The world from my window

We have a small band of kids in this village who are growing up to a be a complete pain in the arse. One of them snapped off a plum tree that was just about to flower. Destroying a tree, a living thing, is bad enough, but this tree was planted in memory of one of our own, who did loads for the local community. It's no wonder some people would quite gladly take the culprits round the back of the church and give them a damn good thrashing But violence isn't the answer. We have to shame them, make them realise that messing on their own doorstep is not very clever. Every once in a while this kind of thing happens, a particular child with parents who don't care very much or are completely blind to the thug their child is growing into. And then all the kids get blamed, they all get a bad name. So what to do in this situation? A notice has been put on the green to inform people what has happened and how sad it has made people feel. But in the grand scheme of things, it's not a...

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 ...

Easter has come and gone with a mystery surrounding an apostle spoon. A set of 12 were loaned for a hot cross bun morning at the village hall and only 11 turned up at the end. Bins were turned out, window sills checked, as were the spaces behind the radiators. Despite a fingertip search, no trace of the spoon (or fingertips) could be found. It is ironic on Good Friday, the day when Jesus was nailed to the cross after being betrayed by one of the 12, that an apostle spoon should go missing. Will we find it hanging, New Age art-like, from a Judas Tree? This is not the first time spoons have gone missing in this village. A cutlery drawer devoid of spoons was mentioned at a previous hall meeting, when votes and counter votes were taken to go out and buy some replacements. The steel spoon enthusiasts won the day against the fans of the plastic variety and a representative was tasked to get some more. This stock has now dwindled, hence the need to borrow the set of apostle spoons from the ca...

You get to a certain age when the man in your life stops looking at younger women and gazes longingly at fallen trees. 'If I had a chainsaw, I'd be in there right now,' he says, as you ask him to keep his bloody eyes on the road to prevent him driving into a ditch. He becomes obsessed with wood, even though you don't yet have a fire to burn it on. 'Do you know how much a load of logs cost?' he says. As if you care. And then it begins. Talks with the listed building officer, planning applications, work on a new chimney for the old fireplace, you can't use old bricks as they're not fire proof... On and on and on until the fire is built and your man gets a hernia lifting a second-hand wood burning stove into the back of his car. And then the badgering begins. 'I'd really like a chainsaw,' he says, pressuring and persuading you. But you're not convinced, having read stories of people slitting their own throats through the careless use of...

Well, it's been a weekend full of activity here in the village. The Christmas tree lights are all up around the square, twinkling in the frosty evenings. Last night a man came to view the cottage. He was 40 minutes late and as we were just about to go out he got the bum's rush. I recognised his voice from the warmth of my front hall, as he was sent away with a flea in his ear. This was the little, goatee-clad and bespectacled pixie who had called at my door two years ago claiming to be not only a mystic but the reincarnation of James I. The biggest fool in Christendom indeed! Apparently he was attracted by the ley lines crossing through the square. He told me all about the ancient tribe that lived on the hill, kept gesturing to his little car and talking about someone called 'Olive' (I wasn't sure if he was referring to the car or an imaginary friend in it). Now I had a name, I googled him. Yep, found him. Now a mystic but one-time founder member of an obscu...

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...

Introducing the world from my window… Hi, I’m Maddie Grigg and the world from my window is ever-changing. Living in a village square, you see all sorts of things – from morris dancers performing outside the pub on a balmy summer’s evening to huntsmen gathering for the stirrup cup next door before setting off for their first hunt of the year. We have Palm Sunday processions down to the church with a donkey brought in for the occasion, drivers parking like French people – anywhere – to nip into the shop for a paper and cows being herded to fresh pastures on the other side of the village. It’s hardly the most exciting of places, but you never quite know what’s going to happen next. This week, a ginger wig blew past the window up Church Path. This morning I see the paperboy going about his round in his usual sleepy state, nearly getting knocked over by Scooter Boy who zooms by at 7.30am on the bike-with-no-silencer, followed ten minutes later by Glidoh-Girl, whose moped s...