What Would You Do With a Flat Iron?

What would you do with a flat iron?

My mother, a lady of some eccentricity, possibly bordering on madness, always preferred to use a flat iron rather than an electric one, insisting,

'You get a much better finish on your linens.'

'Yes Mum. Yawn!' At the same time vowing never to buy anything that ever needed to go near an iron, least of all one that my mates were only ever likely to see in a museum.

This was the same woman who owned curling tongs that had to be stuck in the fire to be warmed up, then tested on a piece of newspaper. As a small child I went to many birthday parties smelling of slightly singed hair. Once, in a moment of abstraction, and to my great glee, she frazzled my sister's hair so badly a huge clump had to be cut off.

Let me explain. I was seven the year electricity came to our house and by then my mum, in her late forties, was very set in her ways and saw no need to make any alterations to domestic arrangements that had seen her through over twenty years of married life, three children and a world war. She was also seeing visions in the trees, but that's another story entirely...

I've just come back from a few days visiting my big sister. Even before I'd undone my coat and sat down to the statutory tea and cake, she's a stalwart member of the Scottish W.I. and proud of her baking, a competitive sport in her village, where cake mixes are the equivalent of performance enhancing drugs, she dumped a flat iron on the table in front of me.

'There you are. You said you wanted one.'

My man turned towards me, his eyebrows raised in enquiry and surprise.A little wide eyed myself, but ever the adept liar, I smiled brightly and said,

'Great, thanks.'

Then it dawned, many years ago, after Mum had gone into a nursing home and we girls had to clear out and pack up her cottage, I was mildly annoyed when another sister grabbed the old iron griddle Mum had used to make wonderful drop scones. When I unearthed the family recipe for 'scotch pancakes' a couple of months ago, I asked my sister to look out for an old iron griddle, just like mum's. She's always involved in bring and buy sales and, as these griddles were once an essential tool in every Scottish kitchen, I thought it likely one would turn up.

Ah Well. At least I'll be able to get a good finish on my linens. If I had any...Could I use it as a camping iron? Perhaps not.

Where I Live - A village under threat

Where I live is under threat from developers. There are plans to build an unbelievable 1500 new houses not far down the road, tearing through our parish, bulldozing ancient woodland, blotting out tiny single track roads and tranquil green lanes, interrupting wild life corridors and filling in ditches and ponds.

The intention is to build on one of the few remaining areas for miles where it's possible to ride a bike in safety, where the only other traffic you'll meet is on horse back or the occasional tractor. Where it is possible to walk a dog or tramp footpaths far away from the noise of cars that threaten to swamp us all.

The fields destined for this outrage are home to a huge variety of flora and fauna. I know this as, for the past four years, I have been part of the village biodiversity survey. We've now surveyed 70% of our surrounding parish. No mean feat as the area is huge.

Our owl box project has encouraged barn owl and tawny owls into the area, we've discovered and recorded all sorts of rare and unusual plants and trees, including several previously unrecorded Wild service trees. We have ponds with crested newts and possibly even a colony of water voles. But when this large scale housing project goes ahead, and it’s likely it will, this will mean nothing.

This urban expansion isn't for local needs, there is actually a small surplus of homes in the local town; the people who will live in these houses are likely to work in an ever expanding area of urbanisation over ten miles from our parish. To get there they will have to drive on unbelievably congested roads as the trains are full and nobody relies on the buses.

We've wheeled out our local celebrities, marched in the rain, petitioned and written letters of opposition, now all we can do is sit and wait, dreading the result. Watch this space, you may yet see Lampie chained to a tree trying to hold back the bulldozers.

(The picture is of a Wild Service Tree, often an indicator of ancient woodland)

Strange Little Visitor

I spent last night paddling in fog shrouded backwaters narrowly avoiding crocodiles, snakes, rapids and creepy crawlies, deep in Africa's Heart of Darkness. Sadly it was only in my mind. As an avid reader of travel literature, I've been hooked by 'Facing the Congo', a brilliant account of paddling the Congo River in a hand built canoe.

My evening of sofa exploration had me curled up and shivering as fist sized beetles, electric catfish and whistling cockroaches the size of a baby's foot, coloured my imagination. ( Well I have actually stroked a cockroach that whistled, but that's a story for another time.)

On finishing a really squirmy passage where the author camps in the underbush full of snakes, ferocious bees, black flies that leave bleeding holes in exposed flesh and every other kind of predatory insect imaginable, I jumped up to make a cup of tea and gave the most almighty scream.

A scary beast was creeping towards me. Don't ask me why but somehow, after breaching two closed doors and a sleeping cat, a newt was heading purposefully across the carpet, heading towards the Turkish rug. Where the tiny creature came from is a complete mystery. There isn't even a pond in my garden and why it chose to brave the kitchen floor and start a journey across an expanse of carpet instead of a cosy night on the damp lawn is a real puzzle.

It can't have been brought in by the cat as he's not that gentle, and this little creature was completely unharmed. It's more than welcome. I'm wildlife friendly, but I want more warning next time. It took ten minutes before my heart stopped racing and I could repatriate it back to the garden.

A few things about me

Tagged by Elizabethd, so here they come:

I have a naturally indolent nature that's why I've taken so long to write my 7 'Things about me.'

I have often been accused of being aloof but really I'm just shy and reserved until I get to know people.

I'm a listener rather than a confider.

I always tend to think that I am right. (Well I know I am right, but if I'd written that you'd all think I'm big headed as well as aloof!)

I use exclamation marks too often in my writing!

I hate being the centre of attention. The thought of any sort of party in my honour fills me with absolute horror. (Don't worry, I've warned my large family.)

I HATE crowds and cities. I love high and wild places, particularly when I've walked there with my tent and my man of course, he has to carry the tent.

Daffodil Envy Strikes Again

It's a sad truth, but daffodil envy has struck again. It got me at the village show. Yet again my 'Pot of Growing Daffodils, division 1' got a 2nd place not the 1st it so justly deserves. I mean, what does a woman have to do around here to get first prize? Noooo! Have you seen the judges!

Two second and two third prizes and, well, my poor little camelia, the only one left on the bush after nearly a week of storms, didn't even get a second glance.

And if I ever find out where that old bloke in the checked shirt, who scoffed because my 'Bravore' have nibbled edges, keeps his polly tunnel, I'll be at his precious blooms with my pinking shears.

Competitive? Who me?

The True Story of how I reached the dizzy heights of a prize winner

It’s official. I’m a prize winner. Perhaps I should explain.

Our local bookshop, a tiny little place hardly bigger than a front room, is running a monthly competition. Starting this January it’s invited anyone with an interest in books to write a review (maximum100 words) of any book that may appeal to others.

All entries are displayed on the Special Review Board. (Just behind the door as you go in if you want to take a peek) As a keen supporter of this rare and dying breed, the independent bookseller, I was up there with my review of Lollipop Shoes by Joanne Harris, almost as soon as I saw the competition announced in our local free magazine.

I am pleased to say that my hard work has paid off. I’ve won this month’s prize. Dizzy heights indeed, considering the last literary prize I won was when I was still in school.

Sadly my triumph is a little sour. There was only one entry displayed on the board, mine.

Still, a £5 book token’s not to be sniffed at , is it?

Hang on a moment!

I’ve been Memed - I guess that’s a sort of prize too.

Pg123, 5^th sentence from the book nearest to me, then the next 3 sentences:

Photography, A Concise History

Photography enabled the exchange of authentic - but also selective - information on the course of the war.

Interest in war reporting grew stronger as more nad more people were directly confronted with the war or were directly affected by war activity. On the one hand, was photographers provided visual information to people who were not directly involved, but whose family members might be at the front. On the other hand, war photography naturally served the propagands interests of the political powers.

On reflection...A day in the life of Lampworkbeader, with no beading involved

On reflection I’ve been dreading this summons. A couple of years ago I’d have said, “Busy, busy, busy,” but then I wouldn’t have had time to write. Now my life is calmer, each day a bit different, but rather dull, so I’ll pick Monday.

7am The alarm. John Humphries nagging someone in the government, as usual. The Keen Mountain Biker has a kinder heart than me so he gets up to feed the cat and make me a cup of tea.

7.30 I’m up and stirring my own porridge.

By 8.10 I’m clean, dressed, lipsticked and sipping another cup of tea. Thankfully at the moment I only work two mornings a week. Monday is one of those mornings. Twenty five minutes of driving through country lanes and heavy traffic gets me to work. Radio 3 all the way. It calms me.

I do supply teaching with Special Needs kids. At the moment it’s two mornings at a PRU (Pupil Referral Unit) These young people are taught one to one in a unit well away from other teenagers. There’s always a reason.

My pupil arrives at 9.15am. I make her a cup of tea, she says it tastes like p*ss. I look surprised and say I’ve never tasted …… That raises a smile, a good sign, she doesn’t smile much.

The morning is satisfactory. It passes quickly for me. I sense she feels time moves at a slower pace.

The session finishes at 12 noon. I write my notes and I’m driving home by 12.30

It’s sunny and I’m in a good mood. Radio 4 this time.

KMB isn’t back yet. Since retiring he’s been involved in owl boxes (If you are interested I wrote about this back in August.)

He’s been checking the boxes and fixing them up ready for the nesting season. He’s back by 1.30, cheerful but muddy. We lunch together.

He’s been painting the hall. This involves a lot of huffing and swearing, as well as paint. I usually ignore this, I don’t want to get involved or I might end up doing it myself.

Since Purple Cooing started I’ve been writing short stories. To keep KMB company, and to act as a painting advisor if required (which it isn’t) I bring my battered old laptop downstairs and plug it in at the kitchen table.

The ‘good’ computer is upstairs in the spare and chilly bedroom, the kitchen is bright and sunny with a view of the garden.

Two hours fly past. My ‘short story’ grows alarmingly.

5.30 ish I start the evening meal, relying on what’s in the fridge. A huge pile of vegetables, a few of them home grown. These eventually turn into thick vegetable and lentil stew with sage dumplings. Fruit for desert. No wine tonight. I’ve been overdoing it recently and I’m rather weak willed.

Just time to log onto ‘Coo’ and see what’s going on. Hmm! Glad ‘In the mud’ is O.K.

8pm ish We’ve still time to watch my ‘new’ d.v.d. Thunder Road with Robert Mitchum. I’m a bit of a black and white film buff. KMB says he remembers it when it first come out. I deny that I do. He’s a bit older than me.

10p.m. I watch the news and weather.

We head for bed around 10.45 I read. I’ve nearly finished ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous’, Ranulph Fiennes autobiography, interesting man if a bit of a twerp at times.

KMB snores. I lie awake thinking of endings for my short story. Might do some beading tomorrow or go down the allotment if it doesn’t rain…..