Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

One thing that I have learnt since moving from the Big Smoke (London), to the countryside (Oxfordshire), is that country folk like to foster a sense of community. As opposed to London where if you talked to a stranger, you were either wanting money or mentally ill. If you actually smiled at someone you didn't know, you would immediately be dismissed as a psychotic.

In the countryside, people are different: Quite a lot of them smile because they have got a weird concept called 'happy'. Generally caused by the fact they have just dug up a bloody huge turnip and had it for their dinner (with a carrot as a side). Or maybe they milked a cow quick enough to hear a full episode of 'The Archers'.

Either way, instead of watching international football on 50" TV screens, the past-time of wont amongst the country folk of Oxfordshire tends to be community gatherings.

And just last Sunday a garden 'open day' was organised in Beckley, a village close to where I live. The 'open day' bit basically means that lots of Beckley residents open their gardens to other members of the community to look round, and they also do things like serve ice-cream and tea to visitors. 

One thing I did notice was that there were lots of older people there. Maybe a gardening gene kicks in when you get to a certain age. Or maybe you realise that when you get to 50 plus, a bit of light mulching hurts less than playing a game of beach volleyball wearing skimpy skids. Either way, I decided to get into the spirit of things and take Izzy to the event.

And because I am like Mother Theresa, but with less facial hair, I have got some photographs for you. I was a bit annoyed with myself because I forgot to take my Canon S95 camera (surely I should be getting commission by now), and so had to use the camera on my iPhone which is rubbish in comparison. The photographs are nowhere near as vibrant.

Here goes .......................
















And so dahlink, that was a day in village life. Two observations: (1) there weren't enough picture of ME in this post; and (2) although it was nice looking round people's gardens, there weren't many tellies being thrown out of windows, or roll royce's being driven into swimming pools. The most rad thing going on was some old dear crocheting a tea cosy.

Not only that, but I was outed as townie. It started off with me pointing at a flowery thing and shouting "that blue one's nice." 

"Oh yes dear, the Lavifolia Iridaceae really are iridescent aren't they?" said the garden's posh owner, who, unbeknownst to me was standing right behind. 

Time to swot up on my floras and fauna's me thinks. So far I have learnt about 'roses' and 'daisies'.

How is your weekend going and what are you up to?

Last weekend was Father's Day in the UK. I wouldn't have known if Izzy hadn't come back from school, happier than Jessica Simpson with a pie, and brandishing something in her hand that she'd made.

"What the bloody hell is that?" I asked her suspiciously, because school, Izzy and enthusiasm don't normally mix.

"Don't say bloody, it's rude," she replied indignantly.

"Sorry, I meant what the blazes is that?"

"It's a Father's Day card and I made it myself," she gushed jubilantly, as I examined her work of art whilst simultaneously thinking 'shit! Father's day is coming up soon'.

"Look, I used the D in 'Dad' and turned it into a sideways smiley face," she said.

"Did you think of that on your own?" I asked her, as she nodded vigorously.

Crikey, it's like having a little Leonardo Da Vinci around sometimes, except she doesn't invent helicopters. But then it dawned on me. We didn't have any Father's Day gifts. Sacre bleu!

In a bit of a flap, I turned to Izzy for inspiration; "can you think of a present that we can buy your Dad?" I asked.

"Yep," she immediately replied, "I want to get him some new underpants, because most of his old ones have got holes in."

I gulped. This was wrong on more than one level. Firstly, I didn't really want to know that my ex's underwear had holes in, because I could imagine where they were. Secondly, I certainly didn't want to be involved in choosing replacements. Quite simply because if you buy someone underwear, it means that you have been contemplating the dressing of their genitals.

But the ginge was adamant, so off to the shops we went to furnish Steve with some skids. After much consideration, she selected a couple of pairs of pink candy-striped boxer shorts.

"Are you happy with these?" I asked her, "or do you want to get something else?"

"I want to get him a tyre pressure gauge," she stated. That's my girl. None of the flibbertigibbet flowers and chocolate nonsense. So, once the tyre pressure gauge was procured, we were ready to rock and roll.

Steve was away for most of Father's Day, so we arranged to take him for dinner in the evening. I had arranged a 'surprise venue', i.e. a place that neither of us had eaten in before. And because I am kinder than Mother Theresa and her wing men combined, I have got some pictures for you.



He looked at the grundys, grinned, and turned to me saying, "do you still fancy me or something?"

"No, Izzy picked them for you, you numpty," I replied.

Luckily the waiter turned up at that moment to take our orders.





The food in Brasserie Blanc was indeed very good, and most reasonably priced. But most of all, Izzy had a brilliant time with her Dad. And she told me she can't wait to show me a picture of: 'Daddy in his new undies'. That's something to look forward to next week.

So dahlink, did you celebrate any form of Father's Day? Just off to get myself a glass of Bolly before I hear all about it.

When I was a child, I used to enjoy reading the chilling tales of 'Fu Manchu the Yellow Peril'. And thrilling though it was, I have grown up to find myself somewhat wary of anything that's yellow.

Indeed, 'don't eat yellow snow', was a childhood mantra. And I always avoided yellow dusters because it meant doing housework. Not to mention that horrible big yellow chickeny thing on Sesame Street.

"Wait!" I hear you cry, "what about the sun? That's yellow."

Well spotted. The sun is my biggest point in case. It lulls you into a false sense of security by providing you with a deliciously tingly, sunkissed hue. But underneath it is even eviler than Fu Manchu.

We've all heard the experts extolling the virtues of not exposing our unprotected skin to the sun's rays. And we've all probably thought, 'it feels nice, it can't be doing that much harm'.

But think again. Whilst I was searching the internet for 'face which looks like a tyre that has been set alight and put out with a shovel', I happened across the following picture.

The guy was a 69 year old trucker in America, and he never wore sunscreen and always drove with the window open. Meaning that over the years, the sun damage only occurred on one side of his face; hence his right cheek looks like a flip-flop which lost a fight with a blowtorch.


So dahlink, next time you see that evil yellow thing in the sky, make sure you wear sunscreen, or you too will end up looking like a melted welly.

What the devil are you up to this week anyway?

I was sitting at home the other night - contemplating Naughty George as he lay honking in his bed - and wondering what I would do with him if he ever died. I mean, it just seems so wasteful to lob his lifeless body over the back fence, or even bury it as is some people's wont.

Same with roadkill ...... and just leaving it lying there. It's not right, especially when there is a recession on. I would go so far as to say that in these financially trying times, I often feel a bit peckish when I happen upon a squirrel with a tyre track down it's face. [Note to self: maybe don't disclose this publicly].

It seems like we have this vast resource of dead animals and we just aren't tapping into it as we should. We should all be rallying around in these times of need and viewing our deceased pets as potential revenue sources. For example, I just typed into google; "can I make bio-diesel from my dead dog?"

Admittedly, no-one actually came forward saying they wanted to turn their pet dog into bio-diesel.

BUT, I did find a very interesting article in the respected journal 'Scientific American'. It was about a bunny epidemic in Sweden, where they dealt with it by capturing all the bob-tailed fluffies, and turning them into bio-diesel (I am assuming that there was probably some gory stuff in between). Not only that, but they subsequently diversified into cows, deer and dobbins. [Read it here: burning bunnies for biofuel?]

I am telling you - embracing dead pets is like discovering a seam of oil in your back garden (taps side of nose for added gravitas).

Anyway, I digress. Before discovering that Naughty George could power my car if he died, I also explored more frivolous avenues. Like maybe turning him into a fashion accessory.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that someone had already cornered the market.

I am not kidding. I found a company who's mission is; 'to turn your dead pet into something more beautiful than the live version."

That'll be American then.

And because I am kinder than Mother Theresa (but with a better fitting bra), I have included some photographs for you ............

Monday - A giant Jubilee picnic at Anstey Recreational Grounds (more nom, nom, nom)
























It was all bally enjoyable patriotic fun. Except for Cheryl Cole singing. If I'd been a vet I would probably have tried to put her out of her apparent misery.

And that was the bulk of my Diamond Jubilee celebrations. I didn't get back to Oxford for another six days, hence the radio silence.

So that was the main of my Diamond Jubilee fun dahlink - what did you get up to?