Best Mates

Oh the joys of the modern world!
We have made a new friend.
Well - actually a virtual friend.

If only we lived in Suffolk, he would be a real friend, and Model Dog, SuperModel and I would want to see him every day because he is right up our street (so to speak. Alas not in actual fact).

After consultation with my girls we all feel that, quite apart from wanting you to meet this new and colourful character in our lives, we all would like to share his educational message and picture for the benefit of the less-informed.
I daresay there are many dog owners out there who live in blissful ignorance of a hound's very real needs at this time of year. Indeed, I confess with shame that I am one of them.
But worry not, after a severe lambasting for my total disregard for their welfare, I have promised Model Dog and SuperModel that I will mend my ways forthwith.

Here is our new best mate in all his glory.

And here is his educational message. Please read, learn and inwardly digest!
(I have tried to pick a colour of which he would approve.)

'Wen it be's sooper chillies, like wot it be's in Lowstuff ats the moment, it be's sooper himportant to keeps warm. So I did finks to meself to makes a heducayshonal foto fors all hoomans wot is new to ownings hounds this winter. Fings you will needs: sooper luffly warm coat wivs tummy warmings fing, leg warming fings, feets warming fings, hat ands scarf (probly best ifs thems matchings), ear warmings fings (wot can be dedded ferst like wot mine woz) ands a hot waterbottle. Then you's reddy for winter walkies bys the marshes!'

I am appalled at my own inadequacy. But before making this delicious boy's acquaintance, I hadn't realised just how important it is to keep those brindles warm, nor how many garments are required to do the job properly.

And my own hounds have made their feelings very clear. When I showed them this picture, I perceived immediately that they had (to use our new friend's inimitable language) their most envious 'eyeborls on'.
No words were necessary.

We are still in major discussions at this end, as to style, colour, yarn texture and overall look, though inevitably - being ladies of decided but individual fashion - we are not yet in complete agreement.
But I am preparing.
The wool is out.
I am sharpening my knitting needles as I write, and just as soon as a decision has been made, I'm ready for the off...

Under starter's orders...

After all, you know what I love best! You know how itchy my fingers get!


In the meantime, you can learn more about this remarkable hound by clicking on the link below.
Read how, in true crusading spirit, he has written to the Queen with 'hinformashons on his polly-sees to ban flashbangs' and also his 'Campayn to be Prime Mincer'.
His manifesto is full of good, sound stuff, and although the 'elekshuns' are not imminent, I know who'll get my household's vote!

Maybe I should knit him a soap-box while I'm waiting for my girls to decide?
Or a campaign banner? 'VOTE FOR THIS DAVID!'

Read all about it! Read all about it! 

                     

Shoot them at dawn! (And anyone who wants to can watch)

Hooray, hooray - the pole warmer is up!

I have always felt that happiness is a decision.
It's not an accident, or the luck of the draw, or incidental.
It can, of course, be all of those things, but primarily I think it is an act of the will (even though sometimes it may prove impossible to accomplish).

And before anyone criticises me for being privileged enough to decide when I am, or am not happy, I don't think it's as superficial as that. Just look around you at the people who are, or who aren't happy.
There's no logical rhyme or reason.
Yes - I am privileged, if by that you mean I live in the west, have had a good education, have good health and have most of what I need to get from day to day.

However, there is (always) more to life than that.
And while I do have lots of things, I don't have a job, and although I live in the west, I live in Ireland.

Don't get me wrong - I love Ireland, I love this wild, wet, wonderful coast, I love the Atlantic beating in my eardrums. But Ireland is not a great place to live at the moment, any more than Greece is, or Italy, to name but two. Ireland is depressed - in every sense of the word.

Apparently our fearless leader is going to address the nation tonight, and I guess the burden of his tale will be just that - Ireland is not a good place to live at the moment..As I am unable to get RTE on my television, I won't be watching him.
And, to complete our joy, tomorrow is Irish Budget Day.
More cuts, more austerity measures, more gloom and despondency.
The newspapers will be full of it for weeks.

Everyone in Ireland is living in fear. There's no work, no money - no hope of work and no hope of money. Even the people who have any money seem terrified of spending it (well, maybe everyone is partying in Dublin, but they sure ain't in this neck of the woods), and I keep hearing that anyone who has any cash is doing their damnedest to get it out of the country for fear that it will be worth shirt-buttons in a week or two.
It's terrible to utterly lose confidence in something, isn't it?

And all very depressing, quite frankly. Cumulatively depressing.

I should probably be outside with a pick and shovel trying to dig up my house, so that I can remove it from the country, as everything I have is basically tied up in its ageing bricks and mortar. In fact, it's so wet here that maybe I could slide it off the edge into that wide Atlantic, and paddle it somewhere better, drier - more economically stable. I should pack the divine duo and the four cats into the car (especially poorly Hobbes and my little blind Pixie), stuff the hens into any spare spaces, mount Wellington, my enormous black cockerel, onto the bonnet, and tow the house away.
Where to, I wonder?
Denmark seems to be 'hot' on Irish lips.

Digging up the house

But if I can't tow my assets to financially greener pastures, maybe I could relieve my frustration by shooting someone instead.

Over the last few years the bankers - that generic term for everyone who has more say over my euro than I do - have come in for a lot of stick. And quite rightly, as by and large they have pissed an awful lot of money up against someone's wall. (And it wasn't mine. I checked.)
So let's shoot the bankers.

And no, I don't mind saying that out loud.
Jeremy Clarkson was pilloried in the UK this week for suggesting that public sector workers who went on strike should be shot in front of their families. In fact, it all became rather a storm in a teacup.(You'd think Britain had more to worry about, quite frankly.)


Jeremy Clarkson is a buffoon in my opinion. He is like some tiresome schoolboy who doesn't go away, who probably thinks the flour and water trick is still funny. But if he thinks people should be shot, why shouldn't he say so? Mercifully, his opinion doesn't make it be so. (And let's face it, anyone with half a brain could tell he wasn't exactly recommending a course of action.)
I've got to say, buffoon or not, I'd rather have him than that wet drip of an MP who bellyached loud and long about children having nightmares over their parents' fate as a result of Clarkson's remark. If I was in his constituency, I'd be campaigning for a by-election, but maybe his mother is proud of him.
(What has happened to make Britain so prissy these days? What has happened to freedom of speech? It's gone a bit lop-sided if it's OK for that clot to bang on about children's highly improbable nightmares, but not OK for Clarkson to have a bit of a rant. Maybe freedom of speech went out of the window along with our right to privacy. Daft really, as it's probably safer to let people have a bit of a rant than make them bottle it until one of them goes on a rampage.)

Sorry - I digress. I was meant to be cleaning my shotgun, ready for the shooting party, and stumbled on my soap box instead.

The thing is - I'm not sure who to shoot first.
It would be immensely satisfying to shoot a few bankers, even though I'd have to fight my way to the front of the queue here in Ireland, to have my turn.
It would also be doing the world a favour to shoot quite a few politicians (let's start with that weedy wet, that damp squib of an MP whose name I can't be bothered to remember).


But - and here's the thing - really and truly, it's the journalists we should shoot first.
Just think about it.
Where did you hear IT first? Where did you find out that you should be panicking? Who is always trafficking in anxiety?
It's the 'media', that broad, faceless mob. They are the ones who create the panic, the fear; so many of the problems - they take something that MIGHT happen (or might not) and make it happen, they augment it, manipulate it, shape it and decide how to present it, how to convince us that all is lost, that the worst is upon us, that our nightmares are realities, that the sky has indeed fallen on our heads.
They have more power over us than God.
They don't deal in words, they deal in emotive response, in the demolition of confidence, in the power of suggestion. They create unease, because stability doesn't serve them well.
And like sheep when a dog appears in the corner of the field, we all react.
The more we run, the better they like it - and if anyone stops running, they only have to lurch half a step forward and we're off again.
I heard a quote many years ago that I have never forgotten: 'A life lived in fear is a life half-lived'.
It's what we're all doing in Ireland at the moment.
That's what you call a shocking waste.

So, know any journalists?
Put crosses on their doors. We'll come by with carts in the half-light of dawn and take them away, because they're the ones who ought to be shot - first.
It might be painful to start with, but we'd all be better off in the long run.
And I don't care who watches.

But until I catch one, I shall have to carry on as best I can, and for a kick-off, that means making the most of every day. If nothing else, the Current Economic Situation (a phrase so much in common parlance, we might as well abbreviate it) has reminded us that our lives are full of simple pleasures that cost nothing. All we have to do is appreciate them. 

So - for one thing - da-dah! - the pole-warmer is finally up (and no, we didn't pop it over its head - we opened it wide and invited the pole to step in, which it did, blushing coyly.)

A snugly, buggly, blushing pole

It looks great, and makes people smile. And, closer to home, this evening, behind the rain-filled clouds, there is a hint of pink in the western sky, and a half moon is skimming the bare trees. Despite the cold wind, it is beautiful. Also, my hens are safely tucked in against the fox and the weather, the fire is lit, my gorgeous boys have phoned to say all is well in their lives, and I - yes, I will be happy.

Who knows what the morrow will bring, but today I will be happy - and that can only make me stronger.

And while any remnant of freedom of speech remains, don't hesitate to let me know what you think!


PS  If there are any politicians out there, having palpitations, just try to look on this as a metaphorical call to arms. You can do it.

PPS  If there are any hide-bound H&S executives out there getting hot under the collar, first you must ask yourselves, is it safe to get hot under the collar. Then, and only then - I don't actually have a shotgun. I haven't finished knitting it yet.

Run, Chicken, Run!

Last night I dreamt that I ran away with Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall.

Honesty compels me to confess that the whole affair was more indecisive than in flagrante – I haven’t yet been able to recall exactly where we ran to, but never mind.

When I relayed this interesting snippet to my husband across the breakfast cereals, he rolled his eyes to heaven, shook his head sadly and left the table.

I’m still not sure whether that was a tacit comment on my penchant for fanciful dreams or on the improbability of my securing so eligible a parti as the alliterating-chef.

If  pressed, I would have to say that while I’m a great admirer of Hugh’s, he’s not the heart-throb pinned inside my wardrobe door, nor does he feature on my list of elopement candidates.

It must be about chickens.

As far as chickens are concerned, HF-W and I are as one.

Well, nearly as one.

You may recall that some years ago, Hugh inaugurated the 'Chicken Out' campaign - to alleviate the lot of commercially reared poultry. (Let’s all raise our glasses to him!) I don’t know about you, but it made me weep. Admittedly, it doesn’t take much, but the way Britain – Ireland - America? – the world? - rears chickens for human consumption is despicable. In fact, let’s not beat around the bush here, the intensive rearing of any animal is despicable. The way we produce food is deeply, deeply flawed.

And it’s not just meat. Take milk. I know it’s so normal, we don’t even think about it, but to me there is something completely wrong about taking a calf away from its mother as soon as it’s born so that we get the milk – while it gets fed from a bucket in a shed somewhere else. How can that be right for the mother or the calf? The de-facto birthright of an animal to be with its mother doesn’t even register on the scale – with cows or chickens. We have turned them into machines.

Sorry – I’ll get off my soap-box now.

Mercifully, vegetables are less emotive, and with more and more people growing their own, it’s easier and less expensive to be choosy about how they are produced. Isn’t it funny, how time and perspective change everything. I remember once, years ago, standing in my local greengrocer’s in London and looking with amazement at the produce on show. It was spectacular, and everything had been proudly labelled by the owner – oranges from Israel, apples from New Zealand, cherries from America – everything came from somewhere else. I was deeply impressed at the time – the first glimmerings of the global village back then, I guess. Now I stand in my local Country Market, Beltra, and it gives me huge satisfaction to see the variety and quality of local produce, to know that it comes from within a few miles. It is good to be part of the new (and oh, so old) approach to food that Country Markets epitomises with its message: ‘Buy local – buy Irish – buy well!’ It’s good to be in touch with the food I eat, to know how and where it’s been produced, that the producer has been fairly paid for it, but it hasn’t ‘cost the earth’ in any sense.

Which brings me back to the chickens.

(I’ve been trying to avoid the chickens. As always, I’m uncomfortably on the edge here.)

Like Hugh, I’m very fond of poultry. I have a small flock of them myself.

In fact, I should probably introduce you to Napoleon at this point. You will see for yourself why he’s called Napoleon.

Napoleon and his first wife, Josephine

 

Isn’t he gorgeous? (He causes my husband more rolling of the eyes, but I know that’s just because he is jealous) Sadly, his first wife, Josephine, pictured beside him, beautifully clad in speckled grey, is no more. But happily a friend supplied Napoleon with a second wife, Marie Louise – very tiny, but every inch the Empress.

The Empress Marie Louise

Apart from the two royals – referred to for some reason by my husband as ‘your babies’ – we have 17 other, lesser creatures – Wellington, his girls and Henrietta. 

Henrietta is an impudent, determined, irascible, bolshy little hen with a will of iron – what you might term ‘a hen with attitude’. Back in the spring, she turned clocky on me. Dreaming of the joys of motherhood, she took to her bed of straw and refused to move. Equally determined, I removed all the eggs and told her that she was wasting her time, keeping a fruitless vigil.

Henrietta Hen

Now, as you may know, it takes just 21 days for an incubated egg to become a chick. Had I known what I was up against, Henrietta would have won hands – or rather, wings-down and we could have saved a lot of time. Instead I held out for 3 long months, at the end of which I felt like a beast and she, thin and bald-tummied, hadn’t once emerged from her empty nest, except when I’d physically thrown her out of it.

I gave in. As a result, she is the proud mother of 6, which is all fine and dandy, except that 4 of them – inevitably – are cockerels. 

Now this is no doubt why I have been dreaming of HF-W, who manifestly believes in giving an animal a marvellous life and then turning it into several marvellous meals. Totally logical. In fact, best practice. So what IS my problem? I just need to start thinking: yum-yum, start calling my cockerels Coq-au-vin, Chasseur, Drumstick and Sunday Roast.

Pathetic idiot that I am, instead of my taste-buds tingling whenever I see them, instead of bisto-whiffs passing beneath my nose, I find myself thinking: who needs meat? Who even likes chicken? Cheese-on-toast is very nice, laced with pickle and mustard. 
Hugh would definitely not approve. These birds have, after all, lived the life of Reilly – running wild all over my garden, bullying their smaller sisters and daring the cats to one-to-one combat.

I need to take a leaf out of Henrietta’s book and become determined.

I need to overcome this – this chicken-heartedness.

Wellington will certainly not be so lily-livered. If they grow much bigger, he’ll take matters into his own hands. Or the cats will. Or M. Reynard, who nightly prowls the orchard.

Besides, we will get fed up with cheese-on-toast.

Eventually.

Let’s hope that in our brief encounter last night, Hugh gave me a jolly good talking to!