Playing Chicken

I went to my first ever village planning meeting the other week.  Well, I say planning.  It wasn't really.

It was a consultation exercise, chaired (I use the term very guardedly) by the Parish Council, to discuss the planning impact of a proposed new agricultural development a mile or two down the road.  There's a disused chicken  farm, which has been disused for at least four or five years, maybe more; the owners now want to redevelop the land to put a new all-singing, all-dancing chicken farm there.

When I say "all-singing, all-dancing" I don't think that'll be the chickens themselves.  I may be wrong, of course.

Anyway.  The plans said that there would be a large number of lorries travelling through the village (narrow roads, few pavements, already awkward to get through when there are large vehicles coming the other way) which was hotly contested by the increasingly furious village people at the meeting.  There were also concerns around the removal/disposal of "foul waste" - chicken shit, I guess - and presumably dead chickens that failed the assault course and swimwear sections of the final rounds of their training.

The meeting was loud, poorly-managed and grumpy.  Things were not improved by the arrival of the local pretend police at the start of the meeting, sauntering in casually in their stab vests.  Nice touch.  Nothing like some not-really-police-officers arriving in uniform to reassure the disgruntled attendees that things will all be lovely.

So. The upshot of all the ill-tempered arguing was that the people who own the current chicken farm are pretty much adamant that they will be developing their property, and it will be a huge battery "broiler chicken" farm before much longer.

At one point the chap representing the developer said "Well, it's all very well to protest about it, but you all like this sort of chicken!" to which there was a loud, sustained roar of "No we don't!" from the audience.  It was like the world's most middle-class pantomime ever.

I'm not vegetarian, or anything like a vegetarian, but I do buy eggs and meat that are British, free range and locally-reared, preferably from one of the independent butchers we have in town.  I am aware that I am fortunate in being able to make choices based on my personal ethical preferences, rather than price.  It was, however, very amusing to see the look of dismay on the chicken farm owner bloke's face when he realised that most of the people glaring at him were not his target market for two-for-a-fiver chickens.

In other news, I went to the market this morning.  No lemons this time, sadly, but there were bargain tomatoes.  A huge boxful for a fiver, which have been transformed into nine large bags of chopped tomatoes (stashed in the freezer) and four jars of extremely spicy chutney.  I followed a recipe which was called "Spicy Tomato Chutney", but would more accurately be called "Suicidally Hot Tomato Sauce, Eat In Very Small Doses, It Would Help If You Like Mexican Food."

They were lovely, and not one was blemished.  This is about a third of the box.

I also bought a large lump of fresh root ginger and four huge aubergines (for another fiver) which I plan to turn into (respectively) apple and ginger jelly, and a moussaka.

Maybe two moussaka.

Moussaki?

Moussakas?

The weather continues to be shit, with torrential rain and hail at regular intervals.  Today it's windy as well, just for some exciting variety.

Last week, while Mr WithaY was away, I went through a bit of a miserable episode, mostly my own fault for not going out and doing stuff.  I was busy with some sewing work - proper for-someone-else sewing - and thus ended up not leaving the house (or garden) for about three days, and by the time I realised why I was miserable, I was really miserable.  I self-medicated with chocolate and Futurama, and made a full recovery, you'll be glad to hear.

I also made a determined effort to get on with some of the boring housekeeping jobs which I have been putting off for ages.  I have a voice in my head which says "You might as well do the ironing, you're already grumpy," and I tend to listen to it.

So, with a zesty spring in my step, and my sleeves rolled up purposefully, I took the arm caps off the big sofa and handwashed them.  This was by way of a test, as they have labels saying "Dry Clean Only", but I wanted to find out if they would fall apart, bleed colour or shrink to buggery if they were immersed in water.

You'll be relieved to know that they didn't collapse into threads, lose all their colour or turn into jaunty egg cosies, so I stepped things up and put the actual sofa covers into the washing machine, with a devil-may-care attitude.

That's how I roll.  Like a 1930s housewife, with a bad-ass attitude and a Dyson.

Wrestling the covers back onto the cushions took longer than it should have, and would probably have been a prizewinning video clip on You've Been Framed, had I had the foresight to film myself doing it.

Which reminds me.  The other week, before the weather went all shitty, I was out in the back garden, pegging out some washing.  In a bizarre Norman-Wisdom-esque sequence of events, I managed to get my glasses caught on the rotary washing line as I was turning it round, half dragging me along, before flicking my specs into the currant bushes.

You couldn't make it up.

Catalogue of disasters

Today has been a day of almost unmitigated disaster.

To be honest, the whole week's been a bit like an old silent movie, one where the Keystone Cops fall out of cars and people hang from impossibly high scaffolding by their teeth.  But with fewer impressive stunts.  In fact, the only thing that has been remotely impressive has been the volume and variation of my swearing.

Why has it been so disastrous, I hear* you ask?  Among other things, I have been clumsier than a bull in a china shop.  I think, actually, a bull in a china shop would be better able to navigate his way around the house without smashing things than I have been recently.

The Evidence:

1)  Dropped the one remaining Denby Regatta craftsman's mug** that we were given as wedding presents onto gorgeous but unforgiving granite workstop in the kitchen.  Knocked large unsightly chip from the base of the mug.  Superglued chip back in place, doing poor repair job, leaving it all still very visible and unattractive, creating Frankenstein's Mug. 

2)  Got Superglue all over hand (see above), fortunately noticing it before sticking hand to anything or anyone else.  Ran glue-covered hand under kitchen tap for ages, turning glue into concrete-hard crust which took several days to wear off skin.  Was told amusing story by neighbour about family member getting Superglue all over his hand, then sticking hand to TV Times, then sticking TV Times to face in a panic.  Laughed, but was secretly suddenly terrified of doing similar thing to self.

3)  Had long-anticipated haircut.  Failed to communicate requirements effectively to hairdresser, and now have Dusty Springfield stylee haircut with many layers and heavy fringe.  Very sexy in a 1960s way, but not entirely what I was hoping for.  Made my feelings known by saying "Hm, the fringe is a bit different than I thought it would be," and leaving a slightly smaller tip.  Yeah.  That showed her.

4)  Tried to renew car tax online, as will be leaving car parked at the airport for a month while we're on holiday, and bloody tax expires while we're away.  Found out that MoT has expired.  Booked car in for MoT tomorrow.  Arse.  More expense.  Also, why don't we get reminders when MoT expires?  There is a database with all the details on it, why not send out a letter to remind people a month before?  Bastards.

5)  Went to town with Mr WithaY to order dollars for holiday.  Had lengthy Whitehall Farce style session with Mr WithaY and I visiting different banks, building societies etc, going into back rooms, coming back out again onto the street, just missing one another. This climaxed with him going all the way back to the car park to see if I was there, and me waiting in the street, equidistant between the bank and the building society, calling him on his mobile, which was sitting at home, turned off.  Oh, how we laughed***.

6)  Whilst moving all the pictures and fragile treasures from external walls and shelves ready for the Insulation Man's visit tomorrow, managed to drop my gorgeous glass windchime, shattering it into a bazillion pieces.  Wept uncontrollably for 20 minutes.  Have completely failed to remember where I bought it from, possibly John Lewis, possible Bavaria.  Not a fucking clue.

On the plus side, I have lost another pound, making it 17 pounds in 16 weeks.  Slow but steady. 

Also, went to the tip today to get rid of a load of rubbish, and was (I think) chatted up by the man in the little hut.  He was quite a catch, if you like them gold of tooth and red of face. 




*with my sonic ear trumpet

**If anyone can let me know where I can get some more for less than £7 each, I'd be grateful.

***No we didn't.

Battered

No, not the sausages. They are still in my fridge, waiting for me to be at home long enough to cook and eat a proper meal.

My knees.

Guess what I did yesterday? I fell over! Yay me! And yes, I know that everyone who knows me is slapping their foreheads and going "Oh not again!" to themselves.

My Arch Nemesis, Doctor Gravity, never sleeps.

I was on my way to Middle Sis's house after work, and had successfully negotiated the majority of the Victoria line without falling down a hole, or being eaten by rats, which I felt was a bit of an achievement.

My troubles began at Walthamstow. As do so many troubles, I suppose.

I staggered up onto the platform looking for a ticket office, because the Oyster system ends at Walthamstow and you have to buy a paper ticket.

How last century! Paper!

Anyhoo, I was too busy looking for the ticket place that I didn't see a small* lumpy bit of platform, tripped, and fell over. Not a discreet stumble, either...this was a full body splat, complete with swearing. Several kindly commuters rushed to my aid, and none of them tried to nick my bag, which was nice.

And today I have truly magnificent bruises on both knees, and have slightly damaged my engagement ring, so will need to go and get it sorted by a jeweller.

So ARSE to Walthamstow station.

On the plus side, once I managaed to navigate the rest of the way to Middle Sis's house, we all went out for a sumptuous Thai meal to celebrate Bro-in-Law's birthday, which was excellent. Mmmmmm. Thai.

Other Tube news: Saw Phil Jupitus at Embankment looking rather like a 19th Century Russian nobleman.

Spent today at a conference in the Royal Lancaster hotel, which I can recommend. I only saw the conference room and the dining room, but it was very nice. Lunch was excellent. I always feel a bit like a street urchin when I go into a hotel like that, though. You know, having to resist the urge to wipe my nose on my sleeve and offer to shine people's shoes or hold their horses for them.

I expect the Royal Lancaster has special sleeve wipers and horse holders of its own. In bowler hats.

Another long day though. Just as well I don't go into the office on a Wednesday....although, hey...wait....



*alright, teeny. But definitely big enough to make me fall over.

Hurty paw II

I am typing slowly because (again!) I have damaged my hand. Did it on Sunday. By accident.

I was putting some Christmas lights up in the front garden (just a few, looped over the rose arch, nothing ostentatious) and had left a window in the sitting room open so I could feed the plugs and wires back inside.

So far so good.

Then I went to go back outside and finish off tying the lights securely. This entails opening the hall door, walking though into the porch and then opening the front door. I did all this, and the draft from the open window blew the hall door so it slammed shut on my hand.

Fuck me it hurt.

It actually made me sick with pain, a new experience for me. I thought I had broken at least 2 fingers but after an hour or so I realised that I hadn't. I have a startling deep purple streak across my fingernail and bruises on the fingertips. Looks impressive.

And I am now typing with index fingers only, just like the good old days.

Other news. Family party was lovely, although rather distressingly I found out that some of my nieces and nephews read the blog. My language has caused dismay it seems. I was previously the "good auntie" apparently. Heh.

Fucking rat is back too. He seems to be ignoring the poison in the trap, and is eating the fallen bird seed. I think I might get down to Mole Valley Farmers and buy some "Little Nipper" rat traps. I swear, the damn thing waits till the second Mr WithaY's Landrover pulls away, and then emerges, taunting me.

The other day I was in the kitchen and I saw it run out from under the shed, grab a fallen apple from under the tree and then HOP like a tiny kangaroo on its back paws, carrying the apple. Incredible.

Was bloody fast too.