CONFESSION TIME!

I feel a bit of a fool for panicking when everything except my phone failed me. These things shouldn't happen to the likes of me 'cause I don't cope well when things don't go right.  When the laptop went into inaction I thought it was the mouse. Yes, I still use a mouse!! I changed the battery, thinking that would solve things, but IT DIDN'T.  At first I thought the laptop had packed up as well because the mouse wouldn't work on it. 
I knuckled under and persevered in an attempt to work the thing without the mouse. It was like groping in darkness because I was a 'remote mouse' lady who had forgotten how to work the damn machine without one. 
I tried unsuccessfully not to panic but that didn't work either and I feel ashamed to have bothered people when all that was wrong was weather interference. You would think someone in authority would have tapped me on the shoulder and given me the awful news instead of watching me go into an almighty flap. 
Well, this morning I had another look and guess what.... EVERYTHING WORKED.  According to my neighbour the whole area where we live was deprived of computer access. Something to do with ice! 
I think I should ask for compensation for a damaged brain. Okay, I promise not to panic in future, but time will tell. 

Food for thought

Why can’t we get it right?

Boy

and

Girl

Play as kids

Each one doing

as the other bids

Holding hands

Happy now

With this kiss

make the vow

Boy

and

Girl

No longer kids

Each one doing

as parent bids

Lays the law down

far too young

to settle down

raising young

Boy

and

Girl

in war torn state

love and tears

now separate

Shame on parent

who denied

the right to love

before bombs

descended

from

above 

A VIEW OF CHRISTMAS

  

The scene beyond the rustic garden gate was like a Christmas card. Outside the ivy laden cottage a robin was perched in a holly bush. A recent snowfall covered the thatched roof like oddly shaped clumps of cotton wool. Leaded light windows reflected the orange flames from the fire. Beneath those windows, a wooden wheelbarrow filled with logs.  The bare beech tree looked strangely out of place, dull brown when everything else was highly coloured. The cottage door, as red as the holly berries, was adorned by a festive wreath. The door was ajar and inside could be seen a Swedish Pine of mammoth proportions ablaze with twinkling lights. And the aroma that emanated from within was of turkey, slowly roasting.

   

In the snow-packed lane, an elderly itinerant peered over the boundary hedge, white unkempt hair wafting skywards in the biting wind. With ice-cold fingers he smoothed it over his crown then pulled his shabby grey coat closer to his chest. The motions were entirely mechanical for he was truly not  conscious of the cold. He had no need of fires or Christmas fare, for his soul was warmed through with love for Jesus, who kept him safe and whose birthday they shared.

IT'S CHRISTMAS TOMORROW

Christmas tomorrow.

Mother said,

lie down and sleep,

My sleepy head.

Look, here comes Santa

Happy and merry

Not surprising

After mince pie and sherry.

Christmas stocking

Hanging askew

Now filled with love

And something new

Oranges? Apples?

What a surprise!

You should see the horror

In the little kid’s eyes

Where’s the Nintendo

You promised before

I can’t train my brain

With an apple core!

(NB. Ditty scribbled when the NINTENDO was all the rage)

REFUSE ... AND MEMORY

One day this week I celebrated Memory Lapse Day with a vengeance.

Where I live the wheelie bins are emptied on a regular basis, 'everyday' rubbish is collected weekly, recycling and gardening stuff every two weeks.  With the amount of recycling stuff growing faster than weeds in the garden it is imperative that we dispose of it ASAP.

Paper is the worst, I have never seen so much. I don’t have newspapers yet there is always a couple of bulky ones to dispose of. Most of them advertise houses for sale and all the estate agents put out their adverts, which creates bigger and better newspapers each week. Sometimes the recycling section of the wheelie bin is so full I can hardly shut the lid.

I start on Sunday and continue on Monday, ready for the Tuesday collection. Yes, it takes me that long because more and more unwanted paper keeps coming through my letterbox. There’s hardly any ordinary rubbish because of this recycling.

Now, this is where the story really starts. The following is part of the email I sent to my stepdaughter in Oz.

‘Today was memory lapse day with a vengeance. It was also refuse and recycling collection day which meant a last minute look around for stuff to get rid of. Actually did most of it over the weekend but there's always more empty bottles and stuff that I can throw out, plus more paper. I found more of the latter then started to break up a box I had overlooked. One was a LARGE box that had been lying around for a while so I decided it was time for it to go. ONLY...web it was  YOUR BOX, that I had completely forgotten about .’ 

(something ordered and despatched to me in the UK to await her visit to the UK)

‘Don't panic, after examining the vast amount of brown paper and wondering what the heck it was I began the task of straightening it in readiness for recycling bin. It was then my memory returned and the three packets (which were beneath what seemed to be about 15 feet of crumpled paper, not wrapped, just shoved in and which could have been missed) are now safe. Amazon has stopped putting delivery notes in parcels so there was nothing to see but crumpled brown paper. It took me about 15 minutes to unravel the paper in order to hand it over to the paper recycle-rs but I knew they wouldn't want the nail polish. 

On receipt I had put the box in a place in the front room where it would be safe!!!!!! 

I look forward to a reprimand.’

Word to self, in future write everything down….. if I remember!

Thankfully, I wasn’t reprimanded.

IN HIS IGNORANCE

In the year 2000 I was commissioned to write a piece for the WI Christmas Carol Service, a special reading for the Millennium Year. Two WI members teamed up to read it while I sat in the congregation and listened. This is how it went: 

IN HIS IGNORANCE

Written by Valerie Daggatt for the Women's Institute Christmas Carol Service 2000

Copyright 2000

The sun shone on the frozen town, but it yielded no warmth to the boy whose occupation was to construct a cave. Diligently, in the quiet churchyard, he chiseled impacted snow with his boot, squatting occasionally to scoop chippings with his bare hands. He could hear the choristers singing: Oh Come All Ye Faithful. His favourite. Humming as he worked, he felt strangely ashamed that he did not know the words, but then he had never been encouraged to learn religious songs.

The Boy, in his ignorance, did not understand

Tiring of the pointless exercise, the boy adjusted his baseball cap. Hungry and cold, he shoved his numb hands into his pockets and considered going home, but the idea was discounted as quickly as it occurred. His Dad would be on the Internet and he hated to be disturbed when he was surfing. It was all he thought of, except when Sky Sport was on the telly. Christmas meant nothing to him; there were too many mysteries for his liking.

The Boy, in his ignorance, did not understand

Nor did he understand his mother, who sang so joyfully before she discovered drugs, and who believed the Millennium would be her salvation.

The boy, in his ignorance, did not understand

A new carol began: We Three Kings of Orient Are. Leaning against the edifice, the boy banged his heel and bounced his head in rhythm. Suddenly, a shadow fell before him and he stiffened, fearful lest he was doing wrong. 

The man whose shadow the boy had seen, a bearded man in a grey robe, came to stand in front of him. 'I am the Custodian,' he said in a gentle voice. 'Would you like to see our Christmas tableau?'

The boy remembered his father deriding the church's endeavours to recreate the nativity. This was the modern age, how could they reproduce what never existed?

The boy, in his ignorance, did not understand

Feeling the first stirrings of inquisitiveness, a yearning suddenly to see inside, the boy took the stranger's hand and allowed himself to be led away.

Festooned with berry-laden holly, the church was alive with Christmas atmosphere. There was a sweet smelling pine tree, shining with baubles and a silver cross, but it was the nativity display that caught the boy's attention. Viewed by hushed, reverent children, each one pointing to a thing of note, it was as wondrous as fairyland. The wide-eyed boy crept nearer, wanting to touch the blue-eyed baby in the straw-filled stall.

Without warning, from the depths of the church there came great crashes of reverberating chords, followed by a more peaceful air. 

And the congregation sang: Once in Royal David's City.

The boy, in his ignorance, did not understand the passion he felt or the coursing tears as he joined in, humming when the lyrics eluded him. Unwittingly, he stepped back, not wanting to disturb the sleeping babe, and when the carol ended he turned and fled and did not halt until he reached the outside.

The Custodian advanced towards him, smiling, gliding almost through fresh snow. Not wanting to show his tears, the boy made off. It wasn't proper to cry, his Dad said.

'Peace be with you, the man called.

'Thanks,' hurled back the boy, and he sprinted away leaving a trail of footprints in his wake. 

As he sped along, he reflected on the pleasant experience. He could hardly wait to tell his Dad.

Peace be with you, the man had said, and the boy, in his wisdom, understood.

St Philip's is the Church of England Cathedral and the seat of the Bishop of Birmingham. Built as a parish church and consecrated in 1715, St Philip's became the cathedral of the newly-formed Diocese of Birmingham in the West Midlands in 1905. St Philip's was built in the early 18th century in the Baroque style by Thomas Archer and is Grade I listed building. St Philip's is the third smallest cathedral in England after Derby and Chelmsford. 

AWAY FOR CHRISTMAS

The magnolia-painted window-sill in the hotel bedroom was wide enough for Hilary Barnes to sit with her legs drawn to her chest, arms encircling her knees in a pose reminiscent of dreamy childhood days. The room itself possessed a charm that reminded her of the house she grew up in, but the view through the window was as bleak as her state of mind. It was Ted's idea to come away for Christmas, declaring that their house would be lonely and far too depressing. She was equally depressed here, even the virgin snow shrouding the fields and hanging from the branches of an elderly oak did nothing to cheer her. It only served to remind her of Greg's childhood love of coasting down the road on a makeshift sledge, annoying neighbours with his spirited yells of pure joy.

              

‘I'll be home before you know it,’ he said when he rang to break the news.

              

Would he? Or would he be maimed or killed.

              

She stared through the window, looking beyond her own reflection at the white hedgerow where houses now glowed, transformed by fairy lights twinkling in the descending gloom.

Christmas Eve. It wasn't a time for sadness, but how could she not be sad when Greg's regiment was this very day flying to war zones, where God only knew what might transpire. She ran a finger over a slat in the wooden shutter, suddenly driven to check the whole thing for dust as though some sort of action would make things right.

Then, for the first time, anger swelled within her and she pounded the shutter with her fist. How dare they whisk a young man into danger without any regard for his tender age. She sucked her knuckle, grateful for the hurt yet moderately stronger for having released some of her fury. In the corridor, the maid loaded her trolley with discarded glasses; remnants of celebrations. Hilary wiped her hand on her plaid skirt. Maybe tomorrow would be better, by then Greg would be installed in new barracks. However, no matter how long he was to serve there, she would never become accustomed to her teenage son being in the firing line.

The snow fell steadily during the night and by morning the landscape was an unsullied wonderland. Christmas Day. A day of celebration. A day to give thanks for life's blessings.

Hilary contemplated the white world, seeing a young couple trudging arm-in-arm along the lane, heading towards the church, two enthusiastic little girls following behind, slipping and sliding in fur-topped boots, their laughter-lit faces encompassed by red-striped pompom hats, matching scarves taking wing as they scampered in the drifts. As she watched, she had an urge to attend a Christmas service, to sing carols with Ted at her side, to pray for Greg and plead for his safekeeping.

              

Ted needed no persuading. As soon as she mentioned her intention, he opened the wardrobe and took out their coats. 'Let's get there early,' he said as he helped her into the yellow sheepskin. Understanding her need he made no mention of her customary absence of spiritual leanings.

              

Outside the hotel, Ted took her arm, guided her down the drive, circling the frozen fishpond and passing between barricades of newly-cleared snow until they reached the wrought-iron gates. Five minutes later they walked into the ancient parish church. It was alive with the atmosphere of Christmas. The grey stone walls were festooned with holly, an elaborately-carved pulpit decorated with berry-laden foliage. A colossal Christmas tree dominated one corner, adorned with gold and silver baubles, shimmering tinsel, and a gold star at the top. Hilary could smell the pine even from where she stood. To the right of the tree, reverent children viewed a glorious nativity display, quietly uttering ooh's and ah's as each one pointed to something of note.

              

Hilary and Ted slid into a side pew behind the buzzing congregation. Hilary breathed in, enjoying the sting of cool air entering her lungs, for her insides were aglow with the character of her surroundings, and she wondered why her inaugural Christmas Day worship had taken so long to achieve.

During the ceremony she joined in the carols and intently listened to sermons and messages. She prayed with others for compassion, for liberation, and good will, as well as for Greg and his colleagues somewhere in a distant war-torn country.

              

With the closing carol sung, she felt in her pocket for her sheepskin gloves. A few couples rose to depart, but the minister held up his hand and they sat down again.

A small group advanced towards the altar as the minister announced that a christening was to take place; he invited the congregation to attend. Hilary nudged Ted and looked at him enquiringly. He nodded and smiled, and squeezed her hand.

              

The christening was soon over, a quiet service which could barely be heard at the back. After a final hymn, the minister toured the entire church with the child in his arms, her fingers clutching the stole around his neck, her shawl draping the front of his surplice, her residence in his arms making him beam with pride as he introduced her to everyone as Christine Beverley Anne.

              

'How do you do,' Hilary said, when it was her turn to be presented, automatically reaching out to move the dribble-damp shawl from the baby's chin. Christine Beverley Anne transferred her grip to the minister's immaculate surplice and, as the baby gurgled, Hilary began privately to celebrate Christ's birth, as they were glorying in the birth of this baby, as she and Ted did at the christening of their only child. In that instant she knew that Greg would return unharmed. Through this small being Jesus had decreed that it would be so.

Blindly, as the baby was carried away, charged with a sense of supreme well-being Hilary groped for Ted's hand. 'All will be well,' she whispered as a quivering smile crept over her face.

              

Ted put his arm around her shoulders. 'He'll be home soon, like he promised.' And with that he gently hauled her to her feet. 'Lunch calls,' he said. 'Presents to open.'

              

For the first time since Greg's worrying phone call, she felt happy. Not only that, she was suddenly hungry for the Christmas festivities, the repast which the hotel predicted would be the best ever tasted, the Queen's speech, a quiz before tea, and, later on, a fancy-dress ball. Leaning sideways, she kissed Ted's cheek. 'Merry Christmas, my dear. And to Greg, too.'

RABBITS

Once upon a time I had a beautiful dream. I dreamed of white rabbits … fluffy, cuddly ones with pink eyes. There is an old saying that ‘Friday night’s dream, Saturday told, is bound to come true be it ever so old.’ Well, I didn’t have long to wait ‘cause the dream was on a Friday and I blabbed the next day.

Having already explained the dream to young son over breakfast, we got ready to go out shopping. We had finished the essential part of the expedition and were walking to the bus back home when I suddenly stopped and looked in amazement at the local pet shop. There in the window, frolicking for all the world to see, were two white rabbits with pink eyes. Unbelievable! This, I thought, was definitely an omen. Since the sighting had broken the dream there was nothing for it but to go into the shop and buy a rabbit. Yeah, right!

I never realised I was gullible until that day. Two young rabbits, a hutch and food were purchased when the shopkeeper said they were the last and ‘it would be a shame to part them’. Yeah, right!

Only later did I find out that it’s very difficult to tell a buck from a doe when they’re young.

But gullibility aside, Jon and I began to enjoy our rabbits. I bought books and did a study and discovered that buck and does should be separated before they were old enough to breed. Well that was okay since they were only young rabbits!

I used to like a lie in on a Sunday as that was a no-work day but not long after we’d purchased the little dears I was rudely awakened by young son crying because one of the rabbits was covered in blood. You’ve guessed it, Mommy rabbit had given birth. Heaven help her, she was only a nipper herself!

Remembering the bit in the book about the buck being a cannibal at heart and the added advice to get him away from the doe before he could start eating his youngsters, and definitely get him away from the doe so that further sexual activity could be avoided, I shot out of bed, raced outside, opened the hutch and grabbed the buck by the ears. We shut him in the outside shed and, yeah, you guessed it, we popped out to buy another hutch. But that wasn’t until I’d seen the babies. Aaaaah so cute.

So peace reigned once again in Valerie’s household, that is until I was roused by young son to tell me that Mom had given birth again. Seemed I had not been fast enough getting the male rabbit out of the hutch. He must have performed even as she gave birth. And I always thought jokes about breeding rabbits was an exaggeration. Yeah, right!

Then there was the day the buck escaped from his hutch. I’d only gone there to refresh his food and the minute the door opened he was off after his Missus who was conveniently eating grass on the lawn. It was a long time before I caught him and even then I wasn’t sure if I’d captured the buck or the doe … if only I’d had the foresight to put an identifying collar on the wretched sex-mad animal.

This was, of course, a long time ago and I can’t remember how many young we had altogether, but believe me there were A LOT.
Naturally I had to find homes for the babies … couldn’t possibly keep them all. So I put a notice on the staff notice board at work. X number of Baby Rabbits for Sale, good homes wanted, or words to that effect. Say the number was 12, within the hour someone had multiplied it to 24, and then another bright spark changed the figure to 48 … and so on. It was the joke of the office. Some wise guys offered sexual advice for rabbits and one recommended consulting the Brook Street Bureau. You can imagine, can’t you, the bawdy tones used by the male employees? Ladies were a bit more circumspect but even they bordered on the unthinkable! One thing I will say, though, the entire episode lifted the spirits of the ordinary working man … and woman.

I did sell the baby rabbits; For what seemed like an age I was transporting the damn things all over town but believe me my strength was waning along with my love of rabbits. In the end I was obliged – out of desperation - to sell the randy buck, hutch and all, and was left with just Mommy rabbit who eventually died of old age.

So if ever you dream about rabbits on a Friday night I beg you either to keep the dream to yourself or ensure you stay away from pet shops the following day; as the saying goes ‘Friday night’s dream, Saturday told, is sure to come true be it ever so old.’

View from the windows

It is years since we had such a snowfall. I'd almost forgotten what snow felt like. 

BACK OF HOUSE

FRONT

And not a wheel mark in sight

Fortunately it is Sunday so most people won't have to go to work, but I pity those who do!
Charlie won't go out and neither will I, but I remember when my labradors couldn't wait to gambol in the snow. They loved it. 
Come on folks, admit it ... when did you last gambol in  fresh snow?

Walking with assistance!

When Joe and I bought the bungalow, we didn’t consider the fact that it was on a hill. On the contrary, the ability to look over rooftops and see fields was rather appealing and for almost thirty years it has been a joy to live here. However, times they are a’changing. I mean, what’s a hill when able people want to walk up or motorists drive. For motorist – read ME.

Problems started by getting rid of the car. I took everything for granted when I could just hop in the car and drive short or long distances.  However, driving the car was becoming a worry. With all the mad hat drivers on the road these days I felt scared whenever I drove on busy roads. That and the prospect of a load of bills coming through the door after Christmas made me think twice about staying mobile. Insurance was high, road tax was reasonable because my car was diesel driven.

For years diesel was regarded as environmentally friendly and motorists’ car tax bills were drastically reduced. Even so, added to the insurance, AA cover for breakdown assistance, compulsory garage bills, I was looking at some heavy expenditure. Seriously though, if I thought I could carry on driving I would have paid the lot.

It was time to face facts. It is compulsory for me to go out and getting rid of the car meant I could take taxi cabs everywhere. In my opinion it should work out cheaper.

It is time to face the hill. So far I have tried three times and made it but only once did I venture as far as the corner shop, which is quite a distance away for those who have walking difficulties. At this point I must reveal that it’s not a great distance to walk but it does hamper folk like me. Goodness, I remember the days when I walked the hill two or three times a day when taking the dogs out for their walks. How I wish those days were back again.

I have a couple of walking aids, inherited from an aunt and kept as a ‘just in case’. One was a four-wheel shopper 

and the other a three-wheel shopper. 

I like the latter best but it’s not so good on hills and the front wheel finds potholes which means I must haul it out. The one with four wheels just wants to go one way and hates corners. 

Yesterday I ventured out with a single cane and did better. Next door neighbour stopped and offered a lift, but I turned her down on the grounds that if I don’t persevere I will never master the damned hill.

I haven’t been out today because of the snow! Maybe I should buy another car!!!!!

LOST AND FOUND

…..and the news is that my phone has been found. 

I was informed by Apple on my ex-Yahoo email account, no longer used by me but which is very good at imparting such news. 

My view aside, the news was given by email on phone and computer and I was given the address where it was found and where it now is. It was useful being given the address which is nowhere near where I live, but now that I use taxis it will be easy to find. If the driver gets lost I can always check with Google. 

Everything is so easy these days, don’t you think, and having a phone makes everything easier. I wonder if the lost and found phone (when collected) will be as useful as the one I have in my pocket right now.

You can always rely on Yahoo to accept scam messages. It is one of the reasons I moved to Google. 

Singing, or whatever its called these days

Hasn’t singing changed. What happened to dulcet and melodious tones? Now it is screeching and unintelligible language. When did the change occur? When did quality singing take a back seat?

It’s not just singing that has changed, I have a hard job understanding people speaking on television, when they speak I have to switch on the subtitles. It’s as though they have a train to catch and if they don’t hurry with their spiel they’ll miss it. Even youngsters go at a rate of knots now.

It’s not just me, either. I thought perhaps my brain had slowed and couldn’t keep up but I’ve been told by much younger friends that they have the same problems. 

Perhaps there’s a race in time … if there is then there’s no hope for me.

I have noticed, though, that some TV channels are better than others. Our main BBC (British Broadcasting Company) seems clearer than others in that people speak a tad slower and with less gabbling. Other stations allow prattling in a way that is difficult to understand, consequently I miss a lot of the programme. Because of this I have resorted to using subtitles which, of course, means I miss some of the action. On reflection, perhaps that’s a good thing.

Normally I don’t watch what I call rubbish which younger generations swoon or rave over. Recently, because there was a person I knew competing in a singing contest I decided to watch it. However, that meant having to put up with all the shrieking and screaming not only from contestants but the whole audience. I gave up when I felt the headache coming on.

Like I said at the start of this post …. whatever happened to dulcet and melodious tones. 

Goodbye, Neighbour

One of my neighbours died recently, a man aged 102, who lost his wife some years ago. The couple were great friends with my Joe. Bill and his wife Mary would entertain Joe once a week with tales of years gone by. Joe loved those stories and after Mary died he was pleased that Bill continued with the once-weekly story-telling. Bill made doll's houses, elegant ones, unlike those my Dad made for me. They were fabulous but Bill's were very upper class in style, even the furniture had a Regency feel. 

Joe and I attended the funeral and later were invited to join with family and neighbours to hear family tales and memories of past years. It was wonderful to hear those stories about days gone by.

This time there were fewer people attending Bill’s funeral, even some close family members were missing. I was invited to attend but couldn't make it to the church. My car has gone to new owners and, since I can't walk like I used to, I had to decline the invitation. However, I did attend the get-together at the house afterwards. Memories of Mary’s funeral made acceptance easy. That time there was much laughter over recalled memories, but this time there was a different atmosphere. Whereas once the family members made sure guests were comfortable and fed, this time there was little communication with anyone. So disappointing that some gathered together for private chats that, judging by the laughter, included fun memories.

I was warmly welcomed and escorted to an easy chair which was a distance away from other chairs. So, there I sat, knowing no-one and talking to no-one. It was a great relief to see another neighbour come in and the next hour was spent exchanging memories with him. I don’t think he was treated any better by the family. I remembered Mary’s funeral and how there were lots of neighbours in attendance, sadly not so with Bill. Only two neighbours this time whereas before there were about ten. At that time there was much laughter over family tales. So sad that Bill left this world without a few jolly words to send him on his way.

A few days later the funeral service programme was put through my door so I was able to read what occurred at the crematorium. It was a nice touch. 

I wonder if he and Joe will get together ... nice thought!

IMAGINATION CAN BE INTERESTING

When I sit down to relax I sit on a sofa facing the window and garden, and just lately I have been studying faces. Do you look at something and see something different. I know I’m crazy, but it’s something I have always done since childhood. I could look at the design in wallpaper and see a face, comical or otherwise. I guess I’m in my second childhood! I take a second look to make sure I didn’t imagine it and more often than not the eyes zoom in to where I want them to go. Other times, they let me down.

The other day I saw the profile of an old, pointed, beak-like nosed pixie, complete with green hat, but he escaped further detection. I searched the bush from afar, but it was no use. The pixie remained unseeable. Perhaps he ducked behind a branch, or maybe he’d just gone for a walk round. I took the photo hoping that someone else would be able to spot the face, to the right of the tabletop. No prizes, just proof that others can see it. The guy who came to service my gas fire spotted it, which made me feel less of an idiot. 

He/it (the pixie) disappeared briefly when a strong wind blew the leaves all over the place but he/it returned when the weather calmed down and the leaves were still.

I couldn't see him/it at first, I guess the eyes or brain had rested but it wasn't long before I saw him/it again. It was a little bit windy and it looked for all the world as though he was chatting to something on the branch next to him, nodding his head in agreement with some interesting remark. I haven't lost him since. Every time I look he's there but I guess he'll move on next spring.

I have seen figures in bushes and trees and long grass. Now the big question is – am I going doolally! Answers on a postcard, please.

FANCIFUL ASPIRATIONS, written 2009

FANCIFUL ASPIRATIONS

It was there, wedged deep in her imagination, as monumental a dwelling as any other she could remember; not monumental in the true sense, but remarkable in its importance. She could visualize the latticed casement-windows; the crooked chimney with its four pots issuing smoke even in summer; the old-fashioned roses around the low, warped door, its thorny offshoots stealing towards the brass horseshoe, displayed with a kind of imperious pride ... if domiciles were capable of possessing such sentiments.

The image was as true as any photograph; only, however detailed a photograph, it could not immortalise the smells of the place: the aroma of Weetabix, warm milk and honey that greeted each day, and the farmyard odour ever present beyond the cottage door. Ascending into the endlessly azure sky were two granolithic gate pillars, tops like pyramids and girths as wide, it seemed, as the chicken house. It was where she would climb to watch the cows come by for milking.

She allowed her mind to wander the surrounding sunlit lanes, hopscotching shadows the way she used to, frequently interrupting the game to perform handstands against crumbling walls, or select the longest grasses to tickle her father's neck. And then, prompted by thoughts of her father and his favourite pastime, she recalled those restful periods when, surrounded by angling paraphernalia, she quietly watched the salmon leap in the Herefordshire river. Yes, it was there, immutably lodged in her imagination, and that's what she wanted to find; it was what she'd been searching for this past hour.

Vida Maitland reversed the Renault onto a bumpy dirt path and switched off the engine, thinking in her frustration that if anyone told her to move she'd probably explode. She had been driving from one coterie of cottages to the next, coasting unnamed narrow lanes, none of which had passing places, and had even enquired in isolated shops, but no-one knew the location of the place she sought.

Despondently, she unscrewed a beaker of orange juice and took a sip, seriously wondering if the journey had been a waste of time. Balancing the beaker on her knee, one finger curled round it's base, she leaned back and closed her eyes, willing the picture to return. Her mind's eye travelled the lanes, giving way at crossroads, unnecessarily since hers was the only car. It was then, during one of the mandatory pauses, that she saw where she had gone wrong. The signpost in the foreground was askew; it pointed straight ahead instead of sending her to the left: to Verdun Cottage.

Forgetting the beaker, she shot up and swiftly started the engine, unaware of the orange juice seeping through her tights. She drove recklessly in her eagerness, bidden by memories to visit the cottage she remembered so well; to see the sheep and the goats, and the arbor with the overhead brush of honeysuckle, and the wilderness garden to the side of the farm, all set in the heart of pasture-land and encouragingly near the river.

A second signpost told her to turn right. As she rounded the corner, lo and behold, she saw it: Verdun Cottage, as beautiful as it ever was, but significantly smaller. She stopped the car and wrenched the brake, staring disbelievingly at the scene. The granolithic gate supports, the crooked chimney, and the door with the strong-smelling roses, were, after the enlargement in her mind, almost fairylike in size. The chicken house which she was sure had been at the side, by the back door which opened onto the farm, was now by the stone wall which ran along the lane.

Slowly, she climbed out of the immaculate red Renault, and walked towards the restyled structure, looking for evidence of a busy farm. But all she could see were the relics of bygone days: a dilapidated tractor parked alongside a gang of rusted milk churns, a disused pig trough, a roll of chicken wire with a duration's grass growing through.

'Not thinking of buying it, are you, m'dear?' The full-toned voice belonged to a wizened old man with a twinkling eye and a straw in his mouth.

Vida gulped and incoherently gabbled something about visiting a childhood haunt. 'For holidays,' she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the bobbing straw. Without another word being spoken, she knew she'd been right to come. Her memory had played tricks over the cottage, nothing was as she remembered, but the ageing farmer, with his white hair and unshorn chin, wearing the same impish grin and bearing the same, familiar, rustic scents, made the excursion wonderfully worthwhile. The crooked chimney might be crumbling, the roses might be holding the woodwork intact, and the monstrous gate pillars might be too big for such a bantam property, but this was where she wanted to be.

Impulsively, she reached out to touch the farmer's skinny arm. 'If you're thinking of selling,' she said, 'I'm definitely buying.'