My mother told me the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Well, the road to West Bay certainly is. We didn't make it last Friday night. Instead we were lured into our neighbour Mrs Bancroft's house with the cry: 'Coo-ee, fancy a glass of wine?' So we popped in and, an hour later, fell out again.
The draining board was full of her best china from earlier, after the 'girls' (average age 65) called in for tea, cake and salmon and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off. This was a pre-fete meeting, where Mrs Bancroft butters up the ladies to prepare them for helping out with the teas. Each year, they dress appropriately according to the theme. This year it is children's fictional characters and she had an idea. But how would they take it? Hence all the grub.
'How about 101 Dalmatians?' she asked, dipping her toe into the water.
'Woof, woof,' they barked in unison. If they'd had puppy dog tails they would have wagged them.
So that's them fixed. The next day, the 'boys' (average age 55) were putting the flags out, ready for the big day next weekend. I was pleased that, for once, Mr Grigg listened to me and did not do his usual trick of going up a ladder in open-backed slippers and a load of bunting wrapped around his neck.
Yesterday, he rigged up a bucket on a string outside our window for Mr Sheepwash to put our paper in. We are just a few yards away from the village shop but Mr Grigg and I were too lazy to get up and, as Mr Sheepwash was passing anyway, it seemed like a good idea. We were still in bed by 9.30am, waiting, but there was no sign of Mr Sheepwash. I went to the window and tugged on the string. The bucket was empty.
So Mr Grigg put on his best Sir Alan Sugar voice as he rang Mr Sheepwash to tell him as a paperboy he was fired.
'I'd even put a tip in there for you,' Mr Grigg said, after hearing that Mr Sheepwash, eyes tired from the night before, had failed to see the bucket hanging out of our window.
However, it is probably just as well Mr Sheepwash did not see the bucket. As an Observer man, his reaction to Mr Grigg's request for the Torygraph would probably have been a rolled up copy of the Sunday Sport and a dog turd.
This week, in between work, we are trying to come up with an idea for the village scarecrow competition. It is being judged by Cerrie Burnell, a presenter from CBeebies, a friend of a Sheepwashlet, who is also opening the fete.
We usually do something peering out of the window, so we only have to do half a scarecrow. Last year, for the Olympic theme I did just a pair of legs sticking out, with a big bamboo cane attached and called it 'An Over-enthusiastic Pole Vaulter'. This year I have an even better idea. It'll be called 'Imaginary Friend' and be completely invisible.
That's about it
Love Maddie x
On the first day of the New Year, brave souls in fancy dress head for the sea at Lyme Regis in the now traditional ‘Lyme Lunge’, organise...
I felt a great disturbance in the Force, as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear somet...
Living in Greece for the past couple of months, I've been asked what the refugee situation is like here. Well, to be perfectly hones...
* First published 2 May 2013 The sense of anticipation is mounting here in Corfu for Holy Week. Church bells ring twice a day as the de...
Over on A Dorset Year , I'm enjoying the beauty in nature in a world gone mad. As my famous ancestor, Ernest Hemingway , would have...