The world from my window

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...

There is much frivolity in the village. Two weeks in and the Enchanted Village Arms is alive and kicking. It's like the pub had never closed. Our new landlord and landlady have thrown themselves into community life with gusto. Things are looking good. 'You can call me Shrek,' he said, when I told him about the blog. 'I couldn't possibly do that,' I said. 'Why not? Everyone else does.' But there's already someone in the village known as Shrek. So I'll just call him The Pub Landlord. You get the picture. So we have a bar full of people, eating, drinking and being merry. There's the dour Mr Putter talking about life after death, Mr Champagne-Charlie with ruffled feathers because the Tory Party keeps referring to him as Mr Asti-Spumante when they send him invitations to cheese and wine evenings. In the corner is a lesser-spotted, shorts-wearing Mr St John, who has been reunited with a long-lost love but tonight is sharing su...

And so the Village Hall Arms calls time for the last time. The beer barrel is empty, there are red wine stains on the floor, a table tennis bat is broken and, in the morning, at least two ladies will be nursing hangovers the size of Devon. Mr Grigg gives a little speech and then I climb above the hubbub to give a little speech of my own. 'I'd like to thank Mr Grigg for organising these community bar sessions,' I say, to a big round of applause. 'And I'd like to welcome our new publicans. But most of all, I'm glad this is the last session. It means I've got my husband back.' 'I think he deserves some sort of award,' Mr Champagne-Charlie mutters. 'I'll see if I can have a little word in the right ear.' This, coming from the man whose new best friend is featured on the front page of the Daily Telegraph's  weekend supplement, our very own Maximus Decimus Meridius, commander of the Armies of the North, General of the Felix...

The mist clouds encircled The Enchanted Village either side of Fun Day and scarecrow festival weekend, as the international bunting flapped against a backdrop of an ominous grey sky. My global village scarecrow fell apart three times, his straw innards billowing out in protest at the indignity of it all. He was meant to be a French onion seller but a distinct lack of onions in the Grigg household called for a sign proclaiming an EC onion shortage due to the E.coli crisis. This led to Monty Chocs-Away putting up a competing notice that pointed people to E.coli-free onions 200 yards away, where a much superior French onion seller scarecrow was on display outside his mansion. As the parade roared around the village toward the opening ceremony, like a boy racer in search of a speed trap, Ding Dong Daddy and his merry men and women tried to keep pace with thestandard bearer from the Royal British Legion. Up on the village green, the gastropods in the snail race were refusing to co...