Just Ask

“When will you ask about the staff car?” whispered McColleague.

“When the moment is right,” I answered. With our Boss leaving we had been given the opportunity to ask questions and put forward suggestions for how things should progress. I had plenty of both along with a keen interest in the future of the company vehicle. I did not want to sound crass though, given the situation.

The Area Manager spoke at length of the thirty amazing years our Boss had given to the property. He mentioned all the achievements our Boss had accomplished during his time here and how sorry everyone was to see him go. It was all quite emotional. I decided this was not the time to ask about the car.

He then moved on to plans for the future. This boiled down to the not unusual tactic of holding fire on recruiting a replacement for indefinite months while discussions on the staffing structure take place at a higher level. In the interim we will be managed by an existing Property Manager from a neighbouring property. This was all very interesting, if not entirely unexpected, yet still not the moment to ask if I could have the staff car.

Then came the question and answer session. You would think that this would have been the ideal time to ask about the staff car and yet somehow the subject never arose. There were so many other issues to cover, so many staff with their own concerns to address, and overriding all there was still this feeling of “it’s so sad you’re going”. It just didn’t seem appropriate to chime in with “but can I have your car?”

So I left it and then asked in an email, later.

I’m not getting the car.

Pre Season Pressure (Washing)

We open the doors to the public very soon. The weeks before re-opening are always a manic time of trying to get all your essential repairs and building works completed with no staff and no budget but this year has been even more frantic than usual.

To condense many months of ongoing drama and angst in certain quarters the end result was my Boss and our volunteer shop manager resigning simultaneously and not entirely unexpectedly at the end of the pre season volunteer meeting just a couple of weeks ago.

To compound matters the volunteer shop manager also provides most of the stock. Since she was leaving she decided to take all her wares with her, leaving me with some dusty bare shelves and the pricing gun.

So, in addition to the usual long list of requirements before opening (re-lettering and replacing the signs, interviewing and hiring seasonal staff, unpacking the many boxes of 2009 literature and recruiting materials in the ticket office, updating the handbook, proofing a myriad of advertising, agreeing budgets, and so on) McColleague and I have also had to become impromptu shop managers. We have been scavenging every stock and store room in our quest for merchandise. There was great excitement when we unearthed an entire box of out of date crisps - that's lunch sorted for the next month!

Normally we make great use of the wardens in our pre season preparations, as they are so helpful when you need to move heavy oak furniture or shift an ice cream freezer. This year, however, we are effectively down to just one. Luckily that one is Lovely Warden but he is over-burdened and we try not to add to his workload if we can avoid it. Hence my decision to pressure wash the courtyard myself.

In the shady areas a treacherous green algae proliferates, making the surface incredibly slippery when wet. I donned protective clothing - wellies, cropped trousers and a mac - plugged in the pressure washer and did my bit for health and safety. It's a fearsome beast the pressure washer. It removes algae and dirt effortlessly and blasts them safely onto my face and body in a thick coating of filth. Effective at removing years of mud, it is equally good at removing huge chunks of cement and gravel from the courtyard surface itself, and you can't get cleaner than that.

After many, many hours I had completed cleaning maybe a third of the courtyard. I was caked in goo and my trigger hand was still vibrating for hours after I finished. The rubble and silt I had created had blocked the drains and the muddy water refused to drain away.
"I tried to save you a job," I explained, as Lovely Warden unblocked the drains and shovelled the mud and rubble into a wheelbarrow. "Would you like some out of date crisps?"

It's Not Like It Used To Be

"Sodding hell, I've got another one!"

"Another complaint letter?"

"Yes."

"Is it because there weren't any craft stalls?"

"Yes."

[Sound of head hitting desk]

It's been hard work changing a long standing event. For many years now we have held an annual Christmas Fayre, with numerous stalls situated in and around the house. Each year, however, visitor numbers grow smaller as competition grows greater. The problem is we are a small property with a smaller budget. We simply cannot compete with the garden centre up the road or the big shopping centre in town when they advertise that Father Christmas will be arriving by reindeer-drawn sleigh, as opposed to Mini Metro, and will then be available in a proper grotto that isn't just a hastily erected shed. To make matters worse, neighbouring properties have also jumped on the Christmas Craft Fair bandwagon, often holding the same event as we are, on the same day, thereby effectively, and pointlessly, thinning out the audience.

In previous years we have had all the fun of moving the heavy oak furniture upstairs in the house to accommodate the craft stalls, helping the traders unload their cars and set up their stands, and then listening to them complain bitterly all day that there aren't enough power points, that the lighting is insufficient and that there aren't enough customers and we should have advertised it better.

So, for 2008 we decided to change our Christmas event. Let's play to our strengths, I said. Let's feature what we do have and stop trying to compete with properties with more money or big commercial operations. What we have is a unique, moated medieval manor house. We shall hold an authentic medieval Yuletide event!

The re-enactment group were most enthusiastic when I explained the concept to them. I wanted the public to feel like they'd stepped back in time by 500 years. Characters in costume would be making medieval Christmas food, staging mumming plays, bringing to life and illustrating the origins of many of our modern traditions, everything from original meat-filled mince pies, to Yule logs and Saint Nicholas.

I tried to sum up the essence of the event in our promotional material. The press releases, the adverts in the local papers, the posters, even the banners on the road all emphasised the living history aspect of it all. "Enjoy a Merrie Medieval Christmas" went the blurb. "Experience the music, food and customs of Yuletide as it would have been 500 years ago. See the Great Hall decorated with foliage from the estate and join the household as it prepares for the Christmas festivities." I stressed to anyone that would listen that this was a turkey and tinsel free zone. One thing I was very clear about, one thing it did not say in any promotional material at any point was that this was a craft fair.

The event itself went very well. Visitor numbers were high and our re-enactors were fantastic. The public seemed particularly fascinated by the food piled high on the tables and kept our household ladies very busy with questions about it all. One unexpected point of interest was the skinning of a hare! The group had brought some game with them - a hare, some pheasants, a mallard - so that the men would be able to return successfully from their staged hunt. On the second day of the event one of the medieval ladies asked me if there was anywhere secluded in the courtyard she could go to skin (or pluck, in the case of the birds) and gut the game before it spoiled. I set her up in a discreet corner, where no one had to be privy to the blood and guts of real meat if they didn't want to, but still on show if anyone took an interest. She ended up with a huge crowd around her! Children in particular were quick to express an "Ewwww" and immediately draw closer with a volley of follow up questions.

At the close of the weekend I felt confident that we had provided a top quality educational and entertaining event, with far more people in attendance than at the Christmas Fayre the previous year.

Then I received a letter. It stated how disappointed the author was with our Craft Fair this year. There weren't any stalls at all. I replied to say how sorry I was that he was disappointed with our Merrie Medieval Christmas event but that this was not a craft fair and had never been advertised as such.

Then I received a couple of emails which said pretty much the same thing. The complainants came to our Craft Fair every year but this year it was rubbish! The re-enactors themselves were good, they said, but the courtyard had no trade stands whatsoever. What kind of Craft Fair was this?

Almost every week since Christmas I have received another letter complaining about the paucity of stalls at my Craft Fair. I really don't know what more I could have done to raise awareness of the fact that this event was not a Craft Fair other than emblazoning "NOT a Craft Fair" over all my publicity material. There is annoyance that the event has changed, even though the new event is much better than the old one. There is annoyance that they were unable to not buy anything from a selection of tat-laden trestle tables despite the fact that we were surrounded by venues offering exactly that on the very day they attended.

I truly believe that if I invented a time machine and actually transported people back in time to experience the house in its medieval prime, some people would still be disappointed that the paths were muddy and that there was no opportunity to buy a hand-painted tea tray. It confounds me. Why come for a day out at a medieval house, for a medieval event, if all you really want or enjoy is shopping?

Heaven help me if I ever decide to change the format of our Easter Egg Hunt!

The Return of the Doris (Again)

I am returned, with so much to update upon it is a little overwhelming. In the meantime, while I get my hilarious stories in order, I shall give you a brief, visual summary of the intervening months.

November
It is a sad day for me, after Halloween, when our amazing creature creations have to be taken down and put back into storage. I was immensely proud that several visiting families told us that ours was the best Halloween trail in the region. I can believe it. No crappy paper ghost flapping forlornly in the corner for us! We do Halloween properly. Full-sized monsters and spooky sound effects abound. Still, all good things must come to an end and, reluctantly, I put away the rubber spiders and turned my mind to other issues, such as the water leaking into the house every time it rains.

It isn't a new problem. I have been flagging it up for quite a while now. Still, at long last, shortly before Christmas, some buildings department people and an architect came to see the problem for themselves. Of course, as is the nature of such things, it wasn't raining. It was a glorious winter day with not a cloud in the sky. We would have to recreate rainy day conditions if they were to try to pinpoint where the problem lay. No problem.

"Up you go," we said to Lovely Warden, issuing him with a ladder and a hosepipe. "Try not to fall off, but if you do, try to roll with it."Afterwards, while I was mopping up the subsequent indoor water features that resulted from this experiment, the architect came to show me the water ingress points he had marked on his drawing.

"So, that's pretty much all of it."

"Yes."

"The entire front of the house."

"Yes."

"Almost every timber and every panel needs attention."

"Yes."

"And when can we start work on this?"

"March."

"When we re-open?"

"Yes."

I have been on a course. I know that this is not a disaster. It is a challenge to be met.

December

Time to prepare for the annual Christmas event, which entails much joyous gathering of foliage.

Lovely Warden McColleague and I duly donned our foliage gathering hats and wellies, climbed into the Gator and set off up the road, singing festively.

"Why's it making that noise?" asked McColleague as the Gator thwup-thwup-thwupped its way along.

It turned out that a knackered tyre was making that noise and Lovely Warden had to remove the entire wheel and take it into town to be repaired.

Undaunted we set off on foot to gather whatever we could carry back to the house. We wanted an enormous ball of mistletoe to hang as our centrepiece in the Great Hall. In one of the many old orchards on the estate we found just the specimen.

"Up you go," we said to Lovely Warden, issuing him with a saw and a pair of loppers. "Try not to fall off, but if you do, try to roll with it."


It was an impressive size once Lovely Warden cut it free. Almost as big as McColleague. We used double the rope we would normally to hoist it aloft in the Hall and even then I had a nagging concern it might plummet onto an unsuspecting visitor and flatten them, festively.


It was an exciting walk back across country with the fruits of our labours. Lovely Warden has a habit of taking shortcurts which involve fording streams and scrambling up near vertical slopes of mud. It all got a bit Blair Witch Project for a while. Which I liked, being a Halloween queen.

The Hall was duly decorated and set for a medieval feast. Sadly the public can't sample the food, but the re-enactors are happy to feed it to me. They have lots of interesting spiced alcoholic beverages to pass around in wassail bowls too, which makes for an entertaining evening.


January

Ah, back to work after the Christmas break. The moat froze solid and the flagstones in the Hall developed an alarming mould. I phoned the curatorial department for advice on the best way to tackle it and was informed to brush the mould carefully before vacuuming it up via a special filter and to wear face masks of the correct specification, to avoid breathing in spores.

Ten minutes later Lovely Warden appeared with a broom, McColleague fetched the Dyson and we all pulled our jumpers up over our noses for safety. It was fine.

February

So far this week I have missed the Spring Conference, a training day and a staff meeting due to the heavy snow. While I am obviously deeply disappointed I am making the best of it. Luckily McColleague and I only just re-ordered toilet rolls and biscuits last week so I think I may survive until the thaw.

Fright Night Delight

Those of you have been with me a while know of my love of Halloween and the amazing skill that goes into taking our event budget of £0.00 and turning it into a fabulously scary production.

We still have last year's monsters ready to go back into position, but we have some new props too. I have been busy making a jolly clown for the children. Everybody loves clowns, right?

Doris Ponders Going Legit

Hello!

I can only apologise for my shameful neglect of this lovely little blog recently. Things have been happening. Work things, family things.

As some of you will recall, I got into a spot of bother earlier this year when an article I wrote about a forgetful coach party generated a complaint letter to Regional Office. Not wanting to give anyone any more sticks to hit me with I laid low for a while. Now I am pondering where to go from here.

My anonymity has always been as effective a disguise as Clark Kent's glasses or Undercover Elephant's eye mask. Those of you who wanted to know badly enough where I am based were able to trace me with a minimal amount of googling.

What I'd really like is to go legit. To post openly about where I am, what we are doing, the challenges we face and - ideally - get input and feedback from everyone as to what you think we ought to be doing, what you would like to see. It would take away the fear of discovery and - who knows? - maybe even become an effective marketing tool.

So, I am thinking of asking the Powers That Be whether they will bestow their blessings upon a blog I just happen to be thinking of writing.

E-engagement. That's the buzzword I shall be hanging it on.

What do you think?

Animal Corner

The Boss wanted to put on an Animal Corner as part of our Country Fair.

"I've got this cockerel," said McColleague.

"Great, bring it!"

"It's not very big," she confided as the date grew nearer. "It's only a bantam. I'm worried that if Animal Corner is relying on it as the main attraction it could be disappointing."

"Trust me, any disappointment in this event won't be solely down to your cockerel."

Things weren't looking promising at this stage. Animal Corner currently consisted of McColleague's cockerel, some ducks, a few rabbits and a couple of sheep. The rest of the Fair was also remaining at the distinctly low key stage, with most of the exhibitors we wanted dropping out and leaving us with a couple of vintage tractors to display, a gazebo from the Local History Society and a trestle table with some pots of jam on it.

McColleague and I marked out the exhibition area with our finest quality orange baling twine and some pointy sticks. "It's not exactly the Three Counties Show, is it?"


"It'll be fine."

And, against all expectations, it was fine.

The day of the event dawned sunny and dry and the public turned up in their droves to experience the free and simple rustic charms of the Country Fair we had so kindly laid on for them.

Who could resist the lure of the balloons on sticks, an irresistible gateway to Countryside pleasures?



As for McColleague's cockerel, it never did make an appearance in Animal Corner.

"I couldn't catch the cockerel this morning," she confessed.

I was unable to mask my disappointment. "You've let the team down, you've let the event down, and - most importantly of all -"

" - I've let myself down. I know. I brought three chickens and some ducks instead."

"Well, that's all right then."


"That's quite a display," I nodded approvingly at the chicken wire and timber construction, resplendent with Union Jacks. "The flags just set it off nicely. And the child's paddling pool is a nice touch."

From Animal Corner we could see all the rest of the Fair. The wardens had an enclosure of their own, in which they showcased their talents. I must say that I have often wanted to know more and it is good to know that the wardens are open to questions and won't savage my ankles.

A Nice Little Retirement Job

It had been a long day.

The school holidays mean that a sunny day is often a long day. It is wonderful having so many visitors and it is lovely to see happy families picnicking by the moat and enjoying the walks. It really is. No, it is. Really.

It's just that lots of children in the house means lots of extra care has to be taken to ensure that they are entertained and that the precious things are unmolested. The two states do not naturally exist together. On the typical family intensive day I will find the pot pourri liberally sprinkled around the place, rubbish in the leather fire buckets, stickers on the furniture, devastation in the Family Room, and situations you really don't want to know about in the lavatories.

It was at the end of just such a demanding day that a final family came through the doors a couple of minutes past closing time. They knew they were a little late, but could they have a look round? "Of course," I replied. "Do come in".

I could hear the sound of the early 20th century typewriter in the study having its keys thumped enthusiastically from downstairs. I climbed the stairs and found three children clustered around the - admittedly tempting - typewriter and explained that it was very old and by bashing all the keys at once it would simply jam and break. At this point their parents, who had been in the adjacent room, came through and I engaged them in conversation too.

At one point the fact emerged that the part of the house not open to the public was still lived in, and from there it was a short step to being identified as the fortune favoured person in residence.

The usual "Oh, you're so lucky," conversation ensued, but then the woman asked me "how do you get a job like that?"

I sketched in the sort of background needed.

"The thing is," she said, "my husband will be retiring in a few years and I can just see us in a place like this, pottering about."

Pottering about? Pottering? It's not their fault, I know. They obviously think that standing in the house, talking, is the job in its entirety. I debated telling them about the fact you can't leave the house without arranging cover, the three nights in a row I'd been awoken by the alarms sounding at 4am due to an errant bat, the working every weekend and Bank Holiday, the lack of privacy, the fact that if someone does crap all over the toilet seat then it's down to you to clean it up, and so on, but then thought better of it and simply explained how these jobs are advertised in the local press and can be searched for online, on our website.

They'll find out.

Successful Event Planning, the Stately Moans Way

When we first had the idea to hold a Fairy Tale Trail it seemed relatively simple. We'd held one before, after all. Apart from the trail itself, and our cunningly concealed creations, we only had to prepare an area for the activities we had promised - wand making, mask making, that sort of thing. A couple of tables in a marquee should do the trick.

Lovely Warden and my Boss duly arrived a couple of days before the event and put up the marquee. They hammered in the tent pegs and tethered it well. "Safe as houses," they declared.

"It looks a bit bare inside," McColleague mused, once it was up .

"We could get some material to create swags," I said, over-confidently, as if I knew about this sort of thing. "And hang up some fairy lights. It'll be a Magical Wonderland!"

So, we went into town and bought acres of pink material and returned, triumphant, ready to work our creative magic.

We were intercepted on our way to the office by a colleague. "Go and look at the moat!" she cried.

The problem was immediately apparent. My Magical Wonderland had developed a definite aquatic theme. Putting the swags up now was going to be a challenge.


I hastened to reassure bemused visitors and volunteers alike that we did not actually erect the marquee in the moat and that it must have blown in. After the tenth repetition I got bored with that and started telling people it was for a duck wedding instead.

Eventually help arrived, in the shape of our gardener, Lovely Warden and assorted other estate staff. They donned waders and climbed into the moat. Progress was not simple, due to the knee high mud and dense vegetation. I gamely assisted by taking photographs and calling out helpful comments like "Careful now!" and "I think it's going to tip over."

It tipped over. It was bit like a warmer, muddier version of Titanic.

"It's not going well, is it?" said McColleague, somewhat redundantly.

"Never let go!" I shouted, but it was too late. Several of the leg poles sank to the bottom of the moat, never to be recovered. That's really going to confuse the Time Teams of the future.

At last the bulk of the marquee was dragged out of the moat and onto dry land. Several key elements were broken, bent or entirely missing. The plastic covering was covered in foul smelling mud and pondweed.

"I don't think I'm going to bother with a marquee for Fairy Day," I decided. "Let's put a couple of tables in one of the buildings in the courtyard instead."

It was at this point we discovered that every single trestle table we owned had been taken away to one of the tenant farms, where they were hosting a wedding party. And that the building in question was full of a disassembled shed, some rusty metalwork and a rickety old piano.

If it wasn't for all the hot wardens-in-waders action the day could have been a tad on the frustrating side.

The Return of the Doris

It has been a stressful time lately, hence my quietness online.

There have been work issues ranging from staffing problems to grievance hearings, all of which have required my time and attention.

Then my father became ill and had to go into hospital and all my work related dramas paled into insignificance.

Anyhow, the good news is that while none of these issues are entirely resolved they are better than they were. I have decided to re-open the blog and continue posting on such vital subjects as biscuit consumption, suicidal sheep and batty behaviour.

Stay tuned for comedy marquee japes aplenty!

Directory Enquiries

The phone rings.

"Good morning. Could you tell me, are you open today?"

"Yes we are. The house opens at 12 noon and last admission is at 4.30."

"Oh, thank you. You really should have a word with your organisation, there's nothing about your place in the book. "

"I'm sure we are in the handbook."

"Well I couldn't find you."

"Hang on, I'm just checking in my copy. Yes, here we are."

"Where?"

"In the section for the Midlands. Page 244."

"No, you're not there."

"Page 244? Are you on page 244?"

"It's Hadrian's Wall on page 244."

"Which book are you looking in? It is the 2008 version isn't it?"

"Yes! 2008/2009 English Heritage!"

"Ah. We're not English Heritage."

"Ah."

Moments

It has been a bumpy ride lately.

The weekend was full of drama and tears and resignations.

The drama and resignations were not mine, thankfully, but some of the tears were. It was heavy going.

We did have some lighter moments, though.

McColleague and I were trying to look up an item online, part of a crossbow. It is called a Goat's Foot lever and I typed the relevant words into Google.

"I'm just going to get pictures of actual goats feet now, aren't I?"

Lovely Warden spoke up from his corner of the office. "You don't want to know what I got when I searched for helmet sanitiser."

Undercover Doris

Hello!

I know, I have been quiet of late.

And now I have taken the blog to invite only! "What's going on?" I hear you - yes, you - wail.

Well, I write a monthly article for our local magazine. Often there is a bit of an overlap with what I write about on Stately Moans and what goes into print. Especially if a tight deadline is looming.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a while back about a coach party. I tidied it up a little, made it user-friendly (I thought) and inoffensive and thought it would provide an amusing insight into managing a group of people who can't make up their minds what they want.

So I was somewhat dismayed to find an email from my Boss to say that he'd had a call from our Regional Office to say that a complaint about my article had been received and would I write no more until further notice. I hasten to add, it is just one letter, but rather than write to me, or the editor of the magazine, the complainant has chosen to go higher up the chain to inform the good people at Regional Office that I have "no empathy" for my visitors and that I should publicly apologise.

I have therefore decided to lay low until this situation is resolved. I have no reason to think anyone would search online to see if other amusing/offensive (depending on your point of view) articles on coach parties have been written, but decided to err on the side of caution until I am satisfied that all my posts on Stately Moans are safe to air.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.

Watch Your Step

I was typing at my computer when the volunteer on duty that day appeared in the office doorway.

"Doris," she said, "a visitor has just fallen down the stairs in the Gatehouse! I don't think she's hurt but you ought to come and have a word."

"Of course, I'll just grab my accident report form and a pen."

The Gatehouse is fabulously old and has a slight lean to it. The stairs are very steep, narrow and worn. You only have to look at the stairs to see they are not suitable for carelessly running up or down, yet, just to be on the safe side, we have a large sign at the foot of the stairs which reads "Please Take Great Care on the Stairs." Still, wherever you have steps and thousands of people, statistically, sooner or later, someone will miss their footing.

I followed my volunteer out into the house. She looked around her, perplexed. "Where's this visitor then?" I asked.

"Well, she was here a moment ago. Maybe she's gone to look round the other rooms." My volunteer went off to see if she could spot her, while I went the other way, into the Hall.

From the Hall you can go up to the Minstrel's Gallery and explore the rooms on the first floor. The staircase is old, made of oak, and we do warn our visitors to take care upon them, as they are somewhat steep and uneven.

As I stood by the staircase, looking around for my volunteer to see if she had found our missing accident prone visitor, I heard a cry, a thud and turned round in time to see a woman bumping down the last few stairs on her back.

"Not again!" she exclaimed as she slid to a stop.

"Um....are you by any chance the lady who fell down the stairs in the Gatehouse?" I asked.

She was.

I completed the necessary paperwork and mused on the odds of falling down both sets of stairs in the space of about ten minutes. It reminded me of the boy who was sick on the bug hunt and then fell in the moat, last year.

Some people really do know how to get the most from a day out.

Building Bridges

I'm not saying it's rickety and unsafe to cross, but the dog did opt to fling himself across the stream and take his chances scrabbling up the bank, rather than walk the plank.

And they often know about these things.

Lambing

I walk with Z every day. At the moment it is particularly beneficial as I am suffering from a protracted bout of sciatica and the best thing to do is keep active. The only problem is I am not overly good at bending at the moment, or climbing over fences to rescue stray lambs.

The lamb was running up and down the fence, bleating piteously, unable to get back into the field where its mother was unconcernedly munching grass.

"You climb over," I said to my daughter, who fortuitously happened to be with me, "and I'll stay here and hold the dog. Grab the lamb, and just chuck it over the fence."

Could there be a simpler plan?

Or a harder one to actualise?

Mind you, I did get a lot of amusement from watching my daughter chasing the lamb up and down the fenceline. She even caught it at one point but it wriggled so violently she had to let it go again. "There's no way I'm going to get it over the fence," she panted.

I took my phone from my pocket and dialled.

"Hello? Lovely Warden? Are you nearby?"

Lovely Warden is good at chasing sheep. He is speedy and strong. If there were a One Man and His Lovely Warden competition, he'd be a contender.

"No worries," he assured me, "I'll be there shortly."

And he was. He stepped into the arena and eyed his target. It was all over in a blur of wool and tanned legs.

Lovely Warden 1, Lost Lamb 0

I might let the cows out on my next walk, just to see how he does with larger prey.

Praise Be!

It's happened again!

Another miracle!

I've been feeling rather below par. I haven't slept properly in weeks, due to a bout of sciatica that has me waking up with my hip singing Ave Maria every night when I try to turn over in bed.

Driving is painful, so McColleague had kindly offered to drive me into town for the day. I'd limped around the shops for a few hours and then sat in leg aching misery in the passenger seat for the journey home, wishing all the while that I could be cured of this affliction.

As we approached the house we passed the "Tree Felling" signs that indicated wardens at work in the woods. Sure enough, there they were, clearing away the felled trees that were currently blocking the road.

"We won't be long," they said.

We decided to wait in the sunshine and watch them at work. I clambered, painfully, out of the car when - behold! The Face of Jaysus, in a tree stump!



It can surely only be a matter of time, medication and intense physiotherapy before my miracle cure is complete!

Blossom

The damson orchards are entering their full bloom stage.

I'm making the most of it right now, as the weekend should see it's fair share of cannon and musket fire, so I predict a blizzard of petals and bare branches by Monday.

Smells Like Festive Spirit

The electricians had been here for the best part of the day. So far they had got off to a bad start. After explaining the various problems that needed looking at I left them by the fusebox and returned to my office. I heard footsteps going upstairs. My daughter was in bed as she gets up at 5am to do her morning job and then gets her head down for a couple of hours when she returns. My husband had taken time off work and was enjoying a lie in. I dashed upstairs to warn them not to go into any of the bedrooms, but I was too late.

"Whaffuck?" said my husband as he awoke to find a strange man in the bedroom doorway.

I was cross. I hadn't said they could go upstairs in the first place, they hadn't said they were going off on a voyage of exploration, and you'd think they'd at least knock before heading into bedrooms with closed doors.

I returned, stompily, to my office. Where the computer screen went dark, the lights went out and the fire door slammed shut as the power was unexpectedly cut off.

I was cross. "You could give me a warning before you do that," I said. "Otherwise I lose whatever I was working on."

They apologised.

They moved on to the installation of a new immersion heater. The old one would trip the switches every time I tried to use it on its overnight setting. I could have hot water if I remembered to manually switch on the immersion heater, but the night time setting had to be deactivated.

The first sign all was not going smoothly was the request for a mop and bucket.

The next was the sound of pouring water some time later.

When the electrician came through to ask me to call a plumber I knew for sure.

The verdict was not good. The old immersion had been tricky to remove, so a bit of pressure was applied and the result was a broken hot water tank.

"I can't get hold of a new tank until Friday morning" said the plumber.

The thought of two long days without hot water loomed before me. It didn't help that the weather had just become very cold again and the thought of shivering in the bathroom while trying to have a strip wash in the basin was not an encouraging one.

"I know," said my husband. "We could bring the urn over - that would be a useful way to heat up lots of hot water."

"It's broken," I wailed.

"There is the other urn," said McColleague. "The one we do mulled wine in."

The urn we use for mulled wine can be used for no other hot beverage. No matter how thoroughly it is cleaned after use, it never loses the smell. Still, it does, inarguably, heat up a lot more water at once than a kettle. Handy for washing pots and pans and me.

So, for the next couple of days I washed in water still slightly scented with cinammon, cloves and red wine. It was great to get the new hot water tank fitted, but I do rather miss smelling like Christmas.

These Are Not Just Pants...

I did not attend the pre-season conference this year.

My Boss did, and was therefore the one to receive the certificate awarded to our team by the Director General for exceptional results in recruiting new members last season. He duly put it in a frame and presented it to me upon his return.

This was enough to make myself and my visitor reception assistants preen with pride, so imagine our delight when we heard that there was an actual prize element to the award too! "Our apologies for not having the prizes ready for the pre-season conference," the email read. "Your vouchers will be in the post tonight."

The morning's post did not disappoint. Inside the big envelope addressed to me were four smaller envelopes, one for me and one for each of my visitor reception team.

Thirty pounds worth of Marks and Spencer vouchers each! Unexpected riches!

I don't know what the rest of the team have bought with theirs but McColleague and I immediately took ourselves into town for a bra shopping marathon. (I should point out at this stage that McColleague didn't win any vouchers, being on the conservation side of things, not visitor services. She came along solely to keep me company in my bra buying frenzy.)

I managed to get the whole ensemble for my thirty quid. Bra, matching knickers, and seamed fishnet stockings. How tempted do you think I am to rip open my work issue anorak and shout "look what I bought with my award vouchers!" next time I meet the Director General?