Feathering My New Empty Nest

 I'd forgotten that the whole world goes on holiday at the end of July or so it seems. I don't want to go on holiday. In fact I think I may hate holidays judging by the last two we've taken - covid, then out of date passport. Enough said. Other people seem to love taking holidays which may explain why they keep going on them. I may need to go on a course on how to overcome fear of holidays like the ones people go on who hate flying. This would involve advice on the following: How to pack without taking up two whole all-consuming weeks of your life Exposure to extreme heatwave conditions to encourage acclimatisation of the inevitable hell hole of a heatwave your about to encounter Examination of statistical evidence to prove that he likelihood of contracting a potentially fatal tropical disease is less than 1% How to accept that you will be sitting next to a screaming infant on the plane , or worse, a pack of drunken tarts singing karaoke for the entire duration of the 4 hou

They arrive in a blur. Four of them, pacing the flooring, all beanie-hatted, sucking on their e-cigarettes. Justin, Jamie, Kyle and Freddie. Meet the gang - our builders. No skip , no portable loo, no clue as to what they're going to do for the next few hours. At least it's sunny. Things start getting ripped out , stopcocks dribble water and the kettle's on for tea. The junk piles up on the patio, the floor comes out next. Justin doesn't seem to have a plan. The Jaffa Cakes are going down a storm though so that's something  and suddenly  he's gone. The lads clear off a couple of hours later and everything  goes quiet.  He asks to look at the plans from Howdens. Two days later he's going to ask for the Surveyor's report for the steels. This is not promising. We hunker down in our sealed off bunker that evening with an air-fryer, a toaster and a pile of boxes filled with useful things like a an 82 piece china dinner service and a crate full of unusual spic

It feels that way right now. Thirty-one years ago we bought our slice of heaven. A 17th-century thatched Northamptonshire cottage at the foot of a hill, on the edge of an ancient forest. We were newly married and smitten with our life in the country; a long-held dream of mine since I was a child. Sundays were taken up with long walks in the forest followed by a pint in the next-door pub. We furnished it simply but beautifully, adding a few antiques and the odd stuffed owl when funds permitted. Then along came children and they learned how to appreciate the English countryside with their own version of the road safety code whilst looking right and left "No moo cows no horsies". Seasons came and went, Easter egg hunts in the garden, harvest suppers in the village hall, the annual Summer Village show where the boys would show off their vegetable animals, and egg-cup flower arrangements. Flowers and foliage for the church would be gathered from the hedgerows and of course our Chr

Who wasn't watching Big Jet TV as Storm Eunice blew in ? Mark your calendars for the next predicted wild winter weather fronts ... Fatima, Gertrude, Horace etc. Driving eldest son into work at Heathrow during the pandemic, when public transport was a germ-laden hotspot of infection, we'd pass Jerry ( as I'd later come to learn his name) strapped to the top of his van whilst pointing his camera at incoming jets. He was easy prey - a plane-spotting, bobble hat-wearing aviation enthusiast. There are hundreds of them lining the perimeter roads of the airport and you'd wonder what the attraction was. Seen one plane land, seen them all. The train-spotting analogies were everywhere. This flask carrying brigade jotting serial numbers in their reporter's notebooks became an easy target. The (mis-attributed to Andy Warhol) quote of everyone having their 15 minutes of fame was never more applicable than to yesterday's edition of Jerry Dyer's Big Jet TV. Even the name h

Boots just sent me an email. They were very persuasive. Apparently I should be 'Giving the Gift of Wellness " to my besties this Christmas. Their helpful suggestions included yoga gear, fitness equipment or or a 'Make Your Soul Happy' Tin. Fuck off Boots. Whatever it is that makes my soul happy won't be found in a tin. I can't even go Christmas shopping in John Lewis these days without hearing their newly installed Peleton bike ring out it's cajoling "Good Job Ashley" on every floor. Ashley can go take a hike. I hadn't planned to have my Pre-Christmas meltdown today but it reared it's ugly head a few days early this year. I can usually make it to the 20th before going ballistic over the empty beer cans , piles of trainers and discarded takeaway cartons littering every floor in the house. It's great having the boys back home but every now and then I need to remind them that I don't want to live in a shit tip and they're not slum

 Very.