Lease Holders.

Sorry, just letting off steam.

I have owned The FreeHold of a four storie block of very nice flats in Plymouth for nearly fifty years now.  They could only be sold Lease Hold.  The Ground Rent in total is 250 Pounds a year and The Lease is excellent, in which it protects us all.

However, it has been a total pain in the arse for most of that time, although the problems come and go.

It has just kicked off again, albeit the same old same old.  There is always one in any decade that thinks I have just come up The Clyde on a water biscuit.  This one is the ex wife of the last dickhead that I got the better of ten years ago.  I think she’s hoping that I have gone a bit doo lally in the last ten years.  No chance.

I am supposed to pay for everything outside of the building, including the Communal Road, Gardens and Pavement, despite what The Lease says.  Although what makes them think my excellent solicitor would have lumped that on me on 250 Pounds a year remains a mystery.  This is a Private Terrace, by the way.

I do have a very good Managing Agent, again.  The Leasholders got rid of the last one, at which point everything  descended into chaos during which nothing was done, and least of all was my Ground Rent paid.  Not that this was important.  I was never going to get rich on 250 Pounds a year

But it ain’t happening again.  I have a responsibility to these people whether they like it or not.  Noblesse Oblige, or some such nonsense, and I have that in spades, being a hard core Celt.  Celts never did concern themselves much with money.  It’s The Land that is the thing.

The problem seems to be that none of them actually read The Lease before they sign it.  Or perhaps they don’t understand half decent English.  But I understand what “Easement” means, even if they don’t.  It’s in The Dictionary.

Or mayhap they resent some person owning the land on which they live.  So why buy a Lease in the first place when there was no other way in which to buy one of these really lovely flats?

The original Lease was for 132 years, my solicitor knowing what he was doing, with No Increase on Ground Rent during that time.  So as you can all see I am never personally going to benefit from that.  And God knows how many Great Greats I will have when The Leases do finally run out.  Somedebody is going to have some fun with that.

But for a while Eleanor Mitchell has owned one small parcel of land of which she is very proud.  An East End Cockney, Irish, Welsh Celt, and they don’t come tougher than that.

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Turmeric and Circumin.

Bad Shoulder.  Weeks, Months, Years even.  And then I read this half arsed article in The Daily Mail.  The answer to all aches and pains, so I thought I’d give it a go.

Not exactly cheap, but it wasn’t going to break the bank.  Five weeks later I was still suffering and still popping pain killers by the score.  Pain killers are not something I like doing, and it was also beginning to get really expensive.  “Phfft”,  I thought,  “But I  might as well finish the bottle.”

I am now into my seventh week and haven’t had even a twinge for the last few days.  The aching shoulder suddenly disappeared.  Is this a miracle?  If so then Thank You, God.  You do come across now and again.

Teeth.

0KAY,  The last of my two front teeth just fell out.  Thank God for that.  It was getting a bit painful.

So now I have to keep my mouth shut all of the time.  Try that one for size.  Not funny when you have got an awful gap

However, this was never going to shut me up.

PS.  I can’t go to the Dentist because I am psychotic about Dentists.

Les Pompiers de Bieuzy. 56.

Went to a Bar B Que at Bieuzy Fire Station last weekend, and met all of my son’s team mates and there wives, husbands and other assorted others.  They were all sober at this point, and so was I.

The old Fire Chief was there with his wife.  Their eldest son is now The Fire Chief and his brother is a Fire Fighter.  It is all very family orientated.  And there are quite a lot of women Fire Fighters as well.

I bailed out at about 4pm because I thought I had consumed more than enough.  My son ran me home in our car, and The Fire Chief picked up Robin Dominic to take him back so he wouldn’t be able to drive home drunk.  God knows who drove him home at 2am, or how drunk the driver might have been.  This bunch are hard core.

Apparently there were a few complaints from near neighbours about the karaoke, but I don’t suppose they complained too vociferously.  Who knows when their own house might catch fire?

They are all quite mad, of course, but I suspect they have to be to do the job.

Heart Beat,

I have just found it.  Oh Joy.  370 odd episodes. Set in the 1960s, It was first shown in 1993 just as I left Britain, and I didn’t know it even existed.

It is a delightful walk down memory lane for me when I was a bit of a hippy and besotted with The Beatles and Folk Songs, among so many other lovely old songs.  These songs are played throughout every episode, although never obtrusively.

The story lines are excellent, lots of young actors who are knocking on a bit now, but still good.  A view of Yorkshire that I never saw, despite being married to a Yorkshire Man, which I now regret, and have done for sometime.  Not seeing The Yorkshire Dales I mean.  Being married wasn’t actually as bad as it sometimes seemed.  But that’s another tale which I almost certainly won’t tell.

So the whole rolling viewing is absolute joy.  Watch it if you haven’t seen it.  And watch it again if you have.

O’Connor. Again.

Right.  I have more or less recovered from O’Connor’s operation.  Bugger the dog.  Recovering from The Bill will take a bit longer.  I won’t go into too much detail because it involves a lot of shit.  The bottom line seems to be, Don’t give dogs old boots and shoes to chew.  Oh, and grass isn’t good either.  It usually means worms.  I’ve  never heard that one before, and I can’t say that I will be freaking out about that.  I do have to cut the grass, although I am now doing it a bit more regularly to cut down on the excess. My mower is a Mulcher.  I can’t be doing with grass bags, and I don’t know where it s now anyway.

I now spend my days chasing him to see what he has got in his mouth this time.  He knows I am coming and runs like hell.  I have recently recovered a metal shoe buckle and half a black plastic bin liner.  But I am getting good at keeping check of clothes pegs that fall of the washing line.

The “Lawn” is a mess of holes from O’Connor digging for Badgers.  I have told him that there aren’t any, but he doesn’t believe me.  Perhaps I should learn the French for Badger.  But at least he hasn’t tried to dig his way out of the garden.  Yet.

He is a monstrous little swine, but he has grown into his ears now and is really quite beautiful.  He has Snake Eyes, but then I have never been afraid of Snakes.  In fact I like them, so if he thinks he is putting the evil eye on me then he is wasting his time.  Actually, he is just checking to see if I am going to take some new treasure away from him.  Will this ever end?

PS.  The Cat is still in charge.

A Timeless Thing, Made With Love.

In the bottom of my Singapore Camphor Wood Chest which was made for me, is a white, pure wool shawl, wrapped in tissue paper which was crocheted by my Step Grandfather for the birth of my first born son. It is still perfect, and quite lovely.
Moths don’t like Camphor Wood.

There was absolutely nothing poncy about Granddad. He worked for all of his life on The Permanent Way. That’s smart speak for Railway Lines. It was hard work and his hands suffered for it. But he turned out some very beautiful things in his quiet moments.

I think it was a measure of his affection for me, and I am so sorry that I never told him so. In fact I wonder if I even realised at the time.

I was never tempted to give it to any of my children for which I am pleased. None of them appear to be any where near as sentimental as I am, so it would probably have disappear off the face of Planet Earth if I had.

These thought have come about by the birth of my Second Great Grandchild. A girl named Lily. Born on the First of June in the Year of Our Lord, 2019. No, I don’t believe in A God as such, but that’s another tale.

Girl Children don’t abound in our family. My Dear Sister has none at all, so another one is a bonus. I’ve got three now. Gemma, Lillijah and Lily. They all look like me, of course. And that’s a good thing. I was surprisingly beautiful in the days when I didn’t know it. But time marches and I am now a wrinkled, old harridan. Still clutching a beautiful shawl that will never age.

Le Fete de Anyone Who Helped at The Pardon Last Year.

They must have made a few bob from The Pardon.  The free booze was diabolical, as usual, but the free food was excellent.  And they don’t need much of an excuse to throw a party around here.  Always in the middle of a field not far from home.  But they did cut the grass first.

Same old same old.  We are all a year older and all still pleased to see everyone.  Apart from the odd expats who never help out anywhere, but somehow manage to get wind of. A few of which I have never even set eyes on.  But that is by the by.  Let’s not be mingy about this.  They might help out this year.

The Pardon is an apology to The Saint of each local Church who has been neglected yet again, so we do have quite a lot of them if you want to do the rounds.  My own particular Saint is Saint Rivalain, and No, I have never heard of him either.  But he does have a very nice little church in his name from once upon a time.

I bailed out at four o’clock because I couldn’t cope with any more of the ghastly booze, and so left Robin Dominic to enjoy himself without having to worry about Mummy.  Hell help his hangover tomorrow.

Home.

O’Connor is now back home after five days in The Dog Hospital.  We still have no idea of what he ate that he shouldn’t have done.  More about that later.

He is wearing a plastic lampshade due to the large sticking plaster covering his stitches.  I wouldn’t put it past him to eat that.

“Keep him calm for the next twelve days.”  Said The Vet.  He took one look at the cat and off he went.

He is now confined to the house unless on a lead, after I wrenched three dead Lizards from his mouth in the space of five minutes.  One of these Lizards was about a foot long and bright green, decidedly poisonous looking.  The cat, I suspect, who is either in collusion, or trying to bump him off.  I am seriously not sure which.  He certainly didn’t catch the dead Birds and dead Mice I have taken away from him recently.

He did seem exceedingly pleased to see us, and is back to the joyful little soul he was.

462 Euros, Merci Beaucoup.  But I did get a free bag of dog food thrown in.  And there is now nothing wrong with his bowl production.  In fact, I have never seen so much shit, me being an expert on this subject.  This one is taking the cake.

Will I survive twelve days of this?

O’Connor.

O’Connor is at The Vets.  I am strangely distraught.  I don’t know why.  It isn’t me that has been abandoned at The Vets.  Poor little soul.

I won’t bore you all with the throw up details.  He basically ate something he shouldn’t have done.  God knows what.  Many a dead mouse and bird have I retrieved that Connor stole from the cat, or else the cat had an agenda.  And then there was a plastic cup that the cat knocked of the kitchen side that I had to wrench from Connor’s mouth last night.  There wasn’t much of it left.

I now have to wait and see, and I am not dealing with this very well.  The rotten little swine stole into my heart while I wasn’t watching out.