Torso Divine

Our Neville had a secret of his own.

After the portentous meeting with Margaret that first time, when she thought she alone knew of their future, before she took herself off for Her Adventure, before settling down to her life with Neville--he, too, had taken one look at Margaret, watched her as she came across the Fitzmorgan's lawn that day... her pale rose summer dress floating around her slim legs, wide mouth smiling at something that silly prat Duddy Lindsey-Gordon was saying to her....he saw the sun glinting on her soft brown curls, saw the high cheekbones, those intense eyes...he could see the hint of the warmth of the woman she would one day become, and he was lost.

Margaret thought she knew all, but, Neville understood full well she would be settling when she married him. That she had it in her to draw in anyone she wanted, so, he decided to give her the best he could; he never wanted her to regret being with him, a middle class English man whose middle class family went back hundreds of years into the green grass and soft air of Devon history.

He put her on the train, and took himself off to his last year at University. He read her letters, seeing between the lines, and not begrudging her whatever good times she was having...he trusted her solid good sense and he knew in the end, she'd be with him for the rest of their days. He was willing to give her that year to remember.

In the meantime, he needed to make enough money to buy her That Ring. The one to show her his devotion, love and admiration. One that she could wear with pride when she showed it to her mates, who were marrying doctors and lawyers. Neville was a dear, sweet man...solid, kind,clever, but, not terribly smart, and he was clever enough to know this. He took the courses open to him that allowed him a career where he'd be well placed, give him a tidy retirement, and give them both a good standing in the community.

Agriculture was the way to go.

It did not, however, give him a large amount of cash to start his marriage. The family funds were going to buy them a nice little house....three bedroom detached cottage with a large back garden, a sitting room, a lounge, nice fitted kitchen and a garage. He had no money left over for That Ring.

He answered Margaret's letters with easy going letters of his own, talking of his swimming on the University team, the rowing he did, and his gymnastic competitions. All of these, along with the work on the farms, had given Neville a splendid physique.

A very splendid physique.

Along with this physique, kind manner, loyal, loving and dear behaviour, Neville was..... shy. If not for his unwavering belief that he was destined to marry Margaret, he'd never had said a word to her, and remained by the arbor, hidden by the wisteria. Neville was happiest in the barnyards with the farmers, talking cows and milk production... he never understood why their wives and daughters, and on occasion a son or one of the hired hands, wanted to be in his presence.

Neville didn't see himself as they did.... his lean arms, and muscled broad chest were usually covered by a thin white shirt when he went out to help. Trousers clung to his well built legs. He had a strong face, used to laughing, and crinkles already were forming around his deep blue eyes. Yes, Our Neville was quite the man. Quite the very, very shy man. He dodged invitations to dinners, church fêtes, country dances or any other form of social gathering.

He spent his time wondering how to get the money needed.... what would he do?

One day, it happened. While climbing out of the pool, he was approached. A woman gave him her card... she was a sculptor, she said. She lived in Cornwall with her husband, she said... and was visiting friends. She would like to sculpt him, and would pay him to model for her. The price she gave him was enough for That Ring, and a plain band to go with it.

Neville never gave it a second thought, and accepted. A time and date were set, they shook hands, and he was committed to the deed.

A week later, he arrived at her studio, set inside the gardens at her home.... it was there he found out the cavet... it was to be a nude. Neville was a man of his word, however, with a bit of discussion, he removed his clothing, getting ready to take his place, he discovered not only his benefactor was to going to sculpt him, but, a few students of hers were going to also take advantage of his, as she put it, ".....ancient Greek proportioned body." Peeking out, he saw two of the students who attended his University in attendance.

This was a pickle. He motioned Dame Barbara over, and explained his very real concerns. How could he finish his degree? He'd be mortified. These people would be at his wedding!! Neville was a shade of red not seen before on this planet. Dame Barbara only half listened, secretly wishing she had her paints at hand, to try and capture just that shade of scarlet.

A compromise was reached... Neville would pose... the study would be done, the statues and paintings could be completed...

Neville stepped onto the stage. As he removed his robe, a gasp went up as the students were overwhelmed not only by his body, but, by.... his Great Package.

So awed were they, the fact he had a pillowcase over his head with eyeholes cut out was ignored.

"We are doing a headless torso!", announced Dame Barbara. Pencils flew across sketch pads, oils were put onto canvas, students moved around him. Neville was allowed time to stretch, a break was called for lunch, each time, he robed, and stepped behind the curtain. No one ever saw his face.

For a month, every weekend, he journeyed over to Dame Barbara's place, and posed. Every month, the students gasped, never getting over either Neville's musculature nor the Great Package. At the end, only Dame Barbara created a sculpture that captured Neville in his glory. It was displayed in a show of hers at the Tate, one Neville was invited to see, an invitation he chose to ignore.

Margaret loved her ring, the carat sized deep red ruby sunk in a channel of gold, with two diamonds on either side. It was an Art Deco setting, something Neville had seen in an antique dealers, something he felt matched her, going with a quote from the Bible, that a good woman is worth more than rubies. She showed it to all, turning her hand this way and that, letting the sun catch it, sending sparks of light.

Neville never spoke of the job he'd taken, saying only he'd earned the money doing this and that. Among all the other things Neville was, he was also an innocent of sorts. On their fifth anniversary, he took Margaret to Cornwall, where they visited the local branch of the Tate, set in Dame Barbara's former studio, walking the Sculpture Gardens.... passing one piece called "Torso Divine". Neville thought nothing of it, walking past with his brochure, eyes scanning for the next piece.

Margaret took one look, and smiled with that wide mouth of hers, recognising not only the small mole on a right hip, but, the left curve to the generous heft of The Package. She hurried after Neville, slipping a gloved hand into the crook of his arm, loving him for the sacrifice he'd made to give her the ring she wore, never letting on she knew.

On occasion, for the rest of her life, she'd glance down at her left hand, turn it in the sun, letting the ruby and diamonds send sparks of light out and think to herself she was wearing a cock rock... she'd chuckle as she sought out her husband, to thank him for what he'd done. Neville always thought these odd bursts of laughing passion were the best times he and Margaret had in their private lives. He never understood what brought them about.

And he wasn't about to stop and figure it out--why fix what isn't broken?

still chillin' --and neville is back!

cold and snowing.

inside, cups of tea, warm radiators and slippers take off the dampness... well, part of the dampness. the rest is held out by doors shut, steam from the kettle and left-over chinese from last night.

tonight, we open our little play... and at the moment, we wonder if anyone will show, as quite a bit is expected.

still, i'm content...if creatively blocked.





our neville fact:

last year, our neville and margaret went on a posh cruise with a number of their friends. one of the people they met was mimsy barker-smythe, from steeple-aston. mimsy insisted all call her sondra, as she felt this was a much better name, and fit her vision of herself.

sondra found neville to be a wonderful partner in draughts--they won the ship contest, giving them a bottle of champagne and a trophy. neville kept the trophy, handing over the bottle of champers to sondra to share with her roommate and best mate, vivian miller.

in the past year, sondra has continued to keep in touch with neville by email and currently on facebook. neville had started his facebook account to keep in touch with various friends from his old working days, and really didn't understand the entire thing. usually, he only played farmtown, something he enjoyed and excelled at doing. margaret usually handled his account--answering messages and doing the occasional post.

thus, margaret found the more and more personal messages to neville from sondra. she was fully aware that neville had no thought to respond, and pooh-pooh'ed the entire thing.

sondra, however, had neville on the mind... and fully planned on wooing him away from margaret. thus, when an opening at waitrose's appeared in the area here, she applied and received the job...and she bought a small semi-detached house in the village, putting her in neville's home area.

margaret was not happy--not happy indeed.

Life Carries On

I'm adjusting.

Strange not to have the silence of a small English village in my ears...instead, to have the sounds of my landlord's children running about upstairs... the rush of cars in the street, the SIRR train in the distance. Walking down to the bus in order to make groceries, and deciding I want the stroll to work off my time away... going a mile before I give into the cold air... and only having to wait a few minutes for transportation... on the right side of the street.

Re-calculating when I shop, remembering the prices are just what they say they are... not double the shown cost. Not seeing things I'm used to; small corn, long counters of cheese, nibbly bits, free range chicken, entire sections of lovely desserts, and things in general are... different.

The clerk bags my food, another change from what I've grown used to... I bring them to my friendly bus, which is free... once again, the machine is broken, and we are all cheery with our saved fares making it a good day.

One thing I did take home with me, something I've put off, something I'm not tickled with....

My glasses chain.

Yes, I, Quin, was forced to use a glasses chain. After losing one pair of glasses on my third day, and walking about the rest of the time saying, "Where are my glasses?" (I need them for reading, thank you very much)... Loo said, "Right, that's it. Get a chain."

I did.

They laughed. They pointed. But, they were pleased they no longer had to look for glasses.

They just had to look for glasses and a chain.

And pick up my book when I left it on a bench in London, and help me find a hat and my knitting and my shoes and....

At least, I can find the glasses.... even if I do look like Principal McGee. I'd thought I might go for the pince-nez look... but, alas, I'm stuck with my reading glasses and a chain that is around my neck, keeping them in place... making me feel...

...old.




Our Neville Fact:


Neville has a sister, Beatrice, who is married and lives in Surrey. She and Neville seldom speak, having had a row over the Will left by their father, who divided his property equally, however, he left his Piece of Cloth touched by a Crusader to Beatrice. This was an heirloom, and much coveted by both. Neville felt this should have come to him, as the eldest child and only son, as had been the tradition for generations...in anger, he said his sister had tricked their father into changing his will. Beatrice, called Trippy by her horse set friends, told Neville he was a sorry old sod, and never spoke to him again. She and her husband, Geoffrey along with their three children, Audrey, Neville (named before the Great Row) and Davina all pretend they don't know Neville when they see him yearly at the family gathering in Wiltshire. It makes for an uncomfortable day for everyone else, and Cousin Sevilla gets potted with the good sherry to help deal with the stress.

The Neighborhood Watch

Every neighborhood has one.

That person who knows everything about everyone, who keeps track of every event that's ever happened in their life or in the life of those around them.

In the UK, there exists an organisation called The Neighborhood Watch, which keeps an eye on the area, making sure vandalism doesn't occur, looking out for evil doers... being that extra set of eyes and ears that prevents crime from occurring.

They also know every bit of gossip around, and will fill you in on all that they feel is important when you move in.

I'm not sure who the official Neighborhood Watch commander is in the new neighborhood... however, HB and I have declared it to be our Neville. We have declared him to be ours, and ours alone.

On Friday last, while Loo and Ev and MB were busy transporting the furniture and such from The Very to Home, our new abode, HB and I were in charge of setting things up. This suited me just fine, as I was able to settle in, organise, alphabetise, arrange, and create my own way in Home. We took a break and stepped outside to have a look at the new Close.

No more than 30 seconds after I announced to HB, "I'm sure the neighbors are lurking behind their curtains, wondering who we are, and what we are like.", the garage door across the street opened up, and a car pulled out onto the driveway, stopped, and an elderly gentleman stepped out, shutting the door.

He walked across the communal road to us, asking if I was the lady of the house. "No, I'm just visiting."

"Ah, you're not from around here!", he exclaimed, showing his astute ear for dialects.

Since I've arrived, our inside joke has been that I've casually claimed to be from Coventry when questioned about my accent. People nod knowingly, and say, "Aye, well, I could tell." whenever I make this pronouncement.

Not 0ur Neville. He wasn't thrown off by my casual toss off of a city 30 miles away.

"Oh, you can't fool me," he carried on. "I hear a touch of the United States in your voice." Our Neville is clever.

"I've been to the United States, to Seattle. Have you been to Seattle?" Before I could answer, before either of us could say a word, our Neville launched into his story.

"I'm Neville. I live over there, at The Barn." He pointed at the home he'd walked over from, in case we'd missed him and the entire move the car routine. "Yes, we moved here from Devon. Devon is 280 miles from here, you know (no, we didn't, but, we do now). We only came here the once, after we bought the house. It's quite a long way from Devon. I know for you Americans that 280 miles is just a hop down the road, nothing at all, really. You just get in your cars and there you are! For us, however, it's a long way to go, from Devon to here. We decided to move here because our daughter lives in Buckingham, and we wanted to move closer to her. Therefore, we bought the house after we sold our house in Devon. We came here the one time, and that was all. When we moved, it was a terrible time, I hope your move is ever so much nicer. Where are you moving from?"

"Ahhh...just down the road, really. The Old Parsnip?"

"Never heard of it. And I've lived here four years. Where is it?"

I gave him the location. He thought a moment.

"Oh, yes, that big old house. I know it. Where was I? Yes, well, our move was quite exhausting for Margaret and I. We moved here with all of our belongings in one big lorry. The man we bought the house from knew we were coming, we'd made all the arrangements, transferred the money, and had the keys. We arrived at 8 at night, and wouldn't you know it, he was still here! His things were in the house and he had a lorry and a truck still in front of the house! Well, there wasn't much we could do, was there?"

HB and I politely shook our heads in dismay for him, HB never leaving the doorway, me trapped in the drive with him. HB is one of those amazing people who are never really a child. She is much like my Investment; droll, intensely bright, deep reserves of humour, sometimes saying things that go over your head and bounce back before you get what she's said.

"The next day, we came back, he still had the truck there, and then, we had the problem of the woman on the end of the Close, she had her car parked there, in the drive! We couldn't find her to move it, and no good calling the police, was there? She was a policewoman herself, they certainly weren't going to do anything! Oh, it was horrible! Took us two days to get in, get our things in. Yes. So, you live in America?"

My mind registered he'd actually asked a question. I stopped staring at the matching pen and pencil set he had in his golf shirt pocket.

"Yes, I do. I live in New York. I'm here helping Loo settle into the House."

"Have you been to Seattle?"

"No. I've been in the Northwest. I love the area.. it's so beauti..."

"Yes, my cousin lives there, Maud. She lives in Seattle. She's 90, Maud is. Gets around on her own, bless her. Her husband died not too long ago, he used to be (here he gave her husband's former Army job... pretty impressive). She married him after the War, you know. War bride and all that. Maud gets around on her own, although she's broken her hip and an arm and a rib or two. We flew over there, beautiful city, Seattle!"

I agreed with him, glancing over at HB, who had a deer caught in the headlights look.

"Beautiful." I said weakly.

"From there, we drove to Palo Alto, and stayed the night in a lovely hotel, there in Palo Alto. Do you know Palo Alto?"

I nodded.

"Drove all the way from there to Santa Fe. Just amazing, really, how your country changes day to day in the landscape and all. Just amazing! Quite lovely, and so beautiful to look at!"

I'd managed to slowly move towards HB, nodding, smile in place.

"Finally, we went to Tijuana... oh, quite a story to be told there!"

I jumped into the breach..."You'll have to blame Mexico for that city, I'm afraid.", and gave a weak laugh. "Well, we really need to get back inside and tidy... it was so nice of you to come over...stop by and meet Loo next week." I had no problems throwing her to our Neville, she'd left us here unprotected.

Our Neville wasn't done. "If you need anything, anything at all, knock on the door. Don't go to the other neighbors, they aren't friendly at all. The policewoman moved, you know... other people there now, and they don't speak to us since we took down the shed that was behind their fence. It was on our property, and it was within our rights to do so. The woman next to you hasn't spoken to us in four years. Nasty one, she is. So, you just come over to The Barn, just there, and knock on the door if you want tea, or to borrow anything at all."

He smiled and wandered back to the garage, shutting the door.

HB and I were stunned into silence. His words hung in the air, "....borrow anything, anything at all." We went back inside, into the kitchen we were arranging, and as we shut the door, she turned to me and said, "I wonder if he has an aquarium?"

Our Neville has given us a great deal of joy... we've created an entire backstory for him now, knowing he can tell you what jumper he wore on every one of his birthdays, we are pretty sure he wears Margaret's garters when she's not around, he watches cricket, cries during the Queen's speech on Christmas, and he knows the number of times Margaret's had an orgasm.

Three.

Margaret will tell you he's wrong by one.

He knows everything about everyone.... He's the Neighborhood Watch.

At least we know where to go if we need something...

...like an aquarium.

the play carries on...

working with a group of children this year--at least they know their lines and cues,bless 'em.

i miss my chats with peggy and tim every day... i will be glad to be home for that reason alone. funny how you miss voices, isn't it?

hrh sends daily photos of zavier... keeping me abreast of his growth and changing. i have bought him far too much stuff here.

but, i can, so, there!



our neville fact:


mimsy (aka sondra) bought her house on london rd in the village, not a few miles from neville and margaret, but, where she'd pass their cottage daily. she's stroll slowly past, walking her yorkie, 'captain blackjack', and when she spied neville in the drive, powerwashing the cars, she'd wave and skitter over, batting her mabelline jet black mascara'd eyes. she'd spread her lips (coated in sugarplum pink) in a smile, sliding them over her teeth without leaving a bit of colour on her lips.

at first, margaret would look out the lounge window, and tut at the brazenness of sondra, wondering when it was going to end, deciding it was best not to say anything, as neville really was clueless, and she saw no reason to direct his attention to sondra's wiles.

it was after she and neville joined the silverstone 'silver shoes' morris dancing team, that things heated up. all the village knew margaret was scheduled for a bunion operation, and would be unable to participate in the county finals....it was then mim...sondra joined as an alternate, that margaret set her jaw, and went about dealing with the situation head on.

I Lied

I haven't sent Bob off yet.

The box is here, the mailing label... I simply can't bear to be without him.

Today, I made the call... DHS will show up at 1P to pick him up, take him away... I will be reduced to the library once more in order to check emails, have my fix of journal reading... I know, I know, I've cried a river, now build a bridge and get the fuck over it.

Adapting to life back in New York has been difficult. I miss the comfort of people around me, of loved ones, of voices in the evening calling out to watch a program, or to have tea, or just to talk. I miss reaching down and finding good ole' Frank crouched down next to my bed, sleeping the sleep of the neurotic. Whimpering on occasion as he worries how he'll get past the scary white radiator with the magic mouse that leaps out and then is squished by the ugly red DIY book. I miss long term friends in Colorado, people I've known for a gazillion years... who know me better than I know myself.

Arrival here was a long dreary affair, a nice welcome home, going two hours a day to a part time job, worrying about the house in the Land O'Utes, thankful Jarhead is home, and knowing the Zenmaster will be in the City for a month or so on a job,... it's sadness and wondering what I'm doing right now, if one of my children is right... it's time to "....go home. You've had your New York adventure."

I still find great joy in my train rides, amazing how my first trip always sits me next to a true crazy person.... this last time, I faced a man who looked sane. Well dressed, tidy, he smiled at me and said, "Fucking cunt." and proceeded to rant about Nixon.

Yes, I was back in New York.

Held up on the 'F' for hours on Tuesday, packed into the Ferry with all the other commuters, I sit silent, watching, listening... trying to sort out if this really is what I should be doing, where I need to be, what I want to do...

Frustrated in some areas of my life, I think men are pooheads (not you, Peter...my AR partner), but, every other man I know is... do you not listen? They are clueless, really clueless in life.


What are you like??




Our Neville Fact: (the last one until Bob is back)


Margaret is fond of brussel sprouts, but, finds they give her wind. Her mother told her, "... a lady never has wind in front of her husband.", therefore, Margaret has never passed gas around Neville. For the last 45 years, she's stepped outside to look at the stars on a regular basis whenever they have her favourite veg. Neville has yet to put two and two together.



Golfwidow and I will be creating a Wikipedia entry for Neville. I'd be honoured if you think of some aspect of Neville and Margaret's life, and add it to this entry when we have it up and running upon Bob's return. I guess I'd best tell GW about this...

Homeward

I'm leaving on yet another jetplane.

Although it's early morning here, in New York, it's still middle of the night, and by tonight, when I land in the early evening, my body will say it's midnight... thus doing the entire jetlag thing. My body will be tired, I'll have baggage that weighs more than when I arrived, and my heart will be sore.

It's been a run about few months; going from home to Colorado to be with Godmother (who is gaining weight and working towards chemo) to home for a day and a half to flying here. We've lived in the decorated house from hell, The Very, that has had one positive impact; all of us love beige now, embrace it with a passion.. I may never wear colour again. Packing, boxing, loading the small van and the car and moving into Home, and spending the last few weeks unpacking here, setting up Loo and the girls (I should say young women, they will always be the girls in my heart) in their new home, after all the changes of the last year.

Last night the Girls were here, AC, Limey, Candy, Loo and I... we had a nice curry to end my long stay... then tea, gossip, wine. I've been pulled into that lovely group of women, who all come together and love and respect each other. It's the kind of group you always hope for as a woman, as an adult.. but, more so, as a woman. Their husbands are all great mates, too, which adds to gatherings. There are others involved, these are the main core. They take holidays together, eat together, do holiday time together... it is so foreign to me, who has good friends, but, never a group such as this. I consider myself fortunate they let me hang on the peripheral edge, always opening up when I arrive, acting as if I've only been gone a week or so, accepting me as one of their own... I'm lucky with that. Very lucky. They do amazing work in Kenya, this group of women, supporting a village and building a school, helping students there get an education, having water piped in, if you are interested in donating, drop me an email, I'll send you the link.

Meeting Ev, Loo's fiance, a wonderful, tall, sweet, tall, funny, tall, dear, tall man. The deep love they have for each other is apparent when they look at each other, and the atmosphere in the house, with his easy going ways, is such a change from the old ways. He loves Loo, and the family package she brings to the table. Frank will leave our sides for one person; Ev.

HB makes me laugh almost as much as The Investment. She has that same droll, dry way about her. We watch comedians I've never heard of before, ones I'd never think to watch without her guidance, and I laugh along with her, even though she knows most of the routines by heart. She is one of the smartest people I know, and trudges off to her huge school in the country every morning, six days a week, to study her 'A' levels (I do not understand this school system, however, the more I hear, the more it makes sense). We celebrated her birthday by going to a film, all of us, giving us one more of those silly things to say that all of us repeat, that will bind us together for a long time when one of us says it.... I like things like that. HB is quick, quiet, quirky, loving. I'll miss her. When out shopping with her Mum last week, they passed a woman with an American accent... she turned to Loo and said, "We have one of those at home." She calls me The American. It's a nickname she says with love.

MB has brought that Gaggle of Girls in my life... of those, MP is dearest. We all play gin, and laugh. Loo and I have created the next generation of gin players. MP looked at the score, knowing that when Loo is ahead of me by 1000 points, we start over again. She has been trouncing me quite regularly over the last few days...and with the girls just joining the never ending game, they are far behind our scores. Her cheery voice said, "Oh, right... at this rate, it should only take a few hands for that to happen, and we'll all be equal!" Gee, thanks. MB is at that growing stage, where she is gaining her height...she takes after her mum and her Grandad and will be a willowy blonde, with those clear blue eyes. She smiles, and her whole face glows. She's fierce in her loyalty, stubborn in her position, and will not change who she is to please anyone. I'm not saying she won't compromise, I'm saying she knows who she is as a person, and she's good with that... something to be said for that kind of confidence. She and MP are joined at the hip, good mates, the kind you can see being friends for life. I hope that happens. MB is realising she has to fix her sights on her future, and is changing how she's going about life... she's becoming a young woman.

I'm happy to sit and watch both of them, and see how they turn out... with the guidance they've had, it won't be surprising to see they will be... lovely.

Except for the mouth MB has when she's trash talking at gin.

Then, there is my Loo.

I can't do that today. Too close, too near being sad... tomorrow, perhaps.




Our Neville Fact (which will carry on, even when I'm stateside)

Although Magnus and his wife, Phillipa, raise lovely Field Spaniels, Neville and Margaret have two Corgis. They decided to have the 'Royal Dog' because Margaret's family is descended from the ancient Stewarts (Stuarts), and wanted to show her alignment with the Royals, even though her ancestor was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Usually a fairly well behaved dog, Neville and Margaret lavish all their attention on Pharos and Vulcan, thus turning them into insufferable creatures who nip at the grandchildren and wee everywhere. They hump the legs of anyone who comes over to visit, to the great amusement of Neville and Margaret who laugh while shouting, "Oh, you naughty boys!" Margaret has made them little pillows to sleep on, which they ignore, choosing instead to sleep on her antique sofa instead. They wear matching sweaters that coordinate beautifully with the ones Neville and Margaret own, allowing them to look quite smart when they go walkies. Unfortunately, that is where smart ends, as Pharos and Vulcan go separate ways, wrapping around Neville and Margaret's legs, barking and yapping at every thing they see. They terrify every dog and child they meet. They like to poo under the beds where Margaret can't reach it, and will only eat free range chicken that's been boiled and chopped up, then mixed up with cooked brown rice which has been cooled to room temperature, served in their matching bowls, and placed next to the cooker. Both dogs have gas that will peel wallpaper. This usually manifests itself when they are being fed tidbits from the table as they sit on 'Mumsy' or 'Daddsy's laps during family meals at holidays. The grandchildren must relinquish their chairs when watching telly if the dogs want them, and should they be nipped, they are asked what did they do to "Dear, dear snookiebottoms to make him want to make kibble out of the naughty things?" The grandchildren try to feed the dogs chocolate on a regular basis.

Sunday Scriblings~WEDDING

You might want to read the backstory (again) of each character first... the links are in the story. I suggest you start with Margaret, and then Neville.

The Day of Days

They stood in front of Rev. Dalripple, friends and family in the pews behind them, flowers lined the altar, and the last notes of the organ settled into the end of the day's light as it came though the windows above them all.

Neville had watched his Margaret (oh! How he loved saying 'his' Margaret!) as she walked up the aisle towards him, her right hand resting in the crook of her father's arm, her left holding the bouquet of the lilies she chose to carry. Their colour was a shade off from her wedding dress from Cassini. It's silk folds whispered 'Paris Couture' with ever step she took, skimming her body then going into a train from the full skirt.

She smiled in that Margaret fashion, looking towards him steadily through the veil over her face. He shook slightly, still awed he was to be part of her world, that their lives would be intertwined throughout all the things that occur in a marriage...that eventually, they would have children he would love partly because they were half Margaret.

Facing each other, veil back over her head, the ring firmly in place on her finger...the last of the Reverends words had been spoken, waiting for them to follow his directions. "You may kiss your bride!", he'd announced quite loudly, and all of them waited. Margaret looked up into Neville's eyes, her smile not quite reaching her own. He knew then why she'd been so silent in the last weeks, why she avoided the last part of her time in Paris in her conversations. He knew, and it made no difference to him.

"It's fine, my dear. All is well.", he whispered as he leaned forward to kiss her.

With that, Margaret discovered you can fall in love more than once in your life, that the one will never wipe out the other. She smiled into Neville's kiss, leaning into it fully, her hands on his broad shoulders; shoulders she knew would hold more than his share of trouble in their world.

Turning to the full church, they paused for a moment--two people who knew they were meant for each other, willing to accept the good and forgive the bad... two people who would go through their lives together, knowing at the end of it all, they could close their eyes that last time, content in the belief they had been beloved by the other.

Stepping down from the altar, they walked into that future with matched steps.

Northern Ireland and Me

Northern Ireland can be visited in a single drive of five hours or so.

I didn't do that... we only went to three places, all of them unique, interesting and totally diverse. Some people say Ireland is more green than any other place... I don't know about that. I do know I saw shades of green I've never seen before. The air is soft and so is the water. There is a toughness that is required to live there, I think. You live in a place that is still warring (we had to drive miles out of our way to avoid an armed check-point) and dealing with the 'Troubles'.

We went to the Giants Causeway, which legend has was built by Finn McCool, the giant. It looks to be man made, because it is so precise in it's design, in the formation of the rocks. We went to the Bushmill distillery where I bought a coin purse, and we passed on the tour. There was a huge sweep of sandy beach, surprising as it stood there between craggy rock. The ocean was a heavy grey colour, stretching all the way out, and I imagined how it was for my great-grandmother, who left these shores as a young girl, piled onto a boat deck, escaping the horror of the Famine.

I saw the old work house, re-made into a hospital. A ghost is there, whose been seen by many. You see the long dormitory rooms where up to 200 women slept on piles of straw in a room the size of my old dining room and living room combined. People came to the work house when they had starved for so long, their pride was gone in the face of hunger. Couples were broken apart, families sent in the direction of their sex and age, to not see each other again until they could earn enough money to buy their ticket to freedom; America.

I went to Derry, where the Troubles were intense and fierce and you can still see the signs painted on walls, "FREE DERRY". It used to have a man made wall around part of the city, with violence going on behind it. Big Ev was in the Army back then, and told us stories of a policeman who had his feet blown off when a bomb in his car only partly exploded...or of his friend who was buried under a building that was blown up and collapsed on him, and walked away with nothing more than a broken cigarette. He showed me where the police stations stand like fortified modern castles, and the police cars are unmarked, and have bullet proof glass.

Some things don't change easily.

There was the huge sweep of farmland, broken by gorse bushes that were breaking into yellow flowers. Homes dotted that area of farms and potatoes and sheep. The town he is in has 45% unemployment. Can you imagine? Forty five percent of the people have no job... it's frightening.

I spent time with a cat that tried to nurse on every bit of my shirt tail as I sat on the couch, drooling when you stopped him. There was Amber, the nervous Cocker Spaniel, who sought out scratches and her 'baby'.. and Big Ev and his delightful daughter who is tall and lean and beautiful and sweet.

Home now, picking up the dogs at some point... nice to have my 'own' bed back, yet, missing those long sweeps of green and heavy accents and a history that is still being created in violence and the sought after peace.

I'm in the hopes peace wins.







Our Neville Fact


The boat has a crew of pursers, maids and cooks. The young man assigned to Neville and Margaret's room is called Staveros, and he is very, very attentive to their needs. It seems he caught Neville coming out of the bathroom looking for his trousers, and saw the Great Package. Since then, he's continued to pop in without knocking, in the hopes of becoming a close friend of the Package. Neville is clueless, and can't figure out what happened to his best boxers...not realising Staveros has them under his bed pillow in his cabin, where he holds them and dreams.

The Chart

I am a thief.

I stole the item below from my blogging bud, TR.

Have a gander, and decide for yourself where you stand....

The Relationship Chart

This is a re-post from my other blog (September 4, 2007), though I thought it would fit in well here. So without further delay.....



So I got this from a friend, and it was far too funny not to post. I was looking at it, and for the most part....it makes total sense. Take a look at it for a second and think about previous relationships you've had, and where each person falls.....scary, huh? Let's look at each area:

(For reference....I put a quadrant image below, for the non-math people) (he must have known I'd show up one day and take it!)

1. Zone of Pain......that just makes me laugh. Who hasn't found themselves there a few times?

2. Friend...definitely makes sense, though I'd probably skew mine a bit to the right, since I have hot friends. :) As for the Relationship Temptation, I've never actually tried that area, though I'm sure it works for some people.

3. F-Buddy.....dangerous yet entertaining zone. I think it'd have to be a bit more skewed to Quadrant I for the relationship temptation, but beautiful women make men do stupid things, so who knows! This use to be my playground/sandbox, but I think I've finally learned my lesson....maybe. Okay, not really....but at least I'm getting closer to where I'm suppose to be.

4. Awkwardness......both of these are appropriately named, though I'd move each one farther out on their respective Axi. There should be a void in between the ZoP, F-Buddy, F, and DZ....a no man's land if you will...and it should be named "Extreme Awkwardness". This area is like the ZoP...but worse.

5. Dating Zone.....talk about hitting the nail on the head. It incorporates the possible awkwardness, the solid "dating, but not going anywhere", and the slight marriage possibility (which should be higher and farther away in Quadrant I.....though with the amount of divorces out there, you'd think it was much closer).

6. The Null Set.....Lest we forget this area. This is the area where unicorns, leprechauns, Jennifer Anniston, and Amanda Bynes play. I'd think it should be closer to Quadrant III, mainly because of the challenges of the ideal and whatnot.



So there you have it, but before you go....ask yourself, where do you tend to fall on the Relationship Chart?

No, I have no plans on saying where I am in this chart. Tsk for even asking.

Thanks, Therapeutic Ramblings!

Our Neville Fact:

Our Neville once played Oberon in "A Midsummer Night's Dream". During the run of the play, he developed a huge crush on Bitty Abshire-Timesworth, who played Titania, leaving her little nosegays of flowers and small notes of his devotion, taken from the sonnets, never signed. Bitty thought they came from Harold Blakley who played Bottom, falling in love, seducing him at the cast party, and eloping afterwards. Occasionally, Neville and Margaret run into Bitty and Harold Blakley at the London Museum, always causing Neville to stammer and again feel that rush of first love, first heartbreak, and wonder...what if.

Snow, SAD and our Neville~II

More snow.

The girls are out of school, since the country is out of road salt. In one town, they've gone to mixing table salt with road salt so they'll have something to put down so people don't go sliding off the roads, as we almost did on the way to lovely Stowe...a journey that was canceled a few miles out of the village.

School wasn't as important as our lives today.

The weekend was spent in a number of lovely ways--from me trying to catch up on my sleep Saturday morning, to building snowmen to playing gin to panto. The snowman was created by MB and her friend, James, whom I'm thinking of packing up and taking home with me. He's lovely and sweet and camp and a real dear, who makes me laugh. He picked up gin rather quickly, well, the smack talk part of it at least... and is now a convert to the Church of British Gin Games.

Yesterday, I also had tea with Our Neville and Margaret. Let me say this, the real Margaret is physically nowt like my creation... still, they've provided me with a ton of new material, since he is still quite dry and she is a tiny laughing woman, and they both adore each other.

I got that part right.

It's Tuesday, more theater on the way (for Vinny!) in the next bit. I've a shower to take, a train to take, and Loo and I are braving the UK weather to head into London to see a West End show.

Life couldn't be better.




Our Neville Fact:

Neville has a Man Room, from which Margaret is banned. There he has a pool table, his computer and all his books. He's only allowed to smoke his cigars there-- although, when Margaret is off on a WI weekend, he occasionally will sit in the lounge in his Man Shorts, and have an glass of his illicit stash of first cask single malt and Cuban cigar, just to prove he can.

Wot I Wrote Somewhere Else

Oh, and while I was sans interweb, this posted, too.

Feel free to read, and comment there, if you'd like.


Thanks.






Our Neville Fact:

Their daughter's name is Felicity Muriel Roslyn Whitlash-Hand. She is married to actuary, David Whitlash-Hand, and has two children, Cosmo and Bess. David hopes to become an MP one day. Neville's son is Magnus Hammish Theodolite MacPhearson (insert Neville's surname). His wife is the Hon. Phillipa MacPherson-Farquharson, of Inverness, although childless, they breed spaniels. The MacPhearson part of his name is from Margaret's family in Scotland. He is a solicitor in Manchester. Both the children and grandchildren call Neville and Margaret Moo-Maw and Moo-Paw.

Cheap Airfare

Loo and I are flying to Northern Ireland Thursday, to see her fiance and play tourist.

We are using one of the clever UK airline's flights that are free.... after taxes are paid. Oh, and if you want to have more than one carry-on, that's extra... pack that purse!! Wait, you want to check in online, and don't have a UK or EU passport? That's another 9.50 sterling, each way.

So, that's it... except if you want a seat. You pay for that. And, if you buy the cheap fares, they don't guarantee an oxygen mask. Or a seat belt. Or breathing at all on the flight. Each breath costs an extra 2 pounds. Ohhhh, you wanted to deplane? Get out your credit card!!

Okay, the last bits are pretend, but, you feel that way. Your 'free' flight ends up costing as much as a non-free one, where you can carry on something larger than a Tesco plastic bag.

If you carry a Sainsbury's one, they charge you.




Our Neville Fact

Neville and Margaret left on their cruise yesterday. They will be doing a History and Culture themed trip aboard the Hellenic ship, ξιπασμένος. The Greek staff tell everyone the name means "Precious" when in fact, it means "Pretentious". They have their table sittings, and received the list of the couples who will be sitting with them, along with their good friends. Included are the
Leonard and Leander Ponce-Duncombe of Surrey, the Viscount and Viscountess Howe (Neville and Shirley) of Wiltshire, Kiril and Olivia Welbore-Kir of London, Mungo and Emma Mardsen-Smedley who are from Aberdeen, Miss Lucy Hobhouse of Great Cocks, near Swindon and to finish out the group, Mr. Clifford Baniel of Silverstone. Neville is still grumpy over having to wear his coat and tie to each dinner, and Margaret is excited they may get to sit at the Captain's table during one meal. Amid kisses and waves from family, they were off!

A Word From GolfWidow

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I Love Loocy

Time with Loo is never dull, to say the least.

Last night, while scooping dog poo in the drizzly dark, under a pale light, she screamed. I mean, let one rip. One of the piles of Frank and Nova poo had jumped--she'd scooped a frog by mistake.

Last Friday, she bent over to pick something up and her back went out. She hobbled about, in great pain, while the rest of us laughed and took photos. Thankfully, she's great humoured, and sort of ended up posed for us. P.S. She recovered after 2 Valium and a glass of whin..wine.

On Tuesday last, we went to Bristol with Hols so she could interview for University. We kept drawing looks as the three of us walked along, and I suddenly realised she was quite posh in appearance, while I had on jeans, sensible shoes and my short hair. We looked like two lesbians taking their daughter to her interviews. The three of us started to laugh like mad, and then, Hols asked if she should call us both Mummy or should she call me Mom since I was American. Later in the week, we stopped off in a travel agency, to pick up a few brochures for Mills to use in her course work. The agent came over to help us, and when we asked for anything she had on Barcelona, her expression changed to one of "Dear me! How will I handle this?" On the way out, Loo had tears from laughter.. it seems Barcelona is the number one location for same sex marriages in Europe.

She has a ghost. There are candles in the sitting room, and we keep finding them lit, with no one having been in the room, no matches about... all quite spooky. Today, a cartridge suddenly rolled completely across the very level table. There is a non living animal that sometimes walks across the kitchen. All great fun. Not.

I needed my hair trimmed, and Loo said her hairdresser, Fiona, would come around and do it for around five pounds. What a deal!! She didn't mention that Fiona is from the Highlands, and you can't understand a thing she says. She chats away about haggis and horses and her kids as she clips and snips and we just go, "Ah huh." She's coming back on Sunday to do something. We aren't sure what we agreed to, it happened during one of the "Ah huh." moments. It should be interesting.

Yesterday, when opening the door to let the dogs out, she snapped her pinky nail below the nail line, causing a nice rip on the nail bed. Yes, I ewwwww'd too. She danced around, moaning and groaning, "It hurts! It hurts!" I know it hurts, I showed dismay, but, please, I'm trying to watch Homes Under the Hammer. The rest of the day, she went on about how her "....finger hurts, quite badly!" Suck it up, woman.

Underwear is a passion for our Loo. Everything she owns matches, and they have their own special drawers in her dresser. Sadly, she's invited me to be addicted, too. You fall into it, at first picking up a little set from ASDA, and next thing I know, I'm in Marks and Spencers, drooling over silk sets, caressing satin ones, discussing the varied shades of blue, trying to find the perfect one. I would hear, "QUINN!!! Come QUICKLY!!" and she'd have a set in deep mushroom silk; a set that meant I'd have to sell a kidney to buy. I think I'll be able to live without the kidney. Interspersed with the yells for me, were her comments about her nail. Again, please... I'm shopping for underwear here.

Her kitchen floor flooded before I arrived, and we've lived with the Big Loud Machine since then. It's to suck moisture out of the floorboards. I reckon if we kept it turned on all the time, it'd work. Obviously, we don't.

It's been a good time... we tag team iron, tidy, shop for underwear, go to Costco's, even if the experience was ruined by screaming children and no food examples.

It's my home away from home, here in the Village. Full of people I like and things I enjoy doing. Angie pops round for tea, people call all the time, teenagers lounging about, Hols wanting her tea, the dogs barking at nothing and everything and Cat irritated there's no cat flap between the kitchen and the room where his outdoor cat flap is located. It's never dull here.

And, it's got Loocy.






Our Neville Fact

Margaret wants to go see the new film about Queen Victoria, but, Neville refuses. It seems his great Grand-Aunt, Lady Flora Hastings, was the subject of the main part of the plot, a dear woman who was banished from Court for no reason than having a liver aliment that made her stomach swell. She was thought to be pregnant! Neville's family never forgot the slight, and had to put on a good show when Nev married Margaret as she descends from Queen Victoria's Stuart line. Neither side spoke to the other that day, and more than a few wine glasses were 'accidently' poured on the silk skirts of the women there.

Margaret went alone, while Neville saw 'Grand Torino'.

Margaret and Johnny Were Lovers

It's something she never talks about.

Long ago, and far away, our Margaret had a secret life. It started the summer before she and Neville married. They had met at a mutual friend's home...she found him dear and sweet, and knew from the moment they shook hands he would be her future husband--a man of stability and kindness and, she knew, never ending British middle classness; she knew and accepted that would be her place in the world.

She yearned for one bit of life to hold on to, the thing she knew in her bones she'd been created for, the something to take out of her memory chest late at night in her old age... that she could roll over in her mind, so crisp and clean she'd again be able to taste and smell and touch all that occurred in that time.

Our Margaret wanted An Adventure.

So, in her Gap Year, she took her future in her hands, packed her bags, and hopped the train and boat to Paris with her best friend, Amanda Smythe-Barnes of the Malmsbury Smythe-Barnes', going there to seek their fortunes.

Amanda fancied herself an artist, and our Margaret was svelte, and blessed with clear skin and intense eyes. They roomed in a garret in Saint-Germain-des-Pres, surrounded by students, artists, and jazz clubs. They absorbed everything around them, dwelling in that place of living forever you have only once in your life. They were alive and careless of that fact and nothing could touch them.

Margaret found modeling for the House of Dior and Oleg Cassini along with other famous designers, she was never a top model, still, she made enough to make her portion of the monthly bills. She and "Mellie" spent their nights dancing with the various friends they made or being taken out to dinner and being wooed by a few of those older, wealthy men who purchased the designer clothing for wives and mistresses; this was, of course, Paris.

Margaret wrote Neville, who was slogging out at University, light frothy letters telling him of the art work and simple things, never mentioning the men who asked her to be their mistress, or the artists who begged her to become their lover, men she laughingly refused. Her way of defusing the situation was always so light, egos were never damaged, friendships ensued, she carried on immersed in all that was young, free and Paris. This was going to be a part of her life she would never share, a part that would shape her, changing her from the untrained dabs of Mellie's art to the defined intensity of Dali.

Tragedy struck, and Mellie was called home, her Father had gout, and her Mother needed help getting the dogs ready for the round of shows coming up, the spaniels always listened to Mellie's brash voice, and off she went, her time done, ready to face life as a country wife. With a month left on their lease, Margaret chose to stay on, to finish out Spring in Paris.

It was two weeks later, on the 14th of April, it happened. Walking down the street, the last of her modeling done, determined to do nothing more but enjoy Paris as a tourist, the heel of her shoe broke, she tripped... and fell into the arms of a man so beautiful, her breath caught in her throat... He tried to speak to her in terrible French, and she laughingly told him in her clean British tones she was fine. He insisted on giving her a taxi ride to her flat... by the time they reached it, they were in each others arms, something a small portion of Margaret's mind told her was very, very wrong. The larger portion said, "Fuck it." and she sank into the world she'd waited for, prepared for, longed for--this was what she had been created to find.

They spent the next two weeks lounging about, talking, touching, passion interspersed with laughter as it should be... doing all the things you do when you are young and in love and in Paris. Sprawled on her bed, drinking wine, strolling the City of Lights in the dark, holding hands. They spoke of their lives before each other, but, never mentioned a future--they knew they didn't have one. It was the now that consumed them.

One afternoon, she went to meet him, and their embrace was so intense, so telling of a couple bound to each other, a photographer snapped it, giving them a copy that Margaret keeps hidden away; it is the essence of all they were to each other.

Time is not always our friend, it was not theirs, and, like all love stories, this one has a sad ending. The man had to go on to his future, mapped out for him long before he met Margaret. She closed up the flat, touching the sheets, looking out over the roofs, breathing in the last of him in the air around her.

A month later, Neville proposed, she accepted, they married with a beautifully done wedding, her dress a gift from Cassini. They waited to have children... she wanted to see if she'd ever find the same layers of knowledge in this man that she found in the other in those 14 days... Although they found comfort and a deep respect, with Neville adoring Margaret, and her initial knowledge of who he was in her life settling into an abiding love... she never understood him in the same way, and he found her looking over the garden at times, wondering what she was thinking about.

He wondered about the interest she took in American politics for a time, and supported her belief the bright young President would change how America took on the world. He was puzzled by her deep grief and depression following that day in November, putting it to her pregnancy and her soft heart.

She thinks on those days in Paris, and feels his presence, waiting for her.

Gin

There are two kinds of gin.

We have both of them here, at Home. With one of them becoming more and more outrageous, we may have to break out the other.

When I first mentioned gin to Loo, she had never played the game... I was weaned on it, my mother a card playing fool, who is one of the best poker players I know, and who can shuffle a deck of cards with the skill of a Vegas card shark. She taught me gin when I was in my teens, in order to hone her own skills... and it was one place we bonded when all else was chaos.

It's a place we still can meet and enjoy each other even when we barely speak away from the table. I taught HRH this game, bringing it into the third generation.

Understand, we do not play gin, we live the game. There are curses you throw, you do the titty dance (don't ask) and we run victory laps. Sadly, HRH has inherited my mother and my "Ah HA! I've won!" cackle, a sound that lifts the hair off the back of your neck when all of us are issuing forth as we grab cards off the pile of discards in a heated game. Our games go on for the entire time we are together, and lingeredthereafter, when Mother had left.

I never thought to find someone else who'd have that desire, that burn-that cackle.

I introduced Loo to this tradition three years ago, on my last trip to her home. We decided to play a few hands, then go to bed before our 'Let's play tourist' day in London.

We went to bed at 4AM after 2,ooo points and a bottle of vodka.

The neighbors below were treated to cackles, victory dances, mad screams of "You FUCKING cow!" whoops, and slapping cards.

She was a true gin player.

We've kept the book up, she brought it over when she came to the Land O'Utes to visit me and we've also kept score on little bits of paper... which I've lost, so, although the official score is only around 2715 each (can you imagine it's even!), unofficially, it's around 4,000 points.

MB has taken an interest. At first, she was hesitant, playing slowly, carefully, silently. Now she sits, hunched over her cards, cursing like a sailor, doing the titty dance and "doing a Patsy".

A Patsy is when you make a move my mother made famous... picking up a huge number of cards in order to play a single one--then hoping no one goes out, leaving you with a handful of points.

Another rule of Patsy is, always keep your aces.

Always.

This has accounted for me sitting there, when Loo goes out, with two aces and a two face cards, thus, putting me 400 points behind her for most of this trip.

Last night, we went dead even on points.

It will be an interesting last few days... MB is far behind us point wise, but, fully caught up in the trash talk, and the gris gris thrown, each of us with our own good luck move, the idea this is all about laughing, enjoyment, the thrill of victory and cackling in the loser's face.

It's bonding and something to do during the day, when you have your tea, and say, "Okay, one hand...." breaking the cards out, the curses start, and the new neighbors wonder what in the world is going on as voices cry out "BUGGER ME!"

When just the two of us play, we ban three of a kind throws, to make it more interesting. We twitch, seeing two or three cards sitting there, knowing they are no good. Trash talk picks up even more.

"You see that card? That card is shit."

"Wait, let me move my cards around....no...no... still nothing."

"Did you shuffle? Buggeryfuck, I don't think you did."

Nothing like a game of gin to get the blood going, traditions to look forward to, as the book crosses the pond to carry on that tradition, and a good Patsy to cause a gasp at the table.

I likes me gin, both kinds.

If she doesn't stop picking up 20 cards and winning, I'm going to need more of the liquid kind.




Our Neville Fact:


Neville worked as an Environment Officer, for the Devonshire Council. He drove a Ford Mondeo, checking on farmers around the villages, making sure they kept healthy animals. Upon his retirement, he purchased an A4, which he only uses to drive in and out of the garage or to Waitrose and bought Margaret a VW Polo, a bog standard car. The pen set in his pocket was for 30 years of excellent service to the government . Before he started with the Council, he was a Regular in Her Majesty's Army, in the Supply Office, serving as a clerk in Quartermasters Stores, in Inverness, where he met Margaret. His job there was providing urinal cakes to all of the latrines, making sure they were sent to the proper camps. He also worked with the Boy Scouts when he left the Army, helping them with their camping badges, comforting them when they were frightened at night. There is nothing Neville likes more than when Margaret makes Spotted Dick for the sweet when they have tea. He wept when the Queen Mother died.



DISCLAIMER: Neville facts are totally the creation of FMD. Or, are they?

The Blog Wot I Wrote

Life carried on while we went without interwebs.

Aside from meeting our Neville... I noted a number of other things in my time bound to taking notes with a pen and paper.

• I am locked in a home with varied dialects. This means nowt to those who speak on a normal level...with me, it creates havoc. Loo and HB have London accents, MB is more Northampton, and Ev is Yorkshire with a touch of Northern Ireland. I have a tendency to reflect the dialect around me... I've been known to sound almost Glaswegian after a few whiskeys, a feat some Scots can't lay claim to, truth be known. Here, I end up sounding like a fishwife from ... I don't know who to sound like. Oh, right.....someone from Coventry.

• Frank has developed new neurosis here at Home. We have a semi-open floor plan, which includes a bridge on the second floor, connecting HB and my room to Loo and MB's room... Frank is leery of the bridge, and eye's the railing with a great deal of fear. Most of the floors are wood, we've put down some rugs, and I laid down my robe the first night, to give him a sanctuary. He stepped in, grateful for a place to go, then dashed out, with a look of "Not a real rug! Not a real rug!" on his face. I now have a real rug, and have to deal with Frank trying to hide on my single bed when I get up to go to the bathroom. Right.

• Tea. I am drowning in tea. We solve problems, gossip, move furniture, unpack boxes, wake up and go to sleep based on tea. When we can't make a decision; we have tea.
  

• Last Saturday, we all took the Virgin train down to London and went to a panto. Pantomime is a UK tradition, complete with cross dressing, standard phrases ("Oh, no, you're not!" "Oh, yes, we are!" "Look behind you!") that are part of the audience participation, fairy tales that are fractured to say the least, a celeb that takes part, and packed houses. Mr and Mrs G gathered all the G family at the Old Vic, and we watched Stephen Fry's version of 'Cinderella'. To say a fun time was had underplays the entire day... with the exception of the Menopause Express. As soon as we got on the train, we started to strip off our clothes.... it was h.o.t. Well worth the day, however, with all of us singing along, yelling at the cast, and remembering to yell "CAKE!" back whenever it was mentioned in the script. Personally, I loved the cross-dressed step sister who had so much hair on her back, she could have shaved it and made it into a toupee.

• I love the names of things here, in the medical area... if you have gas, you have wind, and you take 'Windeze'. How wonderful is that? You don't have strep, you have 'putrid throat'. Now, that is something you can use with force when you call in sick to work. I love the medicines... you can get a small dose of codeine in your paracetamol... how brilliant is that?
  

• When you run into someone, with, oh, your trolley, they say "Sorry!"

• The dollar is still crap. It did, however, gain .01.

• I've lost a glove, a pair of glasses, my hat and almost lost a book. You can trace my travels in the UK by the things I lose.

• I've consumed my weight in chocolate.

• Loo and I have continued our never ending gin game, which we've played off and on for three years. Currently, she's ahead by 300 points. Other people join in... no one plays it with the intensity and complete silliness that we do, with the exception of HRH. We throw gris gris, have the cursed titty dance and run victory laps.
  

• There is a television channel here called 'Dave'. Imagine.

• I found more soaps.

• I remembered how much I love London on my brief stop there.
  

• Rain. I'll say no more.

• The 4700 boxes we're unpacking. And unpacking. And unpacking.

• Jealous. This is HB's birthday present. Jealous is a chameleon who is still very small. And green... and he eats live crickets. Thankfully, the crickets don't make any noise...they quietly die as he flicks out his long tongue and laps them in. I find it too 'ew' to watch... however, Loo and HB love to watch him, and coo as he consumes cricket after cricket. It seems he'll get rather large. I won't be here.. proving there are small favours in this world.

• Loo's forgotten holiday present for me from a few years ago. I'm so sorry she found it.

• We've not walked the way we said we were going to do when we moved back here to the village. All we've done is unpack. I've not been to London beyond the panto. We did go to the films, though... if you've not seen Enchanted, see it. Satire at it's best.

• Films in the UK. There were 22 minutes of commercials. Count them, 22 minutes. However, you get to PICK YOUR SEAT in the theater. Imagine that.
  

• Rain.

It was decided an our Neville fact will be provided on each blog during the remainder of my stay here. Why? Because inquiring minds want to know....


Our Neville:

Neville and Margaret shop every Tuesday, wearing matching hand knitted jumpers, and clever matching bottoms... his trousers and her sensible skirt are from a bolt of cloth she purchases while on holiday in the Highlands. It's the family plaid from her grandmother's side of the family. They take the list, and shop, with him pushing the trolley. When people move into the Village, they usually tell them to shop at Tesco's, since it's closer... this way, it keeps the riff raff out of Waitrose, where they shop.

There's A Moose Loose Aboot This Hoose

She had a dream.

In the early morning hours, Loo was dreaming of Prince Charles, and of a tarantula on her head. I don't know how the two were connected... it was her dream, not mine. She kept brushing her head, to remove the creature from her hair... she reaslised that part wasn't a dream when her hand encountered something moving, something warm, something...furry.

We have mice.

Give her credit, she didn't scream or squeal or even gasp.

She did leap from bed in a perpendicular movement, however, and race downstairs to get Cat.

Cat is a 30 pound Maine Coon Cat, who usually spends his days sleeping on one bed or another, snoring while dreaming of chasing mice, I reckon. When put the task of actually chasing one, he was as useless as a chocolate fart.

He did a few sniffs, stalked the room, then curled up on her bed and went back to sleep.

Now, realise, I do not like killing things, not even bugs... it's the squish factor. I've written before I usually keep a can of AquaNet black label around to freeze most bugs that cross my path. Even the dread grasshopper will escape death at my hands.

Many years ago, we lived in a house that abutted a field... with winter came an influx of mice. I simply couldn't bear to hear the traps go off... and bought 'humane' mouse traps that lured the mice in, tipped back, and allowed them to suffocate. This worked for me. Later, in the Land O'Utes, I once again lived by a field, and every mouse for miles found it's way into my home. I'm pretty sure they sent out fliers to tell homeless mice of the warmth of the house along with the many flavour options of DeCon that I offered on the Mouse Menu. If I'm not mistaken, when they tear my house down at some part, most of the insulation on the south wall will be mummified mouse bodies. The consumption of DeCon was so rapid, with no visual results, I contemplated putting out little tables with candles and small napkins... I really think they had the stuff as a starter to the main course of dog kibble.

Nothing like putting your hand into the dog kibble bag and having a mouse run up your arm to wake you in the morning.

I still refused to do the traps, it was the little heads caught in them, the SNAP!! of it going off.. HRH and The Investment were no better.

We were a house of non killers.

Plus, you never know what will happen to that poor mouse in the trap, what indignities can occur to it's little body.












Back to the issue at hand.

Loo went out to pick up MB at school, I was doing... well, nothing.

Suddenly, I caught Cat moving. Cat doesn't move... as I said, he sleeps, he eats, he accepts the worship that is his due. He was--moving. He was moving with something in his mouth. Something that was also moving.

He. Had. A. Mouse.

I am not Loo.

I screamed.

Okay, I screeched. I'm surprised Neville isn't here, to be honest, I was that loud.

"CAT!! DROP THAT!"

Cat did. I now had a stunned mouse looking at me. Cat seemed pleased I was this stupid. "You wanted me to drop it, there it is, you silly moo."

Ah, but, I'm quick.... I grabbed a wicker basket and put it on top of the mouse, who had regained it's sense of survival and made a dash towards me, teeth bared.

I sat for an hour, feet up on a chair, two large dogs by said chair, Cat watching the basket which has two heavy books on it, and a mouse under it...waiting.

I didn't know how we'd get the mouse out, but, I knew we'd do it.. or at least Loo would.

Her car pulled up, I met her at the door, blocking Cat from knocking over the basket. MB and I hovered as Loo assessed the situation.

"Right. I've got to kill it."

Stone cold silence and shocked looks met her.

"What, did you think I was going to give it a going away party? What are you two like?" she asked in those plummy London tones of hers.

She picked up the basket, after we conferred and decided to let Cat do his animal duties..... no mouse.

"Are you bloody sure it was here? Now I've got a mouse in my kitchen!"

I swore the mouse had not left his little home away from home, and we peered into the tipped over basket, which promptly spit out the mouse, who jumped up into the radiator.

Cat looked at me, smug in his knowledge he'd have taken care of this mess if I'd just left him alone, and went back to cleaning his paws that are the size of saucers.

"Right, Quin, you get a broom, and poke at him, I'll squash him whe..."

"What? You'll what?" MB and I both looked horrified. Loo gave us a look that would have withered advancing German troops. Grant would have surrendered without a whimper.

"I. Will. Squash. Him. He's vermin. What d'you think I'm going to do? For fuck's sake... poke at him with the broom!"

I poked, Cat watched, MB squealed and the mouse jumped. With his leap for short freedom, MB and I retreated into the kitchen, cringing as we heard: BAM! BAM!BAM!

"There. Done." Loo came into the kitchen, picked up her heavy work gloves, gave us a glare that said all she thought of our miserable ways and picked up the squished body, throwing it away into the green bin... it is biodegradable.

We are okay now, MB and I forgiven for our cowardly ways... traps will be set tonight, Cat still sneering at me on a regular basis, and Frank terrified of the radiator now.

Pay attention Alanis, this is real irony.... She killed it with a huge DIY book.

Can't get much better than that.







Our Neville Fact:

Neville decided to get a tattoo on his one drunk leave while in the Army. It is on his right upper bum cheek, and is the perfect shape of a woman's lips wearing red lipstick. Margaret has never seen it, as she's never seen Neville naked with the light on. It remains his little secret, an reminder to his wild times as a youth, all two hours of it... what he doesn't know is, Margaret has the same tattoo. She got hers when she had one too many Snowballs (Advocat and Sprite with a cherry) in Liverpool with her friends at her hen party (bachelorette party). Only her OB knows about it. He was so shocked he never met her eyes when she had her follow up appointments, and suggested she see someone else after Flick (Felicity's nickname) was born.

Cat

Cat was far too furry.

His winter coat was full of mats, burrs, tangles and general mess for him to be comfortable anymore. He refuses to clean himself, expecting we humans to keep him brushed... after which he runs outside and rolls about, in complete disgust over the idea someone's tried to his job for him.

Nothing like a 30lb Cat who is pissed off at you. Thankfully, he's fairly settled for the scissoring, the picking out of mats and the eventual shaving. He'll stay sitting for a long period of time, and then he does let you know he's bored, so, the entire process takes a good week.

He produces enough hair to weave yarn to make an blanket. We've cut perhaps 1/3 of his fur, and the pile was as high as his leggy legs are long. I say cut, mostly, it's hacked away at for now, trying to shorten it enough to use the scary noisy clippers. Vidal Sasson, we're not.

Poor Frank, neurotic as ever, hovered outside, forgetting he can't fit in through the cat flap, was worried he was next. Actually, Frank worries about everything, so, I can't be sure it was the shearing of Cat that was on his nerves.





We'll be working at this for a few days more... I'll post the final photo soon. Currently, Cat is avoiding us and the comb used to tease out his intense tangles and the scary noise making clippers, walking about with one eye out for us.

And shedding as he goes.







Our Neville Fact



Margaret has been away for a week at Flick's, helping out while Flick recovers from a spill in the jumping ring. During this time, Neville has had the lads over, playing snooker and smoking cigars. One night, Simon Basington dropped his cigar on Margaret's prized rug, burning a noticeable hole. Since then, Neville has been working on how to explain the hole, since cigar smoking is banned outside his man room. He's currently leaning towards saying aliens, but, doubts this is going to actually work.