The world from my window

                      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...

There's a bishop's mitre in the hallway, a Greek urn on the bed. There's a pair of Gladiator sandals on the cushion and an old sheet about to be transformed into a gown for an Athenian goddess. The Lidl bags are full of cider, little beers and dozens of fruit shots. And there's a handful of kids' colouring books from the pound shop, ready for unwrapping to be used as prizes on the wheel spinner. In Champagne-Charlie's garden next door, a frame hangs like a crucifix waiting to be dressed. In the Grigg household, there are a few props and an idea ready to explode if only I had the inclination to feel creative. Across the way at the Bancrofts, they haven't even started to think about what they're going to make. And as the village fete, parade of banners and scarecrow festival gets nearer by the hour, there are curses from garages as chicken wire is stuffed into trousers, straw into old checked shirts. A limb here, a limb there, a headless torso, a head with...

I get home and struggle out of the car with the shopping. The Lidl bags nearly split open with shock when I trip over a large, fluffy rabbit on the doorstep. It's bright eyed and bushy tailed but very dead. Like me, it's gutted. Mr Grigg is dispatched to Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie's to say thank you, but it wasn't from them. Mr Grigg decides to skin the thing on my beautiful kitchen island and I wince and bristle and then end up shouting when he spills blood on the beech wood surface. I remove myself from the scene and look at Facebook, where I am brought down to earth by Number One Daughter's status: I apologised to The Child this morning as Mummy and Daddy had an argument in front of her last night. Her response...'Mum, it's about friendship, love and keeping your trust - you have to be friends.' Such maturity for a five-year-old. So I cuddle up to my big bunny, Mr Grigg. But only after the rabbit has been put in a bag in the freezer. That's abo...

I have fallen out of love with one of the most delightful characters in children's literature. A week or so ago, Peter Rabbit, that naughty but lovable blue-jacketed bunny, waltzed right into my house and got completely inside my head. A couple of days later, he's done my head in completely and managed to get right up my nose. I was studying hard on Saturday, trying to pad out a 2,000-word Open University essay on why children's picturebooks appeal equally to adults. I was using Peter Rabbit to illustrate my points. Two thousand bloody words, I ask you. There is only so much you can say. But I really shouldn't take it out on Peter Rabbit for my mistake in studying a level three degree course in children's literature. I realise now, for me, all that analysis and intellectual argument takes the magic away. I just think: 'What a load of absolute bollocks.' So when Pelly Sheepwash instant messaged me across my laptop and asked if I fancied helping her to look fo...

The mist has descended on the village this morning like it does, suddenly, all through the year. The top of The Hill is completely obscured by fog and the ground is squelchy and damp underfoot. In the street, the recycling boxes and bags are full of paper, bottles and cans. The Grigg abode is no exception, with an extra bag for bottles after a party to welcome the new neighbours, Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie. They were quite taken aback when the doorbell kept ringing. Villager after villager strolled through our front door, clutching wine bottles and cans. 'We didn't expect all these people,' they said. 'Neither did I,'I replied. Some 18 people crammed into the cottage, enjoying Mr Grigg's stuffed rabbit and roasted vegetable tart, my bread and butter pudding made with Lidl's panettone and a pavlova I renamed 'effing mess' after dropping it on the floor. When Ted Moult and Posh Totty drank us out of house and home, Mrs Bancroft was sent across the ro...

I am missing out on village life. While I was feeling claustrophobic in London until I reached the leafy suburbs of my friend's house, Mr Grigg and friends ran a coffee morning in the village hall. Then a hen party complete with woman in bridal veil descended on the pub and ordered the full karaoke and Mr Grigg was invited to dinner at the St John love nest. My only contribution to the coffee morning was buying and labelling the tombola prizes, which I bought at Lidls. This shop is the only reason I ever venture into the war zone of Chard, the birthplace of powered fight. I am reliably informed that Celebrity Farmer has a new (as yet unseen) woman on his arm. A herd of cows trampled a walker from the other side of the county, Tuppence's lawn looks like it has been cut for hay and Masterchef winner Mat Follas's new restaurant is beginning to take shape in a nearby town. We are waiting with bated breath to see CF's new friend, although if she fell for his radio mic and m...

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...