THE ELEPHANT MAN

Well I’m not sure what’s more worrying the fact that I may have eaten a Findus lasagne or received a phone call from father claiming he’s turned into the Elephant Man.  Yes, you heard it right the first time – man, sack on his head, I’m sure you’re getting the picture.

It seems that the Ancient Mariner has been overcome by a seriously sounding pestilence which has made him look like Mr Potato Head with a bad case of sunburn.  That or he got his black eye in a punch up down at the Spanish Post Office on pension day.  I’m sure I can count on mother to nag him into well-being again and look on the positive side, at least he’ll be recovering in a completely bacteria free environment with her around!

Whilst father’s convalescing in the warm Malaga sun and Dobbins-gate is odds-on favourite in the English media, I’m freshening up my CV to apply for the role of Pope that is soon to become available.  I think I’m in with a good chance as I went to a Catholic School and am no stranger to good works of charity, having iced hundreds of cupcakes for many a worthwhile cause.  Plus I’m younger and would look pretty good in one of those stylish all-in-white numbers frequently sported by his Holiness especially now I’ve lost a few pounds. 

Just imagine I’d be the first female Pope.  It’s almost as impressive as the first black American President.  Being Pope would be far more interesting than working in a bank and there’d be less bitching about bonuses as my reward would be in heaven.  Maybe, his Holiness has won the euro-millions and given up work to go on a world cruise with a couple of page 3 girls.  Who knows?  Seriously though, he deserves to retire.  Come on, who else other than the Queen is still working at the age of 85?  I know I won’t be.

No point sitting around waiting to see if I meet the selection criteria for supreme Pontiff, got to batten down the hatches for the next round of the white stuff that's headed this way. Can't see any gardening being done for a few more weeks yet but I'm getting together a list of Dorset plant fairs that may be worth visiting once winter's over.

Rhinefield House - New Forest

Enjoying the recent snow

MORE ABOUT:

Rhinefield House - http://www.handpickedhotels.co.uk/hotels/rhinefield-house/
The Elephant Man - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Merrick
Dorset Plant Fairs - http://www.plantfairs.com/
Specialist Plant Fairs - http://www.planthuntersfairs.co.uk/

YOU STINK!!

I must share with you all a story that resulted in my discovery of the term ‘the great unwashed’ last Thursday.  It was 7.20 am and I’d just caught the bus to Poole.  Like all commuters these days, I was nose in book and deep in a melodramatic tale of Victorian skulduggery (The Moonstone).  I’d not been paying the slightest attention to other fellow travellers getting on or off the bus, my story was too gripping for that.

Some minutes into my journey, I vaguely heard the rustle of anorak that generally accompanies the occupation of the seat behind but thought nothing of it that is until the first tell-tale whiff.  Slowly but surely, the tentacles of a malodorous stench began to unfurl themselves behind me.  A waft of landfill, bag-lady and unwashed pee-sodden clothes combined crept over my shoulder, tickled my nostrils and gradually snuffed out freshness like a pair of freshly licked fingers pinching out a candle flame. 

At first I tried to ignore it and focused even closer on the printed page.  Then I prayed the person would get off at the next stop.  Or the next stop.  Or maybe the one at Westbourne but  clearly the good Lord was having a 5 minute lie in and not to be disturbed.  The stench grew like an atomic mushroom cloud.  After 10 minutes, the pong had launched an all-out assault on the bus.  I could no longer concentrate on my book and instead shuffled down in the seat, stealthily pulling up my scarf till it rested just above my lips.  It was no good, even the slightly perfumed fluffiness was no match for the hellish smell.

I was trapped.  Miles from Poole and with no hope of getting off any time soon, I resorted to rooting round noisily in my handbag for some emergency mints and a pocket atomiser.  I was dying to turn round and publically spritz the stinker but a sense of decorum prevented me from doing so.  I had to make do with a couple of quick blasts behind the ears of the Body Shop’s neroli and jasmine, take a deep breath then hope for free-flowing traffic. 

Imagine the relief when my bus stop finally arrived!  Usain Bolt couldn’t have got to the front of the bus quicker.  I jumped off and greedily gulped in a few good puffs of fresh air.  I stared back at the windows as the bus pulled off.  There was the culprit – a middle aged, bearded man in a scruffy grey anorak, completely oblivious it seemed to the fact that he smelt like a refuse collector and had curdled everyone’s breakfast tea in their stomachs.

And thus I learnt of the term ‘the great unwashed’ and realised why most commuters prefer to drive to work in the mornings.