over the world in my bedroom. The reason for this post is I am currently getting a lot of people arriving here after putting ‘ union flag bunting’ into Google. I hope they stay a while and get a feel for what’s happening in England’s rural underbelly when it comes to the Queen’s special celebrations this weekend. One poor person from Lydney, Gloucestershire, found me by typing in ‘ jubilee flags too big on my window next door a real nightmare ’. I feel for you, I really do. You should see The Enchanted Village. We have union flags, Bristol City pennants, go-faster chequered bunting for the pram race, the official Diamond Jubilee logo and international symbols flapping all along our western entrance. Any minute now, the bronze nymph statue in the garden is about to be unveiled, wearing a re...

                      It is the May Day bank holiday weekend here in The Enchanted Village. And, appropriately for Labour Day, there is lots of work going on. The pub is bursting at the seams, with  people even from My Kind of Town   venturing out for good pub grub and a cheery welcome from our new landlady. In the kitchen, The Pub Landlord is slaving away and will reward himself at the end of the evening with a nice sit down on a tiny stool behind the bar, with only the top of his head on view to the punters. Next door, the Champagne-Charlies are out in force, hoeing and raking the garden prior to an official visit by the outlaws. Bubbles is trimming a bush with an electric bush trimmer she got from the Innovations catalogue. Across the road, Mrs Bancroft is entertaining old friends, one of whom has a head like a stone on the morning after the night before. And in the Sheepwash abode, there is lots of eati...

The sun is belting through my window as I look out on a quiet village square. The shop is closed, people have gone to the beach and Mr Grigg and friends have jumped in the car to watch Bristol City at home. I have just seen my first swallow, chattering away to himself on the telephone wires. Yesterday, this house was choc-a-bloc with family. I am one of five and there are hordes of us. Mr Grigg is one of three and there are not so many in his family. And with some relatives on holiday, working or perhaps deciding it was just all too much, he was a little outnumbered. He took it well. But I felt rather sorry for him. He has been working very hard lately. Being in the bosum of his family would have been good for him. Still, my 'all-talking-at-once' family more than made up for it. He was on good form as we prepared for Easter Sunday, making a massively hot chilli while I rustled up a vegetarian lasagne, cous cous with Mediterranean vegetables and a kind of bread and butter puddin...