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.