Oh Vicky, I'm am so impressed. Since I saw you yesterday, I've done nothing about our new venture and have since scarpered away from small-holding chit chat and indeed anything local or seasonal to the bosom of my family. You've given me a vision of your postie and a song.
Meanwhile, we've arrived in Welsh Wales where the shops sell black beef after the mountains they feed from and where the nearest town is home to an internationally famous food festival. And what are we eating? Oh Vicky, you know I've tried my best to enthuse the kids the way my parents did when I was little by taking them back to the land and introducing them to the ways of a peak oil future, but tonight, we're eating a pig from Waitrose rather than anyone related to those little sweeties in your garden. It seems my parents who grew up on small-holding values have sold their soul to the Supermarket Gods long since and what's easy is what's tastiest. At least it's cooked a l'Angela Hartnett's organic, hand reared pig featured on the Food Programme today. I can but pretend... What were we saying only yesterday about needing to know exactly where our meat comes from these days?
We're a-visiting for the next few days but back to toast the New Year and our new adventure in the woods. Can't believe that 2009 will have us up in the night with Mrs Sheep and her new-borns and collecting 74 eggs before breakfast. I fear for the pigs though; Dave is determined to deliver one of them to us as a Welcome present. I wonder if Ellie will get to their pen first and set up a barricade. How long do you think it will be before she sets up the parallel blog; Ananimalactivistinasmallholding.blogspot.com?
Mmm, that crackling smells good.
Love Gillyxxxx
Sunday, 28 December 2008
Saturday, 27 December 2008
Better explain
Dear Gilly,
- There, that is the 'letter' opening bit, because we were rueing the lost art of letter writing, which evolved, over the course of our late lunch, into this blog idea. But I still miss letters; proper letters that drop onto your doormat. I like to see an envelope addressed in blue-black Quink and I like a proper stamp with a proper postmark. I almost never get such a letter these days, but if I did I would try and save it until the chores were finished and then read it over tea and toast. Out here in the Sticks the postman bumbles up the drive every day at about eleven o'clock in his red Postman Pat van. It's terribly exciting. Sometimes he's the only human I see for rather a lot of hours. He reminds me of Action Man in that his skin does not move; he is terribly handsome but completely devoid of facial expression. I tried a welcoming and friendly sentence with him once which caused him to swivel his watery eyes in my direction and give me the sort of look you would give a dangerous dog. He handed me the Parish Council Newsletter - which these days is almost as exciting as getting a letter, because at least it's not a Final Demand for yet another utility bill we've never got round to setting up a direct debit for since we moved from our Organized Townie Life to Chaos in the Country.
Now, I noticed that the time is all wrong on this blog-thing...not that it really matters - normally, but in my first tentative 'post' I gamely listed food I had just eaten and wine I had glugged (left-overs from our earlier meal together) - only to see that it is posted at 10.45am. I'm no prude, but that would be a little premature for posh wine even by my liberal standards. I think it was more like 5.45pm - just in case relatives happen to read this! Oh no the boys are playing darts again behind my head, which does it in! And there's a shocking rumpus going on in the the other room because Dave and Monty have just composed a song...oh, and here it is:
- There, that is the 'letter' opening bit, because we were rueing the lost art of letter writing, which evolved, over the course of our late lunch, into this blog idea. But I still miss letters; proper letters that drop onto your doormat. I like to see an envelope addressed in blue-black Quink and I like a proper stamp with a proper postmark. I almost never get such a letter these days, but if I did I would try and save it until the chores were finished and then read it over tea and toast. Out here in the Sticks the postman bumbles up the drive every day at about eleven o'clock in his red Postman Pat van. It's terribly exciting. Sometimes he's the only human I see for rather a lot of hours. He reminds me of Action Man in that his skin does not move; he is terribly handsome but completely devoid of facial expression. I tried a welcoming and friendly sentence with him once which caused him to swivel his watery eyes in my direction and give me the sort of look you would give a dangerous dog. He handed me the Parish Council Newsletter - which these days is almost as exciting as getting a letter, because at least it's not a Final Demand for yet another utility bill we've never got round to setting up a direct debit for since we moved from our Organized Townie Life to Chaos in the Country.
Now, I noticed that the time is all wrong on this blog-thing...not that it really matters - normally, but in my first tentative 'post' I gamely listed food I had just eaten and wine I had glugged (left-overs from our earlier meal together) - only to see that it is posted at 10.45am. I'm no prude, but that would be a little premature for posh wine even by my liberal standards. I think it was more like 5.45pm - just in case relatives happen to read this! Oh no the boys are playing darts again behind my head, which does it in! And there's a shocking rumpus going on in the the other room because Dave and Monty have just composed a song...oh, and here it is:
Dave's Ballad
We're a family of six
And we live in the Dicker
With an old dog called Mack
And two cats that are quicker
(Chorus)
Starnash is freezing
Starnash is grey
The pigs are all shivering
Cos they've run out of hay
The chickens are laying
The Aga's on a role
But very soon now
It will run out of coal!
There's Louis and Monty
Two boys bold and true
And Martha and Rose
To the countryside new
Chorus
And the Mummy and Daddy
Do stress and do toil
To plant and to plaster
And to tend to the soil
Chorus
Watch out Leonard Cohen.
The boys are angry now. It's 9.15pm. They are aiming darts at each other. We bought the dartboard to help them with their mental maths, not to turn me mental. I think I will give them Quality Street for supper and send them to bed.
Bye for now, Vicky x
Starting out
Okay, I finished off the potato bake, polished off a bit more Snickers dessert with lashings of brandy butter and washed it all down with the last of the Chateauneuf du Pape. Feeling sustained, i approached computer with an army of teenagers behind me in case I should fail to access this blog for the first time. I failed. They groaned and tapped the keyboard with lighting speed, muttering things about me...and, lo, here I am! Easy.
I'll be brief now as the boys have come in and are hurling darts inaccurately about the room which makes me too nervous to think. But it was lovely to see you all today and a joy to know that it takes us all the same inordinate length of time to peel our children off chairs to take the air with us. Vicky X
I'll be brief now as the boys have come in and are hurling darts inaccurately about the room which makes me too nervous to think. But it was lovely to see you all today and a joy to know that it takes us all the same inordinate length of time to peel our children off chairs to take the air with us. Vicky X
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