The world from my window

I was making the rounds of my pelargoniums out on the terrace this morning. For the past few days, there has been the tell-tale sign of cat trying to scrabble in amongst the plants. But now, with plenty of souvlaki skewers sticking up bottomwards and a load of pepper put around the outside, it seems the cats have given the flowers a wide berth. And then, today, deep within the terracotta planter I discovered this. Here, have a closer look. It was nestling in an egg-shaped indentation in the soil between two plants. But there were no visible signs of whatever it was that put it there. No broken stems, no disturbed soil, nothing. Just a big, fat, hard, speckled egg. Mr Grigg put it in water to see if it floated. It didn't. It must be fresh then. Unless it's ceramic. But it doesn't feel like it. It's too big and white to have come from any of the hens next door. And, besides, they've never, ever ventured over the wall. And it's too small ...

The strawberry blond lead of Morris: A Life with Bells On could have been Celebrity Farmer. Or at least how Celeb used to look. I have just seen him on his way to charm the London city girls and he has reinvented himself. Designer shades and a new haircut. What is going on? Who knows, but there is plenty going on this weekend. Mr St John and Lady Friend moved in together yesterday and the plethora of removal lorries filled the street. Mimi and Larry have returned from the sun and are back behind the bar. The builder (with shirt on) is hard at work in our front room. Morris played to a full house at the village hall last night. Lots of chuckles and guffaws, especially at the 'local' jokes such as a scene at 'Dorchester Airport'. Dorchester has no airport, nor are there plans to create one. Unless the producers of the film have heard this is intended by Prince Charles as part of his toytown kingdom of Poundbury. Royal idyll: HRH and Poundbury Village, Dorchester I was pa...

A looming tax bill has prompted me to sell my soul to the local council. Yesterday, I started working for the council three days a week, temporarily you understand, and I feel like a battery hen. I always wondered why the caged bird sings and it's probably out of frustration. My own singing is taking the form of cursing loudly every time the word 'engagement' jumps out at me from a document on a computer screen, or, even worse, when I hear it spoken with a straight face. At the moment, I am the new girl but I am beginning to understand why every person with whom I attempt to 'engage' in the kitchen or lavatory is either leaving or has just joined. I do so miss my rural idyll. Simple things like taking the dogs out in the morning light rather than stumbling around fields as I fall over leads before the sun comes up. Chatting to my neighbours, hearing a robin warbling in the tree and making endless cups of tea and reorganising the laundry basket as I put off my next...