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. 

THE JOYS OF TURNING 50

A happy new year to you all!  I’m especially glad to be sitting here typing this as last month’s December doomsday could have meant the end of blogging as we know it.  However, as luck would have it, the world didn’t end which means I can happily continue my cyber prattle until the next one is predicted.

Of course what the Mayans didn’t foresee is that 2013 is going to be a momentous year in our household.  There’s a catalogue of special events taking place beginning with my 50^th birthday this month and including the daughter’s wedding in July, the son’s 18^th birthday in August and fingers crossed, his acceptance into Drama School in the Autumn.  Even if the world hasn’t ended, my days of being a full time PA and chauffeur to the world’s hungriest teenager are slowly drawing to an end as his time to leave the nest creeps ever closer.

But in the meantime, I’ve the joys of turning 50 to relish.  Exactly what these ‘joys’ are I’ve yet to discover but I’m thinking cheap insurance, higher interest on savings accounts and perhaps being offered a seat on the bus in the mornings for starters.  Instead, it’s sagging boobs, thinning hair and the constant urge to visit the Post Office.  Honestly since I passed 40, I can’t remember the last time I saw my pubes!  I figure they’re hidden somewhere under that mound of less than elastic stomach muscles and skin flaps but I wouldn’t swear on it.

Whilst in the cricketing world a half century is something not to be sniffed at, in reality everyone else is at that ‘glass half empty, half full’ moment when they reach 50.  Yes you’ve done well to get this far but it’s a clock counting down kind of scenario from now on-wards where everything’s got to count.  Though as the media keeps reminding us 50 is the new 40 so still plenty of time to spend the kid’s inheritance getting every body part surgically enhanced, dating someone half your age or scaring the crap out of the neighbours base-jumping from the roof to dissipate your new found middle-aged energy.  Woo hoo!  Being 50 is fab!

I looked out of the window this morning across at the waterlogged garden and realised I wouldn’t have to disguise the fact that I love gardening since everyone under 30 years old automatically assumes that only ‘old’ people (everyone over 30) loves gardening.  I can now openly declare this on any consumer surveys when asked about hobbies.  Scrub out those sexy sounding hobbies like ‘triathlons’ or ‘parkour’ and replace with ‘gardening’. 

I tried to picture in my mind’s eye what our garden might look like in another 50 years’ time.    Would the rhododendron bushes be as tall as the wall or taller?  Would the bay tree be a foot wide?  Would we still have birds visiting McTwitters or find frogs in the pond?  Would those pesky neighbourhood moggies still be crapping in my vegetable beds?  Will I be too old to chase them off if they are? 

Well, if I haven’t got a garden by then at least I’ll still have Shelby to help me enjoy the twilight years as Horsfield tortoises often reach 50 and beyond.  Here’s looking at you kid!!

EUROTRASH

I can no longer deny that since coming back from Brussels, I’ve gone doo-lally!  Those sneaky Belgians must have put something in their beer and waffles because I simply can’t explain how it is that I went to work last week wearing odd shoes or that I ordered one potato with my weekly shopping.  Yes, one solitary potato turned up all on its own in a small plastic bag.  Who in their right mind orders just one potato?  It’s unthinkable! Clearly, this is some kind of clever ploy by Eurocrats to turn citizens of the EU into bumbling dimwits who can’t dress themselves or shop for vegetables online. 

First impression of Brussels – grey, dull and very wet.  Must be why the European parliament is based there.   It stands to reason it should be sited in the country that gave us gas-producing vegetables and Jean-Claude Van Damme.  Seriously though, Belgium is not only famous for its sprouts but also for its beer, waffles, chocolate, Tintin and the Mannekin Pis, a small boy peeing into a fountain to whom all visitors pay homage. 

 Having been there I can now understand why the Eurocrats want to increase the European budgets,  mostly so they can clean the streets and finish off the underground stations as the majority don’t have working escalators.  If you think Britain’s got litter issues, take a look at this little lot.  You’d need an army of volunteers to sweep that under the Euro rug!

Photographic highlights from our weekend trip taken between showers include:

The beautiful Hotel Esperance in the Rue Finnisterre where we stayed which was decorated in the Art Deco style.  

Waffle stalls - Belgium has been blacklisted by Weight Watchers as being very bad for your waistline since it's economy is based largely on the sale of waffles, chocolate and beer!

Of course you can't visit Brussels without going to see its most famous landmark, the Atomium

or the European Parliament buildings

And the very impressive Grand Place, the focal point of the city and the one with the most ornate and wonderful architectural masterpieces.  

However, to get yourself heard above the din of the busy Belgian metropolis what you really need is one of these...

MORE ABOUT:

Brussels:  http://www.brussels.info/
Atomium:  http://atomium.be/
Mannekin Pis:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Manneken_Pis
Hotel Esperance:  http://www.hotel-esperance.be/