The Essex Chainsaw Tea Party

They've just left after 4 hours of chopping, cutting, lopping, trimming, raking and picking on me!
Being a decent gal I brushed off the unwarranted remarks regarding my lack of gardening expertise, instead offering up, in the full spirit of neighbourliness tranches of cake and pints of tea for the old men and bottles of pop (for the nipper).

Graham, who is considerably older than he looks and sun baked, wanted money and after much haggling, shrugging of shoulders and supplication to the heavens we agreed on a price. It worked out that I paid for only two hours instead of four. He, he, he, he!

My frontage although a bit odd looking appears much more airier and spacious, on account of Graham taking down an overgrown sad old Forsythia. He also messed with my Rosemary whilst giving advice about big spaces and mulch. "There is a lot to be done" he croaked. His artistry was apparent when suggesting I might uproot my roses and stick them in a tub under the bay window. I felt a little queer when he said that. He was a veritable fountain of information much of which went clear over my head.

At one stage during the trimming he had the audacity to mention the c word. C standing for CEMENT. I would dearly love to pave the blasted garden over but don't have the money. Mr Horsehound perked up when hard core was mentioned.

My back bit he will attend one day next week. I'm so glad he is an understanding gentleman who clearly has a weakness for cheeky skint clients.

For tea tonight I'll be deep frying portions of mustard coated chicken, it will be served with chips
and corn. If I was to have fried bananas with it I would be legally entitled to name this dish MARYLAND CHICKEN. But as no bananas are in the house it is simply MUSTARD COATED CHICKEN:)

The picture above is of me with one of Mr Horsehound's many implements. Being an old fuddy duddy he beseeched me not to play and run with his sharp object. I have to say that grasping such a weapon caused me to channel the spirit of Sigourney Weaver as Ellen Ripley aboard the Nostromo.
"Leave her alone you bitch"....


Now All Aboard The Bungalow For Essex Chicken (we haven't invited John Hurt)

A Few Notes Before Tea.

We're getting there.

Shifted, uprooted and generally destroyed all manner of weeds and over hanging branches. Great gaps now appear allowing light in.

Discovered in our rockery under masses of conifer branches were two slabs of concrete, obviously dumped there by the men who erected next door's fence. I huffed and walked away...

Also watched as a small brown toad slowly edged his way under the great trees. We marvelled at not only his rough leathery cuteness but his deep brown all seeing eyes, wide and aware.

Found a dead thrush laying by the broken yellow table so, before placing it in the council's food and greenery recycling bin, I brushed its head with my finger.
Its stillness sad but beautiful.

Moved the pot bound tomatoes, carrots and basil to another part of the garden to keep them safe, don't want the gentlemen tomorrow upsetting them with their vroom vroom saws.

I still don't like gardening but I can't help feeling for all living things.

Being cooked tonight:
Toad-in-the-Hole made with Irish pork sausages and onions
Creamy mashed potatoes.
Broad beans.
gravy and mustard.

For pud, pineapple chunks and thick custard.

Yummy Yummy!

The Lady and Chainsaw

Managed to slice through the Chainsaw cable/wire so now am in the throws of sticking it together!
This blasted patch of soil will be the death of me.

I feel like ripping and tearing and heaving from its roots every single growing thing out there. Except the raspberries which I have to say are proving very helpful in jazzing up a bowl of cake and cream:)

But oh the rest of it, the determined weeds, willowy conifers, fat Forsythia, sick roses and the unidentifiable tall green thing in the corner are all getting on my nerves. And my nerves can't take much more stuff heaped upon them.
But being a little trouper, albeit a grouchy one, I'll roll up my sleeves and continue the kill.

To keep me going mentally, I'll make a chicken and veg pie for tea and after all the snipping and chopping and yanking and lopping I'll bake it to a nice crisp.
Sweet won't be a problem, will quickly whizz up a butterscotch sauce and drown in it a couple of ripe bananas.

Then after gluttonizing it's movie time. The prequel to The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Recorded whilst in a state of high emotional mentalness and watched in a state of sweaty expectation with a nice cuppa and a man called Mr Horsehound.

After watching the probably dreadful film I'll excavate my teeth with a fearsome tool then probably drop to bed early dreaming of drilling.:)


Goodbye!

And all because of my stupid glasses

Hacker

I've just watched Lord Pearson, leader of UKIP laying into Michael White of the Guardian. So what you may say.
What I found charming and slightly creepy was the Lords use of the word 'Mr' when addressing lefty Whitey. Sitting alongside the Lord was former leader of UKIP, Mr Nigel Farage, a man more fitted for selling suits. There was another chap at the table but just as he started to speak about the banning of Burkhas in public buildings the BBC's chief political correspondent Laura Keunnesburg (?) broke in.
I was miffed by that. I'm not in love with UKIP but I'm very interested in their manifesto and for the BBC to cut to Laura when a sensitive subject is about to be aired is, to me, very annoying.
So I left the arena.

And am sitting here with partially broken glasses screwing up my nose in order to keep my very expensive specs on!
And women with lines on their faces can't afford to make any more lines by the stupid screwing up of noses. All this screwing has been brought about by the nose pads disintegrating as I wiped the lenses just after 9 this morning.
I immediately ransacked the bungalow looking for replacements, of course, finding none.. So as the metal thingys leave elephantine indentations on the sides of my nose I'm planning to barge through the doors of Specsavers tomorrow demanding a re-fit.


What else?
Oh my hair looks chirpy. It's funny how very short hair makes one feel younger. Which leads me on to what else makes one feel younger...

Being a cheeky blogger.

Being petite.

Not looking at the Saga website. Over 50 I may be, but I don't want to be associated with stairlifts, standing on a ship looking out to sea with a bloke who promises a better tomorrow, Vagisil, sex advice, portable toilets, caravan holidays, osteoporosis, the making of wills, dentures, over 50's dating, creams for female dryness and sodding grandchildren.

Not going on cruises.

Being erect.

Wearing ankle socks.

Not looking to the future.

Thinking I can use a chain saw wearing slippers.

Staring at a slight cut on my thumb for hours.

Sulking.

Being happy with a new pen.

Not being afraid to go grey.

Non-communication with people who have perfect lawns.

Occasional spots.

Falling in love, say, every three months.

Being inquisitive.

Stopping in wonder at the sound of birdsong and gazing high up at the tree trying to figure out what make of bird can sing so beautifully. Chaffinch it was....

Loving Hacker.

Having a gap in my front teeth.