Category Archives: Country Sense

Spots, feathers and fowl!

Our indoory springtime!

Well what a week it has been! Just when I thought that things were settling back down to normal, Primrose, after weeks and weeks of exposure at nursery, finally contracted chickenpox! Spotty blisters all over her forced lockdown at the cottage and the girls and I tried to keep ourselves busy to help distract Primrose from feeling too itchy! A whole week in quarantine was not easy and we were on the verge of madness on several occasions. The girls and I painted, made egg box daffodils, constructed sets of Playmobil, baked and used a great deal of glitter and shiny sequins from Primrose’s Mister Maker box despite my innate control freakiness! Most strange……we are never THAT crafty in our house! Watching Primrose and Poppy playing really nicely together when they are usually at loggerheads over toys, I started to think that chickenpox had also delivered some sort of weird spell over the cottage. It was at this moment that I had a brainwave…. Perhaps it was listening to too much of Bob the Builder’s mantra (brainwashing as Jerry likes to call it) of ‘Reduce, Reuse, Recycle’ or perhaps I was having one of those Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest kind of moments, BUT I suddenly decided to test out my upholstery skills. I know, I know, dear Reader, upholstery skills! This, coming from the woman who was flummaxed for an hour when trying to set up her sewing machine, the same woman who made sewing on name tapes look like a marathon. To cut a long story short, my Chesterfield sofa has been losing feathers at an alarming rate and more than one dinner party guest has received an unwelcome pinch of the bottom so something had to be done and sooner rather than later! The plan: to make a new inside cover to stop the feathers from spilling it. A challenge but I thought that with my dear Mamma’s help, I might just be able to have a good go at it. Apparently it is never a good idea to attempt such things unless one has experience……..

I promise no chickens, ducks or geese were harmed in the mending of this cushion!

I don’t think that I have seen my lovely Mamma laugh for that long in some time! I have to admit it was very funny, dear Reader. The kitchen looked more like a chicken plucking factory than an upholsterers and at some point whilst I was sewing the seams on the new inside covers, my mother did question why I hadn’t paid the £80 to have them done professionally! I blame the Great British Sewing Bee for encouraging one and all to sew……let’s face it some of us just do not cut the mustard! A few hours later, some wonky lines of sewing courtesy of the machine (a bad workmen always blames his tools) and a lot of wheezing (turns out I had inhaled rather a lot of dander), my cushions were all sewn up and the cushions could go back on. Mission accomplished but I do think that if they go again, I might just take them to the shop up the road to have them properly upholstered! I can’t see the stitches holding for long…

Luckily for all at Margot and Jerry HQ, a phonecall from Barbara saved the house from further making do and mending inspired Margot moments! An offer to save us from chickenpox chaos, swapping spots for real chickens, freshly baked scones, scrumptious kitchen suppers and a dose of good old countryside air! Heaven! Weekends with Tom, Barbara and their darling boy are as restorative as a delicious cup of tea…..made in a teapot of course. (Barbara and I berrated Tom over breakfast for using a single teabag in a cup to make the morning brew – not at all the same!) Having introduced us to her new brood of hens, a rather attractive set of ladies, Primrose, Poppy and I were talking of henkeeping all the way home, much to Jerry’s bemusement! A wonderful way to end the Easter holidays.

Not a poxy spot in sight….

Primrose firmly on the mend, it turns out that Poppy has now caught the pox…. Another week of quarantine but at least we have the prospect of our new little chap to keep us going. Only another 3 more days until we bring him home! (Not at all overexcited, dear Reader….)!

Our sweet little Monty…counting down the hours now!

Messing about on the river

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This is Jerry’s joke not mine..it’s ‘oar’ over now!

There is nothing more thought provoking than doing things for the last time. As our move to the countryside becomes ever closer and more of a reality, Jerry and I find ourselves with a long list of Big Smoke must-dos and last time evers. None more poignant for us than watching the annual Oxbridge Boat Race which passes by our very doorstep each year, dear Reader. Jerry and I have ventured out every year, rain or shine, to stand by the water’s edge, cheering on the light and dark blues as they whizz past towards the finishing post at breakneck speed. Messing about on the river is one of Jerry’s true passions and his glory days as captain of his university boat club are forever etched into the fabric of our everyday life with the presence of a sawn-off oar outside the attic bedroom. In fact, it was rowing which made us visit our little corner of suburbia many many years ago before we even moved to London. One cold and wet afternoon, a youthful Margot stood on Barnes Bridge cheering on a rather dashing Jerry as his boat and crew flew past under the bridge in the Head of the River race. There is nothing like young love to make one stand in the pouring rain waiting endlessly for 8 lycra-clad chaps in a boat that resembles an insect from the air! I thought the same then as I do now: rowing is a hopeless spectator sport. Hours of terminal boredom as one marks time before a brief glimpse of a tiny human water boatman. Blink and one has completely missed the crew which one has been waiting hours to see go past. I did, however, change my mind, once, briefly, when I bumped into James Cracknell in his rowing lycra by Hammersmith Bridge. I can only say that I was rendered speechless by how…..TALL…he was. Never mind anything else, dear Reader! Moving on from lycra…..the view from Barnes Bridge downstream towards Hammersmith Bridge and then upstream towards Chiswick is one of immeasurable beauty and is ordinarily tranquil. I thought on that very day as Jerry sailed past all those years ago that I simply had to live on this stretch of the Thames at some point in my life and after 5 years of living a stone’s throw from Waterloo, we finally made the move to that wonderful piece of riverside. I have loved living by the river ever since and have walked the tow path in many guises: holding hands with Jerry as his new wife, with a bouncing Primrose in her Baby Bjorn, avoiding splashes from Primrose’s first attempt at riding a tricycle, walking Barbara and Tom’s wonderful boy Tigga, waddling along heavily pregnant with Poppy hand in hand with my preschooler and finally holding Poppy’s podgy sweet hand as she tested out her first pair of wellies. Memories shaped by such a small patch of riverbank….

….and that brings me to the 159th Oxford and Cambridge Boat race and our last, living in the dear old cottage. Our ritual of waiting until the coverage shows the Chiswick Eyot and then making a dash to the slip duly completed, we stood to see the boats hurtling under Barnes Bridge in the distance and past our patch before the finishing line at Mortlake.

The fastest water boatman I have seen for a while!

The two blues – gone in a flash or splash I should say..

It never ceases to amaze me how many boats seem to follow the two crews. The wake was considerable this year and all was suddenly awash with stormy water. Poppy was delighted to be able to get her wellies well and truly wet!

Boat race over, we trudged home, the four of us, to sit by the fire, drink tea, eat hot cross buns and to ponder new beginnings. For it would seem, that with last time evers, there must be doing things for the first time. Moving to the countryside MUST be top of the list for first times and dear Reader, I may just have some news for you on that score!

And there you have it, Margot is MOVING!

Piddles, poodles and pups

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Primrose getting some practice in with Poppy’s furry friend!

“DAWWWWWGGGGGGIIIIIIIEEEEEESSSSSS” (doggies!) as a very dear friend of mine from the wilds of Scotland would say! It is impossible to describe the excitement that has hit Margot and Jerry headquarters! Dear Reader, as you may have already gleaned from last week’s snippet, we are soon to be joined by a new family member, one of the furry kind. Undoubtedly, this will add yet more madness to a household inhabited by a batty townie attempting the good life, her absurdly patient husband, a teenage 4 year old, 1 fearless toddler, a bi-polar cat who can run sideways and another rescue who is distantly related to raccoons and hides under duvets. I am not even sure if ‘Mad as a March Hare’ cuts it…..perhaps certifiably insane would be more appropriate? Before the animal rights activists come after me, I KNOW a dog is for life and not just because one is moving to the countryside… Yes yes I am aware that having a pup in the house is extremely hard work and yes yes I also know that training takes time….. I know all of this, really I do, dear Reader. I am not a dog in a handbag kind of girl….my handbags are FAR too precious! It is amazing how many people rolled eyes, drew sharp intakes of breath and mumbled that we were in for a year of disaster when Jerry and I shared our little announcement. Perhaps our friends were worried having seen our parenting skills in action and were not sure that we should attempt to use them on a poor defenceless animal? Almost everyone seemed worried about my ability to cope with toddler, 4 year old and wee puppy. Other suggestions followed from dear Mamma that I should potty train Poppy at the same time as housetraining the dear pup to kill two birds with one stone. Now that really would raise eyebrows amongst the yummy mummies in leafy suburbia at coffee mornings as I ushered Poppy with pot in one hand and dog on a lead in the other, out to the garden “Just popping out to take toddler and pup for a wee. Do help yourselves to coffee.” Brushing warnings aside (mostly through sticking my fingers in my ears), little puddles await the cottage’s wooden floors and on this occasion, not from the leaky roof. However, anyone who knows me well, knows that I love a challenge……I am attempting the good life after all!

With no house hunting on the cards last week and the sale on the cottage in temporary limbo, I decided to put my idleness to good use and watch Crufts to pick up some doggie tips. I was staggered to hear that over 20,000 dogs take part each year and that some even travel from far flung corners of the world. The pampering and hairspraying of dogs reduced me to giggles but I have to admit to enjoying watching the gundogs. Primrose and Poppy found the whole spectacle quite amusing too and Poppy practised shouting her best ‘Floof’ at the television with every doggie close-up. Pom-pom bottoms and pooches – who could ask for more? We dodged the use of the ‘b’ word a few times (such an unattractive word for a lady hound) and somehow in the process of watching dogs strutting their stuff, Primrose developed a staunch liking of poodles, trying to persuade us that it was the only dog worth owning. Jerry put his foot down on the subject and said that if Primrose were to ever own a poodle, he might have to disinherit her… Oh no, dear Reader, we are NOT poodle owners. Nor would I be able to consider the prospect of having to identify myself as the owner of a cockapoo, labradoodle, shizhapoo, chihuaranian or any other ridiculously named dog mash up. (Apologies dear Reader if you own any of the aforementioned doggies – I am sure they are a delight to own but I really can’t say their names with even a hint of seriousness). Jerry was not quite so polite on the subject of dogs with silly names. His priceless comment on labradoodles: “Surely the two different breeds can’t be interested in mating – wouldn’t they be offended by each other?” I soon realised that forcing Jerry to watch Crufts was not going to result in him taking to the idea of ‘flyball’ or ‘agility’ seriously, as he was too busy vocalising his disgust of silly show titles (Jerry might have had a point….Nosferatu featured in one long kennel name) and laughing at dogs dancing to music. I confess to tittering a little during Best In Show when the commentators were describing the dogs: “alert, full of character”, “Look at that swagger, he certainly owns the ring…” In the end, I had to switch off as Jerry’s sardonic commentary was too much to bear! Breed finally agreed upon, Jerry and I spent some time researching Kennel Club registered breeders (I say Jerry and I…..) and reading up on whether or not our puppy would be a good match for us. With priorities well and truly organised, I then started making a list of all the extra country items I might need to go with the dog: wellibobs for quick garden dashes in the rain, coat with hood or alternatively a few headscarves (a la Her Majesty), further tweed items, floral lanyard for whistle and the list went on. Jerry was soon regretting his decision…

Bedtime reading!

Armed with puppy owner’s bible, The Perfect Puppy by Gwen Bailey, I have now developed an unhealthy obsession with tweed dog beds, crates and gundog training. Mothers’ Day even included an inaugural family trip to Pets at Home to make a puppy shopping list. So without further ado, he is our boy…….A SPANIEL, a working cocker to be exact. Temperament: Lively, perky and lovable, pleasant, gentle, playful and affectionate. I know what you are thinking dear Reader, I have missed out the crucial part on the temperament front. Spaniels are known for being a little loopy……….well they do say that dogs often take after their owners!

Our boy. Just a few days old here.

Mad as a March hare

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Spring in the air

March, March, March. The months seem to be flying by. Spring is in the air and I felt on top of the world as my winter worn body took in a massive dose of vitamin D last week. I strolled by the river full of the joys of….well….spring….obviously! I planned all the things I was going to do now that winter seemed to be on its way out. Everyone else seemed to be busy making plans too. Barbara was finally getting her chickens, Minty was almost at the end of her pregnancy and counting down the weeks, Primrose finally had her place at school confirmed and there had been a flurry of news on weddings, births and new jobs. The sale of the cottage was moving forward and structural surveys were carried out as we frantically prepared necessary paperwork. On a blissfully sunny morning, even the future appeared to to have a ‘spring’ in its step too.

Thoughts of spring bring to mind newborn lambs bouncing in fields, garish daffodils peeking up from the soil, the scent of hyacinths, nature opening its sleepy eyes once more after a long hibernation and the ability to leave the house in just a jacket without need for scarf, hat, gloves or in Poppy’s case, a Michelin man snowsuit which restricts movement but comes in handy when one falls over! Possibly my favourite(and Jerry’s least) part of spring is the slight (!) craziness it brings out in me – the saying “Mad as a March Hare” doesn’t exist for nothing, dear Reader!

Primrose's Bo Peep outfit would be ideal...not sure I could squeeze into it though

Primrose’s Bo Peep outfit would be ideal…although might be tricky to squeeze into it

Sneaking a brief moment of peace and armed with a delicious glass of red, I settled down to read the latest copy of Country Living. “Fancy yourself as a farmer?” read an article on the magazine’s Keep Britain Farming campaign. Maybe this was the job opportunity I had been looking for? I pictured myself milking cows, shearing sheep and tending to the herd on my own mini farm in a shepherdess’ outfit a la Marie Antoinette! What could be more Good Life than that? I have always quite liked the idea of being a farmer and growing my own meat. Glued to the television watching Channel 4’s First Time Farmers a few weeks ago, I had scoffed “How difficult can it be to look after a few cows?” Thus speaks the ultimate townie! The answer arrived with lightning bolt speed and was blatantly obvious as I watched with the wide-eyed realisation that REAL farming was jolly hard work. I have saluted farmers ever since for their endless daily grind. Not at all like the River Cottage life I had envisaged. I certainly wasn’t too sure about putting my hand up a cow’s bottom or giving a newborn lamb mouth to mouth, not to mention collecting dead animals from the pasture at dawn. Where was the cute and cuddly side of farming? Delicate little ducklings, reviving lambs by the AGA, bucolic scenes of harvesting and listening to The Wurzles (all together now “I’ve got a brand new combine harvester…). Hugh FW had made it all look like a dream! Thank goodness, Jerry arrived home from work before red wine masked any sensible decision making skills and I had had a chance to apply! Dear Reader, that was my first March hare moment of the week!

Leaving alternative career paths behind me, I decided to steep myself in some further countryside lore instead. Despite what BBC Weather tells us, spring is not official until the Vernal Equinox. Marking the halfway point between winter and summer, the equinox occurs on 20th March this year. Dear Reader, one might wonder what on earth this has to do with hares. Indeed! Well, hares and spring have long been entertwined, since pagan times. The hare was said to be a symbol for regeneration, femininity and love and sightings of them heralded the return of spring. Ostara (Eostre), the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring and fertility was often said to take the form of a hare or would be pictured alongside a white hare. Wonderfully mythical creatures, there are even tales of brokenhearted girls turning into hares and roaming the countryside haunting their unfaithful lovers. The phrase ‘Mad as a March hare’ is believed to have arisen as a result of how hares behave during the mating season. Solitary animals, they come together in the spring, displaying rather aggressive mating rituals as females ‘box’ away the unwanted attentions of a male they have no interest in breeding with. Who would have thought that those fluffy long-eared cousins of the bunny would be the feisty females of the animal world? Thankfully for Jerry, I can’t claim to be as feisty as a doe! I am more of a Mad Hatter’s tea party version of a March hare – a ‘say it like it is’ sort of feisty!

Photo: The Complete Ilustrated Works of Lewis Carroll, Chancellor Press

“Have some wine”, the March Hare said in an encouraging tone. Alice looked all around the table but there was nothing on it but tea. “I don’t see any wine”, she remarked. “There isn’t any”, said the March Hare. “Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it”, said Alice, angrily. “It wasn’t very civil of you to sit down without being invited”, said the March Hare.

(Chapter VII, Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll)

Pouring myself another glass of wine (well all the best plans, spring or otherwise, have been made with a tipple or two), I focused on my second (and BEST) ‘hare’brained idea of the week, dear Reader. I think that Jerry, Primrose, Poppy and I might be even more excited about this one than we are about leaving London and moving to the countryside. Well, how could I complete no.11 on this list (11. Walk MY OWN dog) without one of these.

How could one resist such a sweet face, dear Reader?!

Knit one, purl one

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Let’s start at the very beginning….

Desperation and despair set in this week…….well as one knows, I do love a little melodrama in my life, dear Reader. Jerry and I looked at six houses and not one had any merit! Too small, too much to do, too damp, too far from the station, the list went on and on…..I felt positively more and more like Goldilocks with each house we entered! Jerry and I weren’t nearly so fussy when we bought the beloved cottage! The damp farmhouse with huge garden and 2ft of water in the cellar looked ever more promising until a call from the agent revealed that someone had signed and sealed the letting agreement the day after we had been to see it for a second viewing. Downcast, I sulked for a day or so muttering under my breath that Jerry had ruined my chances of living the good life forever. Remember what I said about a little melodrama, dear Reader…. Jerry took it all on the chin, adding rather bluntly that the farmhouse could only ever have been my dream house if it had been gutted and had had hideous amounts of money thrown at it. Something which, as it was a rental property, was unlikely to happen. Of course, he was absolutely right which left me infuriated and more sulking ensued.

Thinking that I could not sulk forever, I turned my attentions back to my list of Margot’s New Year resolutions. I have been remiss of late and far too focused on house hunting to sink my teeth into anything else. With only 4 months until the Big Move, I was worried that I might not have mastered all the requisite country skills needed to wow my new villagey neighbours. How would I ever be adopted into the bosom of the countryside WI, if I couldn’t complete no.18 on the list: Knit a tea cosy?

With that notion firmly planted in my mind, I recalled that at the start of the year, one of my favourite Tweeters, the lovely @Twickermum blogged about the relaxing properties of knitting….’meditative properties’ no less! Well, surely that could take my mind off house hunting for a while and have me skipping all the way to my first WI meeting in the village hall? Killing two birds with one stone as one would say. I even had all the crafty implements for this one squirreled away. Dear Mamma added a beginner’s knitting kit (for 8 years old and up) to my Christmas stocking last year and I hid it under the bed, in the full knowledge that if it stayed there long enough, I could avoid having to make something with it. Knitting has been my arch crafty nemesis for some time. I am hopeless at it and what makes it all the more awful is that, my dear Mamma is an amazing knitter. Her creations have been worn by many in the family and even friends of mine who have had babies. From berets to christening shawls, Mamma can knit anything! Just in case one was wondering, knitting skills are not genetic and the ability to turn long thin noodles of yarn into garments has not been passed down to the next generation. It would be fair to say that Mamma has long despaired of my lack of craftiness and has tried many times to teach me but it would seem that I am rather a lost cause. Disappointing. Especially as Primrose has been dying to learn how to knit. Casting these negative thoughts aside, armed with a knitting pattern, stitch instruction booklet and some wool, I set about facing the woolly enemy. Sitting in bed with yarn all around me, gesturing and ranting loudly at something ridiculous on the television over the click clacking of knitting needles, Jerry commented on my rather striking resemblance to Madame Defarge from Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities. I bet she didn’t struggle with knit one, purl one, otherwise the names of impending deaths would never have been encoded in her knitting. After a few hours, some swearing, more ranting at the television and at Jerry for making me drop stitches, the result was rather…..well…..let’s just say I could do with some more practice.

Oh dear….

Not sure I got much further than one side of the wretched cosy before I became purposefully distracted (momentarily of course, I really was trying to take this knitting thing seriously…) by a questionnaire in The Telegraph……no prizes for guessing why! Are you a Good or a Leadbetter? Attempting the Good Life quiz, I realised, even before I got to the second question, that perhaps I was going to have to work a lot harder on my transformation from townie to country bumpkin. Turns out (most unsurprisingly) that I am still mostly Margot. Well, dear Reader, one can lead a horse to water….. It would appear that Primrose had been thinking the same thing and had little faith in my ‘Good’ly abilities, especially once she had seen my failed beginnings of a tea cosy. This is perhaps her best picture of me yet!

Take a look at that industrial sized G&T! P knows her mother well!

Must dash, dear Reader…..off to change into my maxi-dress and turban before dinner. Knitting my tea cosy will just have to wait. That G&T is calling to me!

Margot Tries the Good Life

A chronicle of the transformation from self-confessed townie to country bumpkin