The world from my window

It's the day before the election and I still haven't decided which way to vote. This has never happened to me before. I know who I'm not voting for, which is something I suppose. I have an argument with Mr Grigg, the big Tory, at the breakfast table as he makes arrangements to ferry around Conservatives too frail to walk to the polling station. This is not a safe Tory seat any more so Oliver Letwin needs all the votes he can get. The Liberal Democrats could get in, if Labour voters and Greens vote tactically. Disturbingly, UKIP seem to be quite popular in this rural backwater. There are plenty of people telling me I should vote this way, I should vote that. But when it comes down to it, it's my vote. When I go into that polling booth, the choice is mine. There are several things determining my decision, some of which boil down to personal preferences and prejudices and are too boring and petty to go into here. But, when I'm out in the field with the dog at ...

Bless me father, for I haven't blogged. There's been so much going on in my life, I don't know if I'm coming or going. I fully expect to charge round the corner and meet myself coming the other way. The cats have been safely despatched, but not in a bad sense. They're now living with my sister, spending a week indoors before being allowed out to explore. It will also give them the chance to big up a bit, considering they have gone to The Birthplace of Powered Fight, where the streets are paved with broken glass. But they are happy. The girl cat actually kissed her brother, which is unheard of. He was last seen behind my sister's sofa, quaking in his seven league boots. Toughen up, little one. You could be mistaken for the  Lion of Somerset . Well, perhaps not. Meanwhile, the hunt for new homes for the dogs goes on apace. Will we be sorted by the time we leave the country for Corfu in a few weeks' time? I hope so. Because I'm looking forwar...

I am turning into a girly-girl. This is worrying, because for as long as I can remember I have been an ardent feminist. I used to get very indignant as a child when the rag doll Looby Loo secretly cleared up after Teddy and Andy Pandy had retired, knackered, for a sleep in the picnic basket. Why would she even think of doing that? A few years later in the 1960s, however, I was a real Miss World fan. In our tiny primary school, we used to play Miss World in the playground. I was always a Scandinavian contestant who, although blonde and beautiful, disgraced herself by tripping over. I thought it added a bit more character, a bit more interest, to the role. I didn’t think the two viewpoints were mutually exclusive. You could have beauty as well as brains and I always went for the underdog. Girl power. What I didn’t like was the traditional perception that a woman’s place was in the home where she looked after the children and did the housework. And nothing else. That independent s...

One of our nearest towns is Chard, the birthplace of powered fight and home to the cooked meat factory, whose smells envelop my vegetarian sister's house like cling film wrapped around a cucumber. In the Seventies Chard was reputed to have the highest crime rate for a town of its size, second only to Glasgow. The highest town in Somerset, where the water in the gutters on each side of the street ends up in different places - one goes south to the English Channel and the other turns left and goes to the Bristol Channel. The town is full of Chard Hards, who tend to go sleeveless in the coldest weather to prove their masculinity. And that's just the women. Several people I went to school with ended up being murdered or turned out to be murderers themselves. One went out in a blaze of glory in an armed police siege in a lane high above the town. One of the best bits about Chard these days is Lidl. There are special deals all the time but I'm not surprised there are lots of fr...