Tuesday, 22 January 2008

Chainsaw anyone?

You get to a certain age when the man in your life stops looking at younger women and gazes longingly at fallen trees. 'If I had a chainsaw, I'd be in there right now,' he says, as you ask him to keep his bloody eyes on the road to prevent him driving into a ditch. He becomes obsessed with wood, even though you don't yet have a fire to burn it on. 'Do you know how much a load of logs cost?' he says. As if you care. And then it begins. Talks with the listed building officer, planning applications, work on a new chimney for the old fireplace, you can't use old bricks as they're not fire proof... On and on and on until the fire is built and your man gets a hernia lifting a second-hand wood burning stove into the back of his car. And then the badgering begins. 'I'd really like a chainsaw,' he says, pressuring and persuading you. But you're not convinced, having read stories of people slitting their own throats through the careless use of a chainsaw. And then his mate gets one. 'Why can't you share it?' you ask. But no, he has to have his own, his very own. And then you cave in, on the condition he will get trained up and wear proper safety gear (this is the man that climbs up ladders at home in slip-on slippers, after all). The thought of getting kitted out in all that proper gear excites him even more and he pores over the chainsaw catalogue, looking at Huskarvanas and Boschs or whatever they're called, and telling you he'll look very fetching in a special set of red overalls, boots with steel toecaps, a safety visor and gloves. By which time the fire has gone out and it's almost spring. Sad isn't it?

Breaking news
There have been a series of burglaries in the village, as thieves target houses while people are asleep, getting in through garages, stealing personal belongings and cars.

The Post Office is now closed and Post Office Ltd procrastinate about replacing it, probably stalling until June 2008 when they won't have to.

Our new street lights are a disgrace - they are so bright the long road resembles a greyhound racing track.

Scooter Boy is getting later and later. The sack beckons.

The signpost in the square is broken - an arm has been pulled off, maybe by someone swinging on it.

The woman next to me in yoga, the one with the rather attractive grey jogging bottoms, farted as she uncurled. I, fearing others might think it was me, made exaggerated gestures in her direction so everyone would know where it came from.

That's about it,
Maddie X

Saturday, 5 January 2008

Happy New Year!

Christmas came and went, too many parties to mention all over the village, and everyone suffering from coughs and colds, replicated all over the country. Could this be germ warfare? What a great way to disable the population!
On New Year's Eve, the Square comes alive with people in fancy dress pouring out of the pub and nearby houses. Pirates rub shoulders with nurses, a Legionnaire is caught embracing a Roman emperor and several men in kilts do cartwheels across the road. Up in the church tower, the die-hard ringers wait with anticipation, ready to ring the bells when the clock strikes 12. There is a clatter up the steps as a woman in a nun's outfit, whose stockings and suspenders are visible as she hitches up her skirt, and a man dressed as a Roman Catholic priest, complete with small whisky bottle in his top pocket, get there just in time to take their places to ring in 2008.
I greet New Year's Day with a sneeze and the sound of bells, as a group of morris dancers from another county descend on the village. Bleary-eyed neighbours emerge from their front doors - 'I didn't know this was happening,' is the refrain from all bar one as clog dancing ladies do a jig in a Square full of the remains of party poppers and silly string. Impatient drivers drum their fingers on their steering wheels, waiting to get through. Let them wait, I say, as the morris dancers' clattering sticks and bells make way for an ancient mummers' play in which characters such as St George, the doctor, a couple of devils and various others end up mock fighting, with bodies littered all over the road. 'I wasn't expecting this,' says Mr St John, his puffy eyes recovering from the night before.

Breaking news
The farrier's son has found a mobile telephone in a lay-by and flicked through the text messages to find out to whom it might belong. One of the texts suggests it belongs to a village VIP who has been having secret liaisons with a local businessman and - worse - going knickerless on a regular basis.

Bored youths smashed all the lights out on the Christmas tree on the green.

An all-night motorcycle time trial took place last night, right outside my bloody window. Every 30 seconds, a bloody bike roared by, support vehicles' headlights flashing through the window. It went on until about 4 o'clock. If one of them was you, thanks very much.

I have developed full-blown flu, which explains why I have not been keeping this blog up to date. My own fault - too many parties.

That's about it
Maddie x

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