Open All Hours

"And you actually live here? You're so lucky!"

I hear this at least once a day. I try not to let on that I live here. When visitors ask about the part of the house not open to the public, I just say that it is still lived in. If pressed, I'll go as far as to say it is lived in by a member of staff. The volunteers, however, will rat me out in a heartbeat. "Doris lives here!" they state, pointing at me as I try to slink by, unnoticed.

And yes, it is amazing, and I am lucky, and it is beautiful....but....

The drawback is, of course, it is incredibly rare to just enjoy it, as when you live where you work, you are never really off duty. Closed days and evenings are very important to me, and the family, as these are the only times we can relax and treat the place as our home. Which, of course, it is, it's just that when the public are here you can't go playing loud music, washing the car in the courtyard, letting the dog out, lighting up the barbecue or even hanging out the laundry.

Next year the amount of time when the house is closed is set to diminish further, with opening times set to be earlier in the mornings and the open season starting in February and continuing until December, wherever possible. This means the time I can have to myself, undisturbed, is very precious to me.

The trouble is, my colleagues, the ones who work Monday to Friday, 9 to 5, who go home at the end of the day to a house they have all to themselves, keep booking in extra events and visits for every closed day and evening they can. I am thinking of becoming a naturist, just so I can go outside for a game of wobbly volleyball, or maybe jiggly pilates, and unsettle everyone so much they never disturb me during my time off again.

Centrepiece

I asked my daughter to create a centrepiece for the dinner table. Something special, as we were making a bit of an effort.

This is what she came up with.

I like it.

Tiny Frog!

It's that time of year again! Tiny frogs! (Or possibly toads. They are too tiny for me to tell.) There was great excitement, and a poor quality camera phone picture, when we found our first of the season.

At this time each year, when the nights are wet, they appear, in my kitchen, hopping across the terracotta tiles, slowly becoming covered in a tumbleweed of dog hair, until they are captured and put outside again. Last year they reached biblical proportions. We collected 50 in a box and emptied back outside, and by the time we'd done that, the kitchen was full again. It makes it very hard to walk from one room to another without stepping on them. What makes it harder is that when they are still they look like little stones.

"They're softer on your feet than gravel, though," opined my daughter.

Gloomy

If there's one thing guaranteed to send me into a bit of a tailspin, it's finding a curt, arsey memo in my pigeon-hole on the day that its author has flown off on holiday for a week.

Rainy Days and Biscuits

"Ah, Doris!"

"Yes?"

"I noticed there were some broken biscuits in the tin, so I took the liberty of feeding them to the ducks. They seemed to appreciate it. I hope you don't mind?"

"No, no, that's fine."

Later on I cleared away the dirty cups and plates from the volunteer's corner, and lifted the biscuit tin to wipe away the tea stains and crumbs from beneath. It was suspiciously light. I lifted the lid and peered inside.

Two sodding biscuits. That's all he'd left me. Two.

"I would have eaten the broken biscuits," wailed my daughter, upon this discovery.

"It's this wet weather," I explained. "It sends them all mad."

Wet Weather Day

On a rainy day, midweek, visitors can be scarce. The staff member in the ticket office, the volunteer in the shop, and the stewards in the house can become very bored after a while. Of course, in the shop and ticket office, in between customers, it is possible to read a book, do a crossword puzzle - one of my ladies brings her knitting with her. It is slightly harder to do entertain yourself in the house in a similar manner, and the volunteers have to find other ways to keep themsleves occupied.

This can take various forms, ranging from moving items about, to a layout they prefer, or putting all the lights on. Many cups of tea are made. Useful suggestions are thought of and searching questions are asked. I receive many more notes scribbled on scraps of paper on a rainy day. My volunteer in the house today though prefers to talk. He knows a great deal, and likes to share his knowledge. When there are lots of visitors he has lots of people to talk to. His attention is divided, diluted. On a day like today he stands in the gloom of the Hall, raindrops dripping from the roses above the door, bored and bursting with information to impart. When he spots a kagouled couple making their way up the drive, his eyes light up with anticipation. They will be the recipients of his undivided attention as he gives them the full 45 minute personal guided tour they never knew they wanted. Some people love it, others I have to rescue. I'll spot them, backed into a corner, eyes darting nervously from side to side, trying to spot an exit, as my volunteer continues, oblivious, lost in his happy place.

The wet weather is set to continue. I have encouraged everyone to bring in a game.

A Reply

I received a reply to the email I sent to the headmaster of the local comprehensive school, following the Unpleasant Incident of last week.

Dear Ms Sparrow

Thank you for your email which was passed to me on Tuesday 7 May.

I share your sense of frustration and disappointment at the way in which a small minority of our students have failed to conduct themselves in keeping with the expectations of the school. The whole situation as you describe it is unacceptable.

The role of the teacher in charge of the situation is clear. If students misbehave in such a way they should have automatically forfeited their place at and been brought back into school.

I will share your email and my reply with the teacher concerned. It may be because the teacher concerned is a supply member of staff and that he is uncertain as to the action he is empowered to take in such a situation. Both the Deputy Head and I will make it perfectly clear as to the action the school believes is appropriate.

I will also share my reply with the Property Manager, . My view is that these particular students should not be allowed to come to again.

I hope you will appreciate that the school completely supports you in this matter and that you accept my personal apologies for what has happened. IT is disgraceful and there is no excuse for this type of behaviour.

I also hope that you will understand that this small group of students are not representative of the student body as a whole and any further groups working at will conduct themselves very differently.

Please do not hesitate to contact me if there are any future difficulties with our students, as action will be swift and decisive.

Yours sincerely

Headteacher.

I am impressed, my faith is restored, and all is right with the world.

Alarming

"Wake up!"

"Wha'?"

"The alarm's going off again!"

Sodding hell. That was the second time in as many hours. My other half dutifully went to check if there were any actual burglars, while I phoned the alarm receiving centre to let them know it had happened again.

It's the same room every time. When checked, nothing is there at all. No intruders, no bats, nothing. The doors and windows are securely closed. I think the problem lies within the detector unit itself. It has become self aware and is attempting to communicate with me via the medium of sleep deprivation.

Jobs for the Boys

We made a sign:

"The last servants left here in 1947.

Please wash and put away any crockery used and take your rubbish with you.

Many thanks!"

New Warden had landed the choice job of putting up the noticeboard above the sink, so that we could display our finely crafted sign. This has been his first week on the job, and, I imagine, quite a learning curve. He has probably not saved a single dormouse or surveyed a solitary fungus. He has learned when we need the rubbish taking up to the wheelie bins, when we put the kettle on, where to gather greenery and flowers for May Day garland-making activities and how to run a wattle and daub workshop for school children.

"Have you got a tape measure?" he asked McColleague.

"Oh, no need to bother with that," she replied. "Just put it up by sight."

"But what if it's not level?"

"Then I'll make you do it again."

A pause. A smile.

He is learning when we are only joking.

An Unpleasant Incident

A cacophony of noise came from outside my bedroom window. Squawking, quacking and an underlying thud of running feet.

I peered out of the window and saw a galumphing great youth chasing the resident bird population along the bank of the moat. I could make out some other people sitting on the bench nearby.

Great. My day off and now it looked like I'd have to go out and move someone on already, and it wasn't even 9am yet. I hurriedly completed getting dressed and then became aware of heavy splashes. I went back to the window. I could see the same teenager crouching by the edge of the moat, throwing stones at something beyond my view, but I could hazard a guess it was any wildlife that hadn't flown away.

I dashed downstairs and out of the back door, and by the time I got to the group on the bench, Lovely Warden had arrived. He explained that these were a group of students from the local comprehensive school. Not overly blessed with an aptitude for academia, they were here to do a bit of outdoor work. I explained that I suspected them of throwing stones at the birdlife.

"They have got a teacher with them," said Lovely Warden. "He's obviously doing a great job of supervising them."

"Are you staying with them?" I asked, hopefully.

"No, but they should be fine, they're working round the back, in the kitchen garden."

"Ok..."

I had grave misgivings. I wanted to go out and enjoy the glorious sunshine, but I was afraid to leave the house unattended. I did not trust them.

And, as ever, my gut instincts were spot on.

Lunchtime came around, and the work party came back to the moat to have their sandwiches. I watched them from the window. Two of the kids were crouched down by the waters edge, lobbing whatever they could find, hard, at the reeds by the opposite bank.

I threw open the front doors of the house and emerged on the opposite side of the moat to them like an avenging angel.

"Are you throwing stones at my ducks?" I demanded.

An adult voice answered me. To my astonishment their teacher was sat on the bench, with them.

"No, at the moorhens," he said.

I boggled. What was wrong with the man?

"Well don't!"

"I've asked them to stop, but they won't".

"What?!" I had reached the incandescent stage. "Don't ask them, tell them. Now I'm telling you. This is my home, not just somewhere I work, and I have shouldn't be afraid to leave my house on my day off for fear of what you lot will do to the wildlife while I'm gone! If you can't respect this place you shouldn't be here. In fact, I want you gone. Go. Now."

I stormed back inside and immediately contacted everyone I possibly could, to express my rage.

I was angry that I hadn't been informed that anyone would be on site in the first place, I was angry that they were here on my day off - I would have liked to have taken my breakfast and lunch out to the moat and enjoyed a picnic in the sunshine without a load of local fuckwittted yobbos lobbing rocks at the ducks. I don't suppose my Boss, or the new Learning Officer would want them in their back yard on their days off. I was angry at the louts for behaving so reprehensibly, but the main portion of my ire was reserved for the teacher who was supposedly supervising them. I would have had them straight back on the mini bus after the first stone was thrown.

The upshot of it all was that Lovely Warden returned and took them away to another part of the estate, where he gave them a lecture on respect. My Boss then intercepted the mini bus before it left and also read them the riot act. I am slightly mollified, but still out for idiot blood. My nostrils are still slightly flared and I have a mad glint in my eye. I am very, very protective of all in my care.

Healthy Options

My nearest post box is at the top of the estate, a distance of nearly 2 miles, all uphill.

I'd been working on the end of month accounts all morning, pausing now and then to gaze wistfully outside at the glorious sunshine. Once I'd finished and was left with a pile of very important paperwork to put in the post I made the decision to cycle to the post box, rather than drive.

I can see now why most of the time I take the car. It is so quick and easy. First I had to find something to carry my post in, on the bike, and then I had to hunt for a water bottle. Then I discovered the front tyre of the bike was looking a little soft and turned the place upside down searching for a pump.

I did, however, spot Lovely Warden and Gardener working by the moat. I wheeled the bike round to them. "I don't suppose, by any chance, you have a bicycle pump to hand?"

Lovely Warden never ceases to amaze me. He waded out of the moat, rummaged in his bag and produced a bicycle pump. Outstanding. Tyre inflated, I was good to go. "Right," I announced. "I am off to the post box."

"The one in town?"

"Um, no. Just at the top of the estate."

I went on to explain how I was not only reducing my carbon footprint, but was determined to be less fat and more fit by the end of the year. "So, if you see me eating something lardy, feel free to slap it away and shout 'no!'"

"So, we have permission to strike you, then?"

"Only if it's something unhealthy," I specified, somewhat concerned at this eager response.

"Have you got a cycle helmet?" asked Gardener.

"No, but I do have big hair," I replied. "I'm sure it must have some protective qualities."

I set off. The slope is gradual, but relentless. My goal is to get a bit further each time I do this before having to get off and walk for a bit. I was about halfway up when I heard a van approaching. It was Lovely Warden and Gardener off to the top to get more equipment from the forestry yard.

"How's it going?"

"It's really hard," I puffed and panted. "If I have a heart attack, will you pick me up on the way back down?"

They assured me they would and went on their way. I went on my way, only rather more slowly. There comes a point when you're cycling uphill, really slowly, in the lowest gear possible, when elderly people overtake you on foot and it gets a bit embarrassing. I paused again in the shade, sitting on a fallen tree trunk and gratefully drinking the water I'd brought. The Gardener's van pulled up alongside me again.

"Almost there then!" he cried, cheerfully.

"Almost," I wheezed.

I waited for the van to depart before resuming my slow crawl to the top of the estate. I weaved my way between the sheep and lambs on the road. They had no need to fear my approach

today!

At last I reached my destination. I stuffed my letters into the post box triumphantly. Yes!

The ride back down made it all worthwhile. The road spun out beneath me, the sheep were woolly white blurs, I rattled over the cattle grids and I remembered to stand up on the pedals as I did so.

By the time I'd put the bike back in the shed Lovely Warden and Gardener were back by the moat again, continuing their good work in fixing the leaking water supply. I wandered over to see how they were doing, my legs still somewhat achey and my face feeling like it must be as red as the post box.

"Did you win," they asked, "or are you still fighting?"

"Still fighting, a bit," I answered, truthfully. "Shall I get us all an ice cream?"

(In case you were wondering, I had a Calippo, which was the healthiest option available, so avoided having it smacked out of my hands with a muddy shovel).

Careful Now!

"We'll need an extension lead," mused my Boss, thoughtfully. We were stood around an unplugged freezer in one of the outbuildings we use for storage up at the Estate Office.

"Is there a socket anywhere?" asked McColleague.

"Yes, at the other end of the building. We could make a hole in the ceiling in the tea room stores, and thread a lead through the roof space."

Lovely Warden arrived with an extension lead.

"Up you go, Sam," said my Boss.

("Sam" is not Lovely Warden's name. My Boss calls all men "Sam" and all women "Gert". It saves him from having to remember too many names.)



I watched in trepidation as Lovely Warden stepped up onto a swivel chair, wedged in amongst the junk, balanced on a plank of wood on top of a step, and then progressed up a pile of rather flimsy-looking boxes, before wriggling through the small gap into the roof space.

Much tapping, and knocking ensued, as Lovely Warden and the Boss married up the end of the lead with a hole in the ceiling.

He emerged, backwards, some time later, lead in hand, covered in cobwebs and grime.

"Coming back out was the hardest part," he said. "I couldn't see my feet. It's hard enough when there's a ladder, but with just boxes and a swivel chair..."

McColleague and I nodded. We had seen just how tricky it was. I had only managed to capture one image without camera shake, due to laughing so much.

"Well, at least you're down safely! No more health and safety concerns for us."

"Here, Sam," said the Boss, fiddling with the plug he was attempting to reconnect to the lead hanging from the hole in the ceiling, "you'd better check this. I can't see a bloody thing."

I gave McColleague the look that means "get ready to dislodge him with a broom handle, should this go horribly wrong".

There was no big shock, no sparks, however, just a satisfying thrum of a functioning chest freezer. Hurrah. Now we can store more bread rolls than ever before! Worth every exciting moment, I'm sure you'll agree.

A Change of Pace

Today I have been in the company of my 20 month old soon-to-be-godchild. All my dealings with staff and volunteers today were conducted with a littl'un balanced on one hip, or sat on my lap bashing away quite happily at the computer keyboard.

We went on an adventure through the orchards, across the meadows and down to the brook. We climbed up molehills and peered under bridges for trolls. We squeezed into Snow White's dwarf-sized cottage and spread out on the giant chess board.

We ate ice cream and strawberries and had chocolate smiles and sticky fingers. There was talk of poo and bogies.

It was so nice to spend the day with someone completely on my intellectual level for once.

Duck Attack!

I like ducks. They are nature's safety birds - rounded beaks, webbed feet. There is a reason why duck fighting never caught on.

They can still startle you in their quest for stray grains though.

The Slippy Slidey Slope of Doom

That's what I call the long, muddy incline that features on one of the walks through the woods.

McColleague and I take the occasional bike ride together when the weather is warm. Usually we cycle to the local pub, have a couple of beers and some chips, and then ride home again, full of lard and lager.

Running out of steam halfway up the Slippy Slidey Slope of Doom, I dismounted and decided to push the bike the rest of the way. As I slid back down past McColleague, the bike on top of me, I realised it wasn't going to be that simple.

"Are you all right?" called McColleague.

"I'm ok! I'm all right!" I assured her as I continued my descent. "Just a bit muddy. Can you help get the bike off me?"

I may need to re-think the route for next time.

Whodunnit?

The Evidence:

Found outside the gatehouse, moments before letting in the visitors.

The Usual Suspects:

Janet

Age 17

Special moves: eating chicken, dribbling and staring.

Jules

Age 2

Special moves: using my leg as a scratching post, getting stuck up trees and sitting in people's trousers while they're on the toilet.

Vince

Age 2

Special moves: dangerous rooftop manoeuvres and killing small creatures with ruthless efficiency.

Time Off

I am taking a couple of days in lieu this week, seeing as though I worked a six day week, including two bank holidays, over Easter.

So far on my day off I have:

• Organised volunteer cover for tomorrow.
• Bought cake and biscuits for the volunteers.
• Brought through their cups, milk, kettle etc.
• Completed the end of week returns and faxed them to regional office.
• Banked the takings.
• Bought a new ink cartridge for the printer.
• Got change for the tea room.
• Sorted out the floats for tomorrow.
• Washed up all the volunteers cups and plates.

But by far the most bizarre interruption of my day off was from McColleague. I was sat in my living room, sketching, when I heard her call from outside the door.

"Doris! Do you know where (something something) is?"

"What?" I put down my sketch book and pencil and opened the door. "Do I know where the what is?"

I stopped short. McColleague was stood there with our young volunteer. Both had tiny ducklings clutched in each hand. "Peep!" said the ducklings.

"Do you know where the mother duck is?" repeated McColleague.

"Um...no...she's not in here with me, anyway." I was confused. Why were my colleagues outside my living room, holding tiny fuzzy ducklings at me?

"We found these all by themselves near the chapel, and there was no mother duck anywhere near. I was afraid they were going to get run over by the builder's van. We've walked right round the moat but not found the mother duck."

"Could be on mini-moat," I ventured, "or the slurry pit."

Eventually we did track down mother duck, with the rest of her brood, on mini-moat. The tiny, peeping ducklings were set down carefully by the water's edge, and mother duck immediately took off to the other side of the moat. She is a bad mother duck. Shirking her responsibilities like that. After we backed off and some time had passed she finally accepted them back into her brood. A happy ending! I returned to the house and attempted to resume my sketching.

Tomorrow I am going to go out.

A Grumble

I was covering for my Visitor Reception Assistant, on the desk in the ticket office. The sun was shining brightly and everyone had a smile. Everyone, that is, except the woman now standing before me.

"Hello!" I said.

"You don't have any shady parking areas for people with dogs."

I looked over her shoulder at the car park. It's just a big field, really.

"No," I conceded, "but it's a new car park and we have planted lots of trees, so in a few years there'll be more shady areas."

She gave me a look and "Hmmm"ed at me.

"I can't make them grow any faster," I assured her. "But in the meantime why not bring the dog with you? We allow dogs on leads in the grounds."

Honestly, who brings dogs out with them for the day just to leave in the car anyway?

The Sunday Whinge

This is what happens when I foolishly leave my breakfast unattended for a nanosecond.

I am particularly tired and drained today and had hoped to have a quiet day behind the scenes. I really didn't feel up to being front of house for five hours straight. I looked forward to leaving it in the hands of my volunteer who, naturally, didn't turn up. I wouldn't mind, but she didn't turn up when she was last meant to be on duty either. She was most apologetic, mind you. Sent me a card to say sorry, explained that she has lost her diary, and then came to my office in person to sign up for her next shift. "Let me write these dates down for you," I said, "seeing as though you haven't got a diary." Why I thought a couple of post-it notes were going to remain in her possession any longer than her diary managed to I have no idea. I must have been in a wildly optimistic mood. Maybe it was when I ate that entire Easter egg in one go.

I hardly dare phone her now, to see what happened this time. Assuming she's fine and just forgot, she will be so mortified I'll wish I never mentioned it. If she isn't fine, then I'll feel mortified. I'm not quite sure what the ideal outcome to this scenario could be...Suggestions?

A Flurry of Activity

"Where's the tin?"

"What tin?"

"The cash tin for the desk?"

"It's there," I said, indicating the donations tin.

"But what if people want change?"

"We don't give them change, it's a donation. We haven't had a cash tin on the desk for the past three years, remember?"

My volunteer gave me a blank look. It was his first time back in this season. He'd obviously jettisoned all prior knowledge as surplus to requirements over the winter. He's not alone in this.

...

"Where are the laminated sheets about the guns, they don't seem to be in the drawer?"

"No, we're not having laminated sheets out on display any more, we've put them in the folder, remember?"

...

"Do you want the centre light on, or the lamp, in the Business Room?"

"Um...it seems really bright and sunny to me today, Mildred....I don't think we need a light on at all. Remember the damage light can do?"

...

"Mildred's just fallen down the stairs!"

"What? Our stairs?"

"Yes, she was halfway down, missed her tread, and fell down the rest of them."

"Is she ok?"

"Yes, but a bit shaken."

"I'd better do an accident report. What was she doing up the stairs anyway?"

"Think she was putting the lights on."

...

"Can you read this?"

McColleague was pointing to a tiny inscription on the handle of an old umbrella from the Business Room. I looked up from the accident report form for Mildred.

"Um...no...why?"

"A visitor wanted to know. I'll get the magnifying glass."

...

"No, I still can't see anything. It's too small. Who on earth wants to know stuff like this?"

"Tell him it's a manufacturers stamp."

"Ok."

....

"Umbrella Man says your drain's blocked."

"What drain?"

"The drain outside your bathroom window."

"What's he doing looking at that?"

McColleague shrugged.

"Ask Lovely Warden to poke it with a pointy stick, that usually does it. It's probably just leaves."

...

"Bloody hell."

"What?"

"I've just bumped into Umbrella Man again. This time he says there's a lamb separated from its mother outside - couldn't we hear it bleating?"

Just then the radio squawked into life.

"Ticket Office to Doris - there is a lamb running up the drive."

"Yup, OK, we're on it!"

...

Outside the house a small black and white Jacobs lamb was indeed out on the road, racing toward the horizon.

"It's one of yours," I said to my Boss, who happened to be on site at the time.

The ensuing chase was the highlight of my day. Lovely Warden came at it from one end of the road, my Boss from the other. There was running and jumping, leaps, bounds, falls and shouting. McColleague and I watched the whole thing from our vantage point on the front lawn. We doubled over with laughter. The whole event was drawing quite a crowd. At long last the lamb was finally persuaded to run back into the field and was reunited with its mother. The Boss walked back to McColleague and I, holding up a bloodstained hand.

"Need the First Aid kit," he smiled. "I dived for the lamb, missed, and grabbed the barbed wire fence."

"Aw, I'll have to do another accident report now."

"The thing is," confided the Boss as he dabbed at his wound with an antiseptic wipe, "what I usually do when I'm trying to catch one of my lambs is kick its feet out from under it as it tries to run past. But I couldn't do that with everyone looking."

McColleague and I nodded understandingly. Kicking lambs never goes down well with the visitors over the Easter holidays.

It's All Gone Quiet Over Here...

Oh, the luxury. All day off today. Even if the next Bank Holidays are as busy, at least they are in isolation, rather than the Good Friday to Easter Monday four day marathon.

In many ways we were victims of our own success. Taking the view that if you don't do well at Easter you never really get a chance to catch up, I embarked on an extensive marketing campaign. That, combined with the warm, sunny weather, led to unprecedented numbers making their way to the house.

I know the financial types at Regional Office will see the statistics and rub their hands with glee. And, yes, it is good to make some money. However, I feel the house was at its limits over the weekend, with numbers so high as to detract from the experience for everyone.

The house suffered a great deal of wear and tear. I noted with dismay a broken piece of the spinning wheel, simply discarded on the table. The crewel-work bedding on the oaken four-poster has chocolatey stains on it, and I picked up everything from discarded food wrappers to nappy bags and stickers from the floor. The ancient typewriter in the Business Room had its keys jammed down, pot pourri had been scattered liberally through the bedroom and anything small and moveable had been moved. It saddens and frustrates me, as I am loathe to litter the house with "Do Not Touch" signs. Many parents feel that the typical country house experience is an unfriendly one, with everything roped off and room stewards frowning upon boisterous behaviour from children. Yet, here, where nothing is roped off, we find that some parents seem quite happy to allow their offspring to leap upon the bed, bash away at the old typewriter or break bits off the spinning wheel. When we are not so crowded it is easier for us to engage our young visitors and explain why we mustn't treat fragile objects so harshly, but when we are crammed to the rafters it just isn't possible. You'd hope people would have a little more respect for their surroundings.

The crowds also meant managing the event was a tougher job than usual. Last year we ran tractor and trailer rides at Easter and the public responded with apathy. I had to wander around the grounds trying to round people up to fill the trailer, and the poor farmer just sat there, waiting, for hours. This year it was like a scene from Alton Towers. The queues were huge! I couldn't believe how many people had assembled at the boarding point. There was no way they would all fit on to the trailer. I began to think I should have introduced some sort of ticketing system, rather than the "first come, first served" approach which had always stood me in good stead previously. "Are you ok to squeeze in a few extra tours?" I whispered to the farmer. Thankfully, he was.

So, the people in the queue began to board the trailer for the first tour of the day and there came a point where I had to say "Sorry folks, that's it for this one, but it will return in just under an hour! In the meantime, please enjoy the sunshine, the giant games, the falconry and animals, and the farmer will be back as soon as he can!"

All well and good. About 50 minutes later the tractor could be seen a good quarter of a mile away, returning back to the house for the next tour. I went to meet it and manage the queue. Already there was a horde of people waiting for the next one. God, it was hard. Trying to stop people from standing directly in front of a reversing trailer and tractor, trying to stop them trying to surge onto the trailer before the current occupants had disembarked, trying to get them to stand back far enough so that people could get down the steps safely. Trying to get them to move aside so that they were no longer obscuring the disabled parking area. All very trying. At last the next load of people had swarmed onto the trailer and I was giving my apologies to those who had failed to make it on board this time. One lady was not happy.

"We didn't get onto the first tour, and now we've not go onto this one. We've already waited an hour! I don't want to tell you your job or anything, but maybe you should look at some sort of ticketing system."

This situation repeated itself on a hourly basis. Finally closing time came around and as I waved the last trailer tour of the day off site and walked back to the house another visitor intercepted me. "Can I just make a comment?" she asked. Escape was not an option. My feet ached too much to run far. "Yes, of course!" I beamed.

"We've just done the trailer tour and it was excellent, really good fun, the kids loved it."

"Great!"

"Yes, thing is, I don't know if you've done these before, but maybe you should look at some sort of ticketing system?"

Next time I am going to introduce some sort of ticketing system.

Oh, and the cows did shit all over the giant chess board and several of the pieces.

Ducklings Do Not So Much Fly, as Plummet

Yesterday evening the duck eggs in the hollow oak tree finally hatched! Mother duck had left the nest and was circling the base of the tree, quacking incessantly, while her fluffy ducklings teetered on the edge of the hole and refused to jump. Round and round went mother duck, her quacks become increasingly plaintive.

I spotted increased movement in the hole in the tree and then one bold duckling went for it. He kind of plummeted head first to the ground and landed on his back, bounced a goodly way in the air, and then took off after his still-circling mum, apparently none the worse for wear. The other ducklings obviously saw his bad landing and thought "no way". They refused to budge.

As the evening drew on, my other half could stand it no longer. "I'm going to hoy them out of there," he announced.

"But, that's not part of nature's plan," I protested.

"Yeah, well, I don't see that falling on their heads is part of nature's plan. I'm going to get them out."

So, up he climbed. "Oh wow," he said, peering inside the hole.

"Take a picture," I cried. Precariously, hanging on with one hand and trying hard not to fall out of the tree and into the moat, he did:

One by one, he handed down a duckling to my outstretched hands, and I then put them on the grass, where they were happily reunited with their mother. We counted out thirteen ducklings in total, and each and every one of them crapped in my hands. Can't say I blame them.

Our intervention doesn't seem to have done them any harm. They drew crowds all afternoon at the Easter event. There may have been giant games, birds of prey, exotic reptiles, insects, mammals, tractor and trailer rides, quizzes and chocolate eggs yet the ducklings were proving to be strong competition.

Unprecedented numbers of people turned up today. Our trailer rides were so popular they were totally over-subscribed and we had to shoehorn in an extra couple of tours. There isn't an ice cream left in the shop. My feet hurt. But, this is what makes it all worthwhile - a lovely couple of comments cards left for me this evening:

"By far the best place I have visited - lovely surroundings and good walks. The children enjoyed the games and quiz - a perfect day"

and

"I think it was the best I've ever been to - Emily, age 7".

And best of all, I get to do it all again tomorrow! Pass the wine...

Chess, Calves and a Broody Duck

The public did indeed play with the chess set today. All our outdoor games were very popular. My main problem now is keeping the escapee calves away from it all. I don't want them to crap all over the board. They are very interested in the big games. And the dog keeps making off with the croquet balls.

This duck has also decided to go where she can cause maximum disruption. This weekend we proudly unveiled our new exhibition in the courtyard. A wonderful collection of new interpretation panels and interactive displays on 700 years of forestry and farming on the estate. One of our key exhibits was our "listening post", where you can press a button on the display and hear various people talking about various aspects of farming on the estate through the ages. This was in an alcove of its own. The last week has seen countless men in heavy boots clumping in and out, sawing bits of wood, wiring up the speakers, shifting out the junk. And, lo and behold, a broody duck decided this was the ideal spot to lay her eggs.

Her nest is a bizarre mix of an old latex glove, a used tea light, some plastic bags and feathers. Unperturbed by the activity around her she has sat stoically on her nest all week. I was concerned she'd get trodden on, being so well camouflaged, so McColleague brought in a fireguard to put around her (leaving space for her to get in and out, of course!)

I have roped off the alcove altogether, with a little sign saying "Do Not Disturb. Nesting Duck." She is proving far more of an attraction than the listening post, which, somewhat unsurprisingly, turned out not to work properly anyway.

Hours of Work for Sheer Seconds of Pleasure

Assembling a giant chessboard is neither quick nor easy. It is frustrating, hurts your fingers and takes well over an hour, even with four of you working on it. It takes longer to put together than to play an actual game of chess.

The manufacturers of the Giant Chess Game are sadistic bastards.

The public better bloody well play with it now.

Bunny Girl

I have worded my press releases very carefully this year, in the run up to Easter.

If I am not careful, I can end up having to portray the gist of my press release for the benefit of the local press photographer. This leads to scenarios like these.

My press release this year emphasises all the other attractions we have to offer visitors this forthcoming weekend. The many activities and special features that cannot be illustrated by me holding an Easter Egg aloft or grinning like a maniac at a small fluffy chick. Anything to avoid having to wear a bunny costume about four sizes too small for me ever again.

Great Expectations

I have long needed extra help in the house. McColleague is a one woman wonder, a dynamo, and does far more than the actual six hours a week she's actually paid for. Still, no matter how far we stretch those six hours, they in no way cover all that needs doing. This means that when McColleague isn't here, I fill in the gaps. When I fill in the gaps, my important managerial tasks involving files, reports, budgets and other bits of paperwork, do not happen. When vital bits of paper don't arrive on Important Person's desks on the appointed day, I receive terse little emails, stressing how very important it is that the visitor statistics are received on time. I then have to send terse little replies about how very important it is to have the house open on time for people to visit in the first place. Before you know it we're all being terse, and where is the love?

Of course money is always the problem. No finances for extra hours for McColleague, let alone for an additional member of staff. So, I put out a plea for conservation volunteers to help in the house.

To my utter astonishment, someone was interested! A delightful young woman applied to become a full time volunteer conservation assistant. The question was, would she be put off by the actuality of the job itself? The perception is that there will be lots of wearing white cotton gloves, cleaning ceramics with a cotton bud or dusting with a pony hair brush. The truth is that interesting, meticulous tasks like those take up a tiny proportion of the working year, with the vast majority of the time taken up with boring old hoovering and dusting. There just isn't time to do anything else before the house opens to the public each day. The basics are dull, but necessary. Bat poo needs to be hoovered up, dead flowers need to be replaced with fresh ones, litter bins need emptying and loo rolls replacing.

All of this was explained in advance, in great detail to our New Girl, and, to her credit, she still turned up to give it a go. Along with the conservation side of things, she was also interested in learning about how a heritage site is managed, so at least she's getting an honest experience.

I hope she finds it has been worthwhile. (There is a tendency to worry you're not giving your volunteer interesting enough tasks, so you end up emptying the bins and doing the hoovering while they get to do something more glamorous or fun. Several of my counterparts at other properties have fell into the same trap. I am trying hard not to let it happen this time. The job is what it is, after all.) She keeps coming back, and she's still smiling, so it bodes well.

A key educational moment came fairly early on in her volunteerhood. Myself, McColleague and the New Girl were outside installing solar powered lights along the path, ready for an evening event. The lights were mounted on the end of a black plastic stick, with a pointy end, so you can just push them into the ground wherever you need them. Well, in theory, anyway. The ground was proving too hard.

"McColleague, " I yelled down the path. "Fetch the hammer and a bit of wood!"

I turned to smile at the New Girl. "There," I said. "When you hear me call for the hammer and a bit of wood, you know that's proper conservation."

This week I have told her to bring her wellies, as I have another conservation project in store. If she sticks with it, I may break out the cotton buds and white gloves, as a treat.

Carry On Innuendo

The Gardener decided to have some sport with McColleague.

"I heard a rumour about you and Lovely Warden," he said.

"Oh yes?" replied McColleague, with a due sense of wariness.

"I heard he rubbed his nuts on your chest."

"That's true, he did."

"Were they raw?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Were they raw? Or were they cooked? The nuts."

"You are a very naughty man and I am not going to talk to you any more."

The News in Brief

Two geese set up residence on the moat. They are very noisy. They make honking noises that rival the alarm system for startling me out of bed in a "what in the yellow rubbery fuck was that?" kind of way. They also do enormous poo. They may come to a bad end.



Froggy love has happened. It looks like an explosion in a tapioca factory out there. I had to shovel spawn into the moat from where some horny toads had peaked too soon, before they reached the water. Dirty amphibians.



Dead mole found on back drive, in comedy "I am so dead" pose. Kept it to prove to the gardener that the cats do more than just shit in the flowerbeds.



HR department sends all staff a cardboard folder in which to file their important self developmental paperwork. I am going to customise mine. I am thinking of writing the word "arrested" on it, after the word "my", in crayon. Or something. Suggestions?

Roadkill

I just ran over a squirrel.

My husband was pleased. As far as he's concerned, grey squirrels are vermin, to be shot before they get at the hazelnuts.

I always try very hard not to kill anything on my journeys through the estate. (Yes, even ramblers). This is harder than it sounds, as all the bounty of creation seems to want to dart out in front of me and throw itself under the wheels. Tonight, before I hit the squirrel, I avoided three lively escapees from the cowsheds, four ducks and a moorhen, before I even got to the first set of gates.

It has all led me to recall the Worst Thing That Has Happened Since I Moved Here.

I was heading back down to the house, along the road that leads through the parkland. Sheep were grazing peacefully. One half-grown lamb was nibbling grass at the edge of the verge. I slowed down. I never took my eyes off it. I thought "that lamb is going to dart across this road any moment now". I drew closer. It remained nibbling, oblivious. The distance closed. I thought, "hmmm, seems I was mistaken and it's staying put". I drew level with it.

It darted out and went straight under the car.

Ba-dump Ba-dump went the wheels.

"Nooooooooooooooo!" went me.

I was distraught. I had run over a sheep. Maybe it wasn't too badly hurt. I got out of the car to take a look. It was stone dead, not a mark on it, though its head was at the wrong angle.

"I'm so sorry, sheep," I wailed.

It was wedged firmly under the car, so that I could neither move the vehicle, nor the animal. Legs stuck out at a jaunty angle. I tugged, fruitlessly. Well, that was Plan A out of the window then (me leaving the dead sheep on the side of the road and saying "Tsk! Just look at what some naughty visitor has done!") My big red car was sat, blocking the main visitor route to the house, with a sheep stuck under it. I could see walkers approaching. Oh joy, a pushchair. Now I would be responsible for upsetting a small child, too.

Plan B kicked in. In true, sorted, together, competent manager mode I started to cry. I phoned my Boss, then my Husband and then the Farmer, and sobbed and sniffed the same urgent message to all of them. "I - I'm at the top of the estate. I've run over a sheep! I can't move it or the car and people are coming!"

As it turned out, the people on foot were very nice. As they drew level they looked at the car, the dead sheep stiffening slowly beneath it, and then at me, blotchy-faced and snivelling.

"Aw, you ought to go and have a nice strong cup of tea, love, for the shock".

My husband and a warden arrived. The warden tried to cheer me up by telling me of the many sheep he had run over in his time. It wasn't really helping. Meanwhile my husband jacked up the car and they were able to remove the sheep and hide it behind a tree, until the farmer arrived.

"That was a good sheep, that," he said, casting his eye over it before tossing it into the back of his landrover.

"I'm really, really sorry," I said for the umpteenth time that afternoon.

I finally made my way back down to the house. Everyone had heard, from various visitors, of the sobbing woman at the top of the estate, with a dead sheep under her car. I could see my staff and volunteers registering my tearstained appearance and the lanolin smeared on the front bumper of the car. It was a fair cop.

The Big Sleep

Over the past few weekends I've been updating my staff and volunteers on what changes occurred in the house over the winter. As I demonstrated the new alarm system to one of my colleagues I was reminded of why we needed to upgrade it in the first place. Apart from the annoyance caused by repeated false alarms due to bat activity there was always a strong chance that I would sleep through it anyway. The old alarm system had one sounder, situated far away, over the front door, with many fire doors and walls between it and my bedroom.

One morning, not long after I first moved in, I came downstairs as usual, bleary-eyed and wild haired and went to punch in the deactivation code on the alarm panel.

"That's odd," I thought. "It says here, 'Alarm - Great Hall, 4.06am'".

I was confused. I hadn't heard the alarm. I went back upstairs and asked my husband if he'd heard anything during the night. He hadn't. Neither had my daughter.

I decided to shrug off this little mystery for the time being and head outside to the meeting that was scheduled on site, first thing. On my way to the door I spotted my mobile phone, which normally never leaves my side, but had been accidentally abandoned on the kitchen table at bedtime this once. Five missed calls. Bugger.

I stepped out into the early summer sunshine. Leaning on my gatepost was my Boss, rolling a fag.

"You sleep soundly, don't you?" he smiled.

"Um....yes, it seems I do! The alarm panel says the alarms went off last night."

"They did, yes. When the alarm company couldn't get hold of you, they phoned me."

"Shit! Sorry!"

"When I got down here, there were two policemen waiting at the gates. So, we all came down to see what the problem was."

"I never heard a thing!"

"Yeah, well we walked all round the house, shined the torch in the windows, and since we couldn't see you lying on the floor bleeding or anything we reckoned it must be a false alarm."

"Didn't the dog bark?"

"Nope, just wagged his tail and seemed happy to see us."

"Bloody freeloading mutt," I muttered.

"So, how much did you get through last night?"

"What? Ah. Oh. Hardly any. Honest. It's the sounder, it's not loud enough. I just slept through it all. We all did! I am so sorry you had to come down here at 4.30 in the morning."

"S'all right Doris, I was too hot at home in bed anyway."

He is truly a laid back man. My old boss, Agent Orange, would have given me a good few days of finger wagging and lecturing about how I really mustn't sleep through the alarms and how tired she was now, so if she suddenly just collapsed it would be all my fault, and so on and so forth. No wonder moving here felt like such a reward.

So, that is why we now have an alarm system with sounders galore. Strategically placed ones, designed to jerk me, flailing and mewling, into wakefulness, with their brain-buggering, ear-bleeding, impossible-to-ignore noise.

Get Out of Jail Free Cards

1. It's always been like that.
2. Ah, well, that's nature for you.
3. We are aware of the situation and measures are being taken.
4. It's completely organic.
5. I've been having problems with my email.
6. It's a habitat pile.
7. That's the traditional method of doing it.
8. What memo?
9. I'm just a volunteer.
10. That's not my dog.

A Conversation at Closing Time

"It never gets any better does it?"

"Doesn't it?"

"No."

"...?"

"Bea was just cashing up in the tea room when in comes Bertha with a huge box of eggs. Well, we don't have any room for them. You know how we're fixed."

"I do, yes."

"So, Bertha, she says 'Where d'you want these eggs?' and Bea, she says 'What?' and Bertha, she says 'Where can I leave these eggs?'

Well, Bea's trying to do the till, and you know how she gets when she's doing the till, so she says 'We can't take them here, I haven't room for them here, you'll have to take them down to the shop.'"

"Ok, fair enough."

"Yeah, but that Bertha, she goes 'Stick 'em up your arse!' in front of everyone, in front of the tea room girls and the customers, and walks out!"

"Oh dear!"

"Well, Bea's not happy."

"No, she wouldn't be."

"'Stick 'em up your arse' she said! In front of everyone!"

"Yes...yes, that's terrible. Awful. Sorry, I shouldn't laugh. It's very serious. I'll have a word."

"I don't have any cash on me at the moment..."

McColleague and I are playing a game.

It is called "Avoid the Collection".

This is where we try to avoid, for as long as humanly possible, having to contribute to the leaving present fund for a colleague.

(I should mention that our contribution will in no way effect what gift is selected. One of our team has a jewellery shop, which tends to be where all staff presents come from. The silver snuff box/frame/letter-opener will already be in the bag.)

We upped the stakes a bit by having both already signed the leaving card, thereby committing ourselves to being asked for cash for the present. (This is one of those universal workplace laws.) As the week wore on we put a lot of effort into hanging on to our cash, to see how long we could get away with it. This is how new sports are invented.

McColleague's technique was to combine the laying low, Flying Under the Radar approach with timely deployment of the Body Swerve, when certain members of staff headed her way.

I, on the other hand, went for the tactical brilliance of the Sodding Off to Norfolk for the Rest of the Week approach.

Neither of us reckoned with receiving identical texts this morning, informing us that if we want to give anything for the leaving present we're to leave it with the Estate Secretary. Call me Mrs Sensitive, but I see that as a thinly veiled "Give us the money. Now."

Damn. Game over.

Time Out Take Two

I am planning another escape.

I shall be visiting my parents for a couple of days, so expect a brief hiatus in postings and comments management.

And much like my last Time Out, I have already been sucked back into work mode this morning. There I am, first thing, stood at the kitchen sink, when my doorbell rings, long and loud. It turns out to be a would-be volunteer, returning their registration form.

"A lovely young man said I could find you here," she said.

What lovely young man? I scanned the area behind her. Hah! A builder's van. The work has obviously begun on the Courtyard Interpretation Project (new display boards, to you and me). They have just as obviously left the gates wide open, hence my potential volunteer finding her way in. It's an ongoing problem. I know it's a pain in the arse, having to keep climbing in and out of your vehicle to open and close the gates. I know better than most, having to do it many, many times a day. But it's far more of a pain to have to keep chucking people out.

Still, I don't have to worry about that for a day or two. It's Somebody Elses Problem. Hurrah!

See you Friday!

A Customer Care Challenge

One of the exercises on the Customer Care course that all staff and volunteers are supposed to attend concentrates on signage. Laminated A4 signs with negatively worded phrases (such as "Keep off the Grass" or "No Dogs") are handed out to groups who are then faced with the task of giving the same message, but in a more positive way. (For the previous examples, they would be expected to come up with something like "Please stay on the paths" or "Dogs on leads welcome in the car park", for example.)

Now, I can see the sense in this, to a point. It isn't very welcoming to be faced with a plethora of "Thou Shalt Not" signs, and if they can be re-worded to make everyone feel warm and loved whilst still getting our visitors to take their litter home with them and keep their sticky fingers off the ceramics, then great.

The problem is when we come to the great "closed" issue. The customer care team do not like us to use "closed" signs. Too negative. Instead of "closed" our signs are to state when we are open, instead. But given that every property in the organisation has different open days and times, and these vary as to what time of year it is, the confusion this generates is considerable. When visitors arrive at the gates here, there is a big wooden sign that says:

Open :
March weekends only 12-4
4 April - 30 September Weds - Sun 12 - 5
1 October - 29 October Weds - Sun 12 - 4
Open Bank Holiday Mondays and Good Friday
Last admission 30 mins before closing.

Even I am confused, and I know when we're open.

So, in a daring move, I have taken to putting up a "closed" sign on the gates, next to the admission times one, when we are not open. I had hoped it would help me to avoid situations like these. After all, it is far more negative to be asked to leave, I think, than not to have entered the property in the first place.

Now, as last week was so sunny and unseasonably warm, I had even more people than usual wandering down on our closed days and refusing to accept that they shouldn't be there. Myself or McColleague will spot a couple (they always seem to be in pairs) on the bench, or strolling down the drive, and take it in turns to go through the "Excuse me, can I help you? I'm afraid we're closed" spiel. Unfailingly they respond to this information with "Oh yes, we know you're closed, we just wanted to see the house."

(Do other attractions suffer from this? Does the West Midlands Safari Park have to put up with people scaling the fences and saying "Yes, I know you're closed, I just wanted to see the lions close up"? Are people found bobbing about in the Sea Life Centre, cadging a quick free peek at the penguins?)

After pointing out that the gardener is mowing the orchards, the farmer is moving livestock, building works are going on in the courtyard, and no public are allowed on site for health and safety reasons, nine times out of ten they still sit there, blankly. Or agree, totally, make as if to leave, and then ten minutes later I'll find them somewhere else in the gardens. I then have to start the exchange all over again. If only I had some hounds to release. I could release Zed, I suppose, but he is likely to immediately go and shit in the flower bed, which lacks the desired effect. "There," I would have to say, pointing dramatically. "Think on. It will be your picnic rug next, so move."

So, the customer care challenge I have is as follows:

1.How do I word my "closed" sign so that it is quite clear that we are not open, at all, in any way, shape or form and, yes, that does mean you, and no, you can't just have a quick look at the house. Because it is closed. That means you cannot come in. So stay out. That sort of thing.

2. Once I've done the smiling, "I'm sorry we closed, I'm afraid you can't stay here" bit, how do I tell those reluctant departees to get out, without it coming across as a tad on the negative side?

A Short Musical Interlude

Red and yellow and pink and green

Purple and orange and blue

I can sing a rainbow

Sing a rainbow

Sing a rainbow too.

***

Up above the streets and houses

Rainbow climbing high

Everyone can see it smiling over the sky

Paint the whole world with a rainbow.

***

Many colours in the homo rainbow

Don't be afraid to let your colours shine

Many colours in the homo rainbow

Show me yours

I'm gonna show you mine.

***

You know, until I saw the rainbow, earlier, I had no idea I knew so many rainbow songs. Yes, I know. It's not a proper post. But. I am mellow. It's this day off, four bottles for a tenner, thing.

A Mother of a Day

12.01am - Finally get to bed after a long, long day. (As yesterday was World Forestry Day, we had put on an event in the afternoon where the public could have a go on a pole-lathe, or building a bird box. Amazingly no one got nailed to anything they shouldn't. Though the wardens did accumulate plasters as the day wore on.

Once the house closed, McColleague and I set about transforming it into a high class venue for the local history society's cheese and wine tasting event. This involved much shifting of heavy oak tables, fetching in 50 extra chairs and protecting as much as possible from potential damage. We then hung around for the rest of the night, sweeping up broken glass here, mopping up wine there. The plus side was that we were given wine and cheese to sample along with everyone else. The negative side was that we had to listen to the very dull wine talk that went with it. McColleague and I retired to the office and speculated on our own version of a cheese and wine event.

"I like this cheeky little red, as you can get four bottles for a tenner from Londis."

"Indeed. I find it goes particularly well with a Dairylea Triangle on a TUC biscuit."

We even got "shhhhushed" at one point, we were giggling so.

We were on duty until 11pm, when the last attendees finally left.)

3am - Wake up from a dream involving bits of wood and Dairylea Triangles. The wind is whistling around the house like a bad sound effect. Struggle to return to sleepy oblivion.

8am - Discover the dog has not been well in the night. Maybe the wind bothered him, too. He has opted to not be well in front of the Rayburn, so that by morning it has pretty much baked onto the tiled floor. Don disposable gloves, fetch cleaning products and fantasise, as I scrape up stinky brown nastiness, of an alternate reality with less poo and more leisurely lie-ins and breakfast in bed.

8.26am - Discover message on the answer phone from one of my volunteers. She has car trouble so won't be in today. The chances of finding another volunteer on Sunday morning who has not already made plans for Sunday afternoon are slim to none. Bugger. That means I am going to be room stewarding all afternoon.

9am - Go through to showrooms and assess what needs putting right before we open. Rather a lot.

9.30am - Stuff wine-stained cloths in to a bag, ready for sending to the laundry, pack away the table protectors and marvel at the many and varied places I have found cheese and biscuit debris.

10am - 50 chairs and 3 trestle tables stubbornly remain in the house. I am all achey and simply can't face carrying them across the courtyard and up the stairs, back to the Granary, where they belong.

10.30am - 50 chairs and 3 trestle tables have been removed by my lovely daughter and her lovely boyfriend. I am pleased. I am so pleased I also get them to bring in the 20 solar-powered lights I put out to illuminate the drive last night. Before my pleasure at a job well done can lead to any more tasks, lovely daughter and boyfriend make themselves scarce.

10.38am - The house is finally looking as it should. The furniture has been shifted back into position, the pewter plates and candlesticks are all where they belong and I have vacuumed up every last crumb and shard of glass.

10.50am - Remember we promised Mother's Day card-making activities in the Family Room today. Go on a hunt for art and craft materials.

10.55am - Unearth cardboard box filled with motley collection of dried-up felt tip pens, felt-tip pen lids, broken pencils, empty glitter glue tubes and crayons. Hurrah! Crayons! They'll do. Decide to sift crayons into this useful wire letter tray.

11am - Why did I choose this crappy wire letter tray? It's designed for sheets of A4 paper, not crayons. They keep falling out of the big lattice-work squares. Decide to line letter tray with something, so the crayons can't escape.

11.01am - Why did I choose a 1-ply paper napkin?

11.05am - Carry the basket of crayons carefully, at optimum angle, and put, with sheets of card, in Family Room.

11.06am - I forgot the glue.

11.08am - And the scissors.

11.10am - Check toilets are clean and have adequate supplies of loo roll, soap and hand towels.

11.11am - Remember we promised lavendar-bag-making activity too. Check the "you will need" list.

11.15am - Nuts to that, no way am I cutting out dozens of muslin circles. Squares are quicker.

11.30am - Put muslin squares, lavender, wool and tags in Family Room.

11.35am - Go to kitchen to fill kettle and fetch milk, cups and spoons for volunteers tea-making corner.

11.36am - Realise I left the front door open and the dog has fucked off.

11.37am - Step out of the front door, yelling "Zed!" as my Visitor Recption Assistant arrives to collect his cash box.

"Zed's round the corner," he says, pointing. "And I think he's...er...doing something."

11.38am - Go round corner. Zed is in the flower bed, doing something.

"Noooo! No, Zed, not there!" I am too late. He is still not well.

11.40am - Fetch watering can to wash away sticky brown nastiness from flower bed and indulge in a brief fantasy of an alternate reality involving less poo and more poise and readiness. And space hoppers.

12noon - Open to the public!

12.01pm - 3.59pm - Welcome hundreds of people, explain why the timbers aren't black, exclaim over the snow/wind/sunshine and smile, smile, smile.

4pm - Close the doors!

4.05pm - Put bat covers back on, close all curtains and doors, set alarms.

4.30pm - Abandon cashing up. Too tired to stand much chance of an accurate return. When I was a girl I always put "7" as my answer to unfathomable maths questions. It worked for me then (surprisingly often), but I have my doubts as to its efficacy now.

5pm - Wonder if it's too soon to start drinking?

6pm - Yeah, that hit the spot. Happy Mother's Day!

Blog Chug

If you are a fan of humourous blogs, you may well already be aware of this, but the Shaggy Blog Stories book is now published and available to purchase online. For more details on how it all happened, what it's all about, and how to get a copy, head on over to Troubled Diva.

(No, I'm not in it, but you could always buy a copy and I'll tell you a story later.)

Bottoms Up!

The Granary was full of two years worth of accumulated junk. It's supposed to be our education room, a base for school groups. It also doubles up as a meetings room. And trebles up as a dumping ground for things that no one can think what else to do with. It looks bad enough, having mountains of boxes at one end of the room, but a small bird has taken up residence in there, and everything is covered in bird shit, too.

McColleague and I have undertaken the mammoth task of cleaning and tidying the Granary. Yesterday we found two enormous poo-spattered boxes containing a computer and monitor. Our Boss happened to be with us at the time.

"Oh yes," he said. "I got that ages ago for the education room, for the kids. It just needs setting up."

As McColleague and I laboured among the dust and cobwebs today I had a thought. "If I set that computer up now, it'll take up far less room than it is in those boxes, and we can chuck the packaging in the skip."

This seemed to be an idea without flaws, and I duly unpacked the monitor and computer, connected everything up, and switched it on.

Aw, I thought to myself, as it booted up. I haven't seen Windows 98 in ages! Still, it'll do to keep the kids occupied on rainy days, I mused, sorting through the assorted educational CDs that had been left in the box with the computer.

I looked back at the computer. At the desktop, specifically. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

"How's it going?" asked McColleague from the other end of the room.

"Well, I've got it going. Um....Do you know who the Boss got this from?"

"No, why?"

"Come and have a look."

McColleague and I were unable to continue with our cleaning for quite some time. We were bent double with the unexpected hilarity of it all.

"At least we didn't have a group of excited school children around us as we booted it up for the first time," I said, when I could speak again.

I simply can't wait for the Boss to pop back down.

The Wonky Sign

I could see my Boss and Lovely Warden in the distance, working by the newly erected kiosk. I braked to a gentle stop beside them and wound down the window.

"We're just putting up the new sign," explained my Boss, somewhat redundantly, given the massive red board he was holding.

I squinted at it and tried tilting my head, first to one side, then the other. No, whichever way you looked at it, the wording wasn't level.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Um....I'm just proof-reading it...."

"Well I took the prices off your sheet," he said, testily.

I didn't have the heart to break the news that the myriad price options, while correct, were all wonky.

"I'm sure it'll be fine when it's finished," I smiled. "I'd best get back down to the house."

McColleague was awaiting my return. She had a surplus of duck eggs to be eaten up, so I had volunteered to buy bread and cress while on my trip to town, and make eggy sandwiches for everyone on my return. We stood in my kitchen, shelling the hard-boiled duck eggs. "I saw the Boss at the top," I said. "He's made the sign."

"Is it bad?"

"Yes, it's really wonky. Plus there's a big bubble in the paintwork he kept trying to smooth out with his thumb. And you could see where he's gone wrong earlier and peeled some letters off and then stuck others on top, so it all looks blurry."

McColleague nodded. We both expected as much.

As it was such a glorious day we took our plate of eggy sandwiches to the bench by the moat, to while away our lunch break. We heard a car approaching down the drive and looked up.

"Here he comes," I said.

"Must have given up on the signs."

The Boss stopped his car when he drew level with our bench. Out he stepped, fingers automatically reaching for his baccy and papers, rolling a fag on autopilot, as he always does when he goes from inside to outside.

"I really should wear my glasses more often," he announced. "Bloody sign was fine while I was working on it, but when I stepped back it was all wonky."

McColleague and I glanced at each other, then quickly away again.

"Was it?"

"Yes. And I buggered up some of the letters too. Had to order new ones now."

He looked quite downcast. "I thought I could maybe saw a bit off the sign, to level it out, but no joy."

"Have an eggy sandwich," I suggested, brandishing the plate his way. He brightened up a bit at this and joined us on the bench.

We munched thoughtfully together. We heard the sound of the Gator approaching. Lovely Warden drove up behind our bench, with an off-road kind of flourish.

"Sign's all wonky," said the Boss.

"Did you try sawing some off the bottom?" asked Lovely Warden.

"No, it's too wonky for that."

"Eggy sandwich?" I offered the plate to Lovely Warden.

We all sat and chewed for a while.

"I'll knock something up on the computer for now," I said.

Time Out

I had a day off today. It was lovely. I actually left the estate and everything.

Before I went out I decided to take the dog for a circuit of the moat, so he would be happier for the rest of the day. I spotted the Learning Officer and her volunteer in the distance and waved, cheerily, but kept moving so I wouldn't get sucked into worky stuff on this, my glorious day off. Cars began to arrive on site and I began to walk a little faster. Inevitably one drew up alongside me, the window rolled down, and a voice emerged.

"Hello! I've got all the lunch boxes for the school visit today. Where can I leave them?"

I indicated where she should go and raced the dog back to the house. It was now or never. If I didn't leave immediately I was sure to be involved somehow. I could sense my presence had been detected and I could almost hear the first cries of "Dor-is! I know it's your day off, but..."

I locked the dog in the house, leapt into the car and accelerated away, The Professionals-stylie.

Blessed freedom. Sweet liberty. I must do more of this "day off" stuff.

Tea Time Troubles

“Could I have more water for the kettle?”

“Give me a mo, I’ll just go and fill it.”

***

“Sorry to be a pest, but are there any more mugs?”

“I thought I’d left enough for everyone?”

“Oh, yes, but I had coffee earlier and now I want tea, so I need a new cup.”

***

“Shall I just leave these dirty mugs here?”

“Well, I’ll just move them off these timesheets, and I’ll take them through to the dishwasher later.”

***

The problem is, my office doubles up as the volunteer’s room, where they come for their sandwiches and cups of tea. As the only kitchen is my own, in my living quarters, they are unable to wash up their own cups or fill their own kettle. I try to leave everything they could possibly need in advance of their arrival at 12 noon. I fill the kettle, leave a spare jug of water, a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, teaspoons, cups, tea bags, coffee, a biscuit tin and a cake.

By 12.30 every cup has been used, the kettle is emptied, coffee rings adorn my paperwork, and crumbs have found their way into every crevice. Used tea bags squat on the side of the desk, infuriatingly close to the bin. If they’ve had their sandwiches too the wastebasket will now be overflowing with discarded wrappers and banana skins. The worst is when they bring fishy sandwiches in a plastic box….that “pfftt” as the lid comes off and the scent of salmon fills my working environment.

It’s not their fault. They do a long stint and need a bite to eat and a cup of tea. And if they see me in the office, typing away at the computer, they find it hard not to pull up a chair alongside mine and ask how I’m doing, tell me how they’re doing, how their families are doing, how their neighbours are doing. They are fascinated by whatever I might be doing on the computer, and show no shame in craning forward for a better look. Otherwise, they’d just have to sit there, quietly, watching me work, and that would be boring for them.

Next week sees the commencement of work on our new visitor facilities. We are turning the old milking parlour into new toilets, complete with baby changing room, accessible WC for disabled visitors and, joy of joys, a volunteer room. They will have their own area, outside the house, outside my office, with a sink and a fridge and a chair! It will be their room, their responsibility. If they leave it in a state, they will have to face the ire of their colleagues. If they decide to carry their hot beverages back to the house I am hoping the distance is such that their drinks will have cooled enough not to leave nasty marks on the historic furniture! They will have to clean their own cups! Oh my. I am quite giddy at the implications of it all. Still, it is quite a way in the future yet, and until then we are still thrust together at refreshment time. I made a small effort to get them used to the concept of separation. I moved the kettle and tea making paraphernalia to the other end of the office, away from my desk. It hasn’t been an unqualified success. One lovely chap came in today, looking in bafflement at where the kettle used to be.

“If you’re looking for the kettle,” I said, “it’s over there.” I pointed to the other end of the room, which I had tried to make inviting, with a chair and a poster. (To be fair, the tyvek and tape repair, billowing ominously overhead, does spoil it somewhat.)

“No, no, it’s all right,” he replied. “I’m just looking for somewhere to eat my sandwich.” And he pulled up a chair alongside mine and asked what kind of winter I’d had.

I have a feeling the new room may take a while to be accepted into common usage.

Shaggy Blog Stories

Charity begins at home. In this instance it begins on a computer at home. Mike, over at Troubled Diva, has had a toptastic idea for Comic Relief. Be a love and pop along and look at this, if you haven't done so already.

Excellent, thank you, have a biscuit.

Top Tiptastic

Today I learnt something new and useful.

The Elizabethan chest in the Screens Passage had an unsightly, white watermark on it, where a wicked, bad, naughty volunteer had stood a cup of hot tea, instead of using the coaster on the desk, a mere 6 inches distant.

"Do you think there's a way we can restore that?" I asked McColleague.

"Funnily enough, " she replied, excitedly, "I was watching a telly programme the other night about furniture restoration, and this woman said if you rub it with a Brazil nut it'll remove the watermark."

Well, if some woman on the telly said it'd work, that's good enough for me.

"OK," I said, "but I've only got hazelnuts."

"Ooh, I bet Lovely Warden will have some in his lunchbox!"

Lovely Warden is a vegetarian and brings lunches the squirrels would kill for.

Sure enough, he did have Brazil nuts in his box. "That's my favourite nut, too, " he said, wistfully, as he handed them over.

We gathered around the chest in great anticipation as McColleague set to work, rubbing the Brazil nut over the mark. Wow. I mean, seriously, wow. It really worked. The watermark had completely gone.

I began to laugh.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," I managed. "It's just that when people ask about this I'm going to have to say we got great results when we rubbed Lovely Warden's nuts on our chest."

And now I have, and I am happy.

Signs of Spring

Today I spotted three sure signs of spring.

1. Frogs in the drainage channel from the moat. A sure sign that Froggy Love Day will soon be upon us.

2. A duck nesting in the hollow oak tree. She nests there each year and every time I miss the moment when the ducklings plummet like little fuzzy missiles, from the tree to the water.

3. A beetle in my bra. Sadly I have no photo of this, as I took off the aforementioned garment to see what was so itchy within it, and my first reaction was to exclaim"oh!" and to ping the beetle into beetley orbit with a flick of my finger. Wonder what sort of beetle he was....?

The Season Starts Here

On Friday I discovered a hole in the footpath, near the side of the moat. A hole with water in it. A hole with crumbling edges, of ankle-snapping dimensions. An aptly exciting way to end the week, really. When re-opening for the season, a few health and safety hazards in the preceding days help to keep things lively.

Much frenzied activity later and the hole was filled in and roped off with some stylish red and white hazard tape. Picture postcard perfect.

The weekend itself went surprisingly well. Only one of my volunteers forgot they'd put their name down for duty and failed to turn up. And there was only incessant rain resulting in flooding of the courtyard on Sunday. I reckon I can consider that a result.

Let There Be Light

How many conservation charity employees does it take to change a lightbulb?

Six.

Well, it did today anyway. Kind of. The lighting system in the Great Hall is an example of staggeringly bad design. There are four halogen spotlights, hiden way up high in the ceiling rafters. When a bulb blows we have to wait for a passing builder with a long ladder to check it out for us, as our stepladders don't come close to reaching the lights.

Two of the four bulbs have been out since October. The passing builder who bravely ascended his super-long ladder on our behalf reported that the bulb was fine, it was the light fitting itself which was broken. Naturally, I flagged this up to the Buildings Department immediately. Just as naturally, the required electricians, and their hired tower scaffold, only arrived today, two days before we open.

Turns out both lights are beyond hope of repair. Hooray! Now begins my campaign for replacement, accessible lighting!