The world from my window

It's blowing a hooley out there.  The wind is lashing against the windows and the dogs are play fighting in front of the Aga before one of them goes too far and I have to break up the party. It's recycling day today and the wind knows it, whipping up through the street into the square and down the alleyway from the church to present the village with a soggy mess of paper, cereal packets and plastic all along the side of the road, a twice-monthly confetti for the marriage of consumerism and environmental guilt. You can tell a lot about people from what's in their rubbish. Forget about stealing ID, I'm talking about their character - where they shop, the type of people they are. A small, white bottle with a label denoting that it's  kefir,  a fermented milk drink good for the gut, rolls around my doorstep. It's not mine.  I pick it up to dispose of it and can feel there is still some miracle juice inside. It was clearly not to the user's l...

It's bin day in the Enchanted Village. I peer across at Mr and Mrs Champagne-Charlie's recycling box to see how many cases of gin they've got through this week. What's this, an empty bottle of soy sauce and a rather fancy designer cider? Oops, it's our box. I'd forgotten Mr Grigg had put it outside the back door instead of the front. At least we have a box. And a bin. Poor old Tuppence hasn't. Her bin has been nicked from the end of her lane. That's well rubbish. That's about it. Love Maddie x

The wind roars through the beech trees, buffeting and tossing everything in its path. Those trees, those old, old trees sway like ancient dancers at a primeval feast. In the early morning darkness, only the lights of the housing association houses and a smattering of others - including ours - are on, as I make my way around the field with two dogs and a torch before getting ready for work. Elsewhere, the newly-retired and long-retired slumber in their beds. A solitary figure in a dressing gown tiptoes out of a door, looking left and right before the clattering of bottles put out for the recycling is heard across the street. It is Mrs Bancroft, and she's going back to bed. My two reluctant spaniels perk up when they pick up the scent of a short-sighted badger which snuffles and snorts across the field and bangs into a fence post as it makes its getaway. On the road, there might be trees fallen down and plenty of surface water as white van man and commuters like me make for t...

Tomorrow is rubbish day. The day when all our bin bags full of village detritus get put out for all to see, seven days of life safely encased in a black plastic sack. Tomorrow is also recycling day, although we get confused in The Enchanted Village as to which fortnight is which. If Mrs Bancroft has put hers out, we know it's the wrong week. She may be wise and regal, but she is useless when it comes to knowing which week is recycling week. Pelly, oh-Girl-Guide-wise-one, always gets it right but her lane is a little bit far for us to check every week. She is also the kind of person to make her recycled goods into a wholesome Christmas present so there is never much evidence of her every-day folk life. Jamie Lee and Ted Moult usually know recycling week from their elbow. Pelly has often counted their bottles of Becks and Chardonnay when passing by in the morning. 'They've had a party and we weren't invited,' she'll say, as she crosses the road and goes on t...

There is a power struggle going on in this house, hence the long time since my last blog. We have just taken in a springer spaniel from a rescue centre in Devon to keep our howling dog company, only to find the old dog hates the new one. It's getting better, but there have been fights every now and then, whenever the old dog thinks the new one is getting attention and he isn't. And when I say old dog I don't mean my man. My man is surprisingly stress-free, although he starts to swear when he has to clear up the crap from the patio. I have cleared up several bloodstains from the kitchen floor but lately the two dogs have been cuddling in to each other. It's only when a familiar human comes on the horizon the fur starts to fly. We have been told new dog has a wonderful pedigree, so we're hoping its field trials ancestry will come to the fore when we go beating in the autumn. Until then, I am doing my damndest to keep the bloody thing under control on a lead. I cannot...

Rah, rah rah! Point to point season hits this area with a rash of signs 'to the races' here, there and everywhere, as the thunder of horse boxes and cattle lorries reverberates around the village. This is a social event, high on a hillside overlooking the Axe Valley and several stately piles. Tweed is the order of the day here - with hats, trousers, jackets and even suits jostling for attention. Some are handed down from generation to generation. Barbour jackets are so yesterday, dahling, in these surroundings, as are Wellington boots, in the main, a poor relation to the Game Fair boots that cost £200 and up. Red cords are teamed with yellow shirts, public schoolboys and girls play rugger in between the parked cars and every one kisses each other twice on the cheek. If you don't have a four by four here, dahling, you are an absolute nobody. Because it is not possible to have your hamper, rug, six directors' chairs, sturdy table, tablecloth, linen napkins, enough smoked ...