On Bluebell Hill, the fronds of ferns are beginning to uncurl. The bluebells are beginning to burst into bloom and the hill is beginning to come alive with the sound of walkers.
Mr Grigg, on two weeks' leave, decides to have an early morning route march up and over the hill during the next fortnight, to reclaim his once-trim figure. He wants it back, you see, and the daily brisk walk up Bluebell Hill is the only way to achieve it.
I found this commitment highly commendable, until I accompanied him at the weekend.
We walked past Tuppence's house, where the petite householder was busy pushing a flymo up and down the grass, like a dolly trying to manhandle a supermarket trolley. As she paused for breath, Mr Grigg went by and did his jaw-dropping-to-the-floor stare.
She was wearing the sort of skimpy shorts I last saw on a savvy and provocative fifteen-year-old.
He complimented her on her attire.
'Oh, these are my pyjamas,' she said.
Now he's talking about doing the route march twice a day. I really can't imagine why.
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...
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...
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...
Back from Colombia, weary, jet lagged and minus a suitcase, we pay a fleeting visit to North India, courtesy of a Bollywood Night at Bridpo...
November is a strange time of year. We've really said goodbye to the summer and we're on the quick, quick, military two-step march t...