A LIFE LESS ORDINARY ... Horses : the beginning of a lifetime's affair.

The first posting abroad that I remember was some three years in Berlin, arriving there when I was around 4 or 5. There, we lived in a block of flats amongst several other blocks. A lasting memory is of the huge pine tree on the grassy area in between our block and the block next door and I can remember being so frightened that one day that tree would fall, as it swayed most alarmingly when the wind blew.

Interestingly, my Mum’s strongest memory of that flat is the black and white chequered kitchen floor - now very much an icon of the sixties - which apparently was the very devil to keep shiny. Those were the days when, of course, a housewife’s worth was judged by the shine on her kitchen floor. I would play shops in the living room, while my Mum did the ironing. I had some teensy little replica food packets that I would “sell” to her for imaginary money. I can also remember playing cowboys and indians with the other children from the married quarters, in and out of the shrubbery at the end of a central grassy area.

However, if you mention the word “Berlin” to me, the first memory that springs to mind is of the pony from the Bierkeller.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t interested in horses. Until his death my Dad would still alert us to horses on the road or in fields by calling out “horses!” in a sing-song voice as he drives along – and often, I’m not even in the car!

Anyway, back to the Berlin pony. We would walk past the Bierkeller (or pub) quite regularly on our way to the bus stop into town. The area must have been hilly, as I can recall that the building was set aside from the road on a terrace to the right that was some 3ft lower than the path we were on. To the right of the building – and adjoining it – was the stable. It opened out into a sandy area into which the pony could free-range but was basically a pit. I expect he was the delivery pony, as he was a stocky, short-legged bay type with a mealy mouth who would come up to the chicken wire that constituted the fence at the top of the containing wall and beg for blades of grass. I would always run on ahead so that I could have a moment or two to feed him those blades of grass before my Mum could catch up and chase me onwards to the bus stop.

I can remember loving how he would always come to the fence to say hello, the warm, horsey smell of him, the coarse whiskery lips that would so delicately whoofle up the grass, making me nervous that he’d suck my fingers into his mouth with his big discoloured tombstone teeth. I was always so disappointed when he wasn’t there.

I know we had some seriously snowy winters while in Berlin and we would walk through the town and along the Kurfurstendamm with huge (well, they were huge to me then!) piles of snow on either side of the path. My parents would be all wrapped up in big heavy coats with hats and gloves, yet my hands would always be too hot for gloves. My Mum would take my hands into hers, to warm her chilly fingers.

My Dad would also like to tease me regarding the Berlin Bear. He told me that, if you looked carefully, one day you would see the Berlin Bear appear and skate across the roof of the Kongresshalle – this was, of course, before its roof collapsed in 1980. I did so want to see the Bear doing his triple sulko as he swooped from one side of the curve to the other. My Dad tells me that this flight of fancy of his was spawned by the local T.V. station producing an advert that appeared regularly, featuring the Berlin Bear skating madly around the roof of the Kongresshalle. I can’t say I recall ever seeing that advert – and I never got to see the Bear doing his stuff, either.

Owing to my Dad’s regiment being sent to the middle East where families couldn’t follow, we found ourselves back in England for some 18 months while he completed a tour of duty in Aden. We shared our house in Stoneleigh, near Epsom, with my Aunty Joyce (no relation) and her two children, Michael & Janice. Her husband and their dad, my Uncle Bill, had also been posted to Aden and it made sense for the two families to amalgamate and support one another.

I missed my friend at the Bierkeller and as we were living in quite an urban environment, it didn’t occur to me that there would be horses nearby. In fact, in years to come we moved back to the area and lived in the next road. It took a while, but I discovered there were horses very locally. I would guess that the stables were there all the time we were, but of course without a car – and with little spare cash – there was no chance of my being able to meet up with them. So, I had to put up with living my dreams through my Sindy’s horse, who became my most treasured possession.

By the time we’d moved to Münster in Germany, I was around 8 years old and horses were well and truly in my blood.

My first contact with them was the little old pony that would deliver milk to our street. Thinking of him now, it is hard to see how he could have been so consistent, delivering milk each day no matter the weather. He looked, bless his little heart, as though he could hardly stay awake long enough to pull his cart to the next stop. However, pull it he did and generally without much steering from the milkman who would walk alongside making his deliveries, only stopping when the milkman needed to dole out ladlefuls of milk to those who brought their own containers out to him.

The big change came once I discovered that the Army horsemen gave riding lessons using their polo ponies. I pestered my parents until finally they gave in and I began riding on a Saturday morning.

The ponies were housed at one end of the Tank hangars (yes, think Tiger, Sherman, Panther etc.) and it was no great surprise to have to wait while one of the tanks manoeuvred, before being able to go through to the stables.

Once through the little doorway, you were into a land of wonder. Filled with the warm grassy breath of the horses, that smell which is so appreciated by those who adore the animals and the soft chomp, chomp of contented horses munching hay.

Each stable unit had another door which led to the one next door, so you could move from the REME horses, to the 10th Hussars and so on. Through another door and you were into the harness room – a room filled from floor to ceiling with gleaming polished saddles, bridles and harness, their silverwork and brass shining in the relative gloom and with that evocative smell of leather, saddle soap and tobacco.

Outside the harness room, they had a polo horse – a wooden horse upon which you could sit and practice your moves with the polo stick. The sides of the enclosure were ramped, so that the polo ball always rolled back to be hit again. I used to love to sit on him and practice my rising trot, just like I would sit on the back of the sofa at home and practice it there. I swear that sofa taught me to ride far more than the army teachers did! I seem to remember being late for my lessons on a regular basis – largely because I was too small to tack up my own horse and the teachers just left you to it. To be honest, at that stage I doubt I’d have known how to go about putting the saddle and bridle on, so I would have to wait until someone took pity on me and “dressed” my horse for me. Thereupon I’d be able to amble down to the indoor school, if it was a good day, I’d get teased for being late, if it was a bad day, I’d have a strip torn off of me for being tardy. I can remember being fairly petrified of the actual riding part, but I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

I felt so privileged to be there and spent as long at the stables as I possibly could, just completely adoring the whole thing and being in awe. I was never happier than when I was there, moving from horse to horse along the lines of loose boxes, greeting dark bay hogged Losita, then her sister the light bay Rosita, being very careful of the grey Anemone who had a reputation as a biter but who had never bitten me, to my closest friend and the horse upon which I preferred to have my lessons – a 15hh palomino mare called Debutante. It was rather like putting a pea on the rock of Gibraltar, putting the 8 year old me on to a 15hh polo pony, but she always took care of me and I’d have been happy to have just ambled around while I stroked her and told her through my fingertips what a beautiful, loyal and honest friend she was. I truly loved Debbie and it broke my heart to have to leave her when we were called back to Britain.

3.  Newbury Gardens.

A LIFE LESS ORDINARY .... Introduction.

I can well remember the barely contained excitement of waiting for my Dad to get back with the little cardboard box that contained our first cat – Susie. My brother and I had been wanting a pet – any kind of pet – for almost as long as we’d been alive, which was four years longer than I had been, where my brother was concerned.

For sure, we’d had pets in the past, but either we were too young to appreciate them or they weren’t around long enough to make any impression. Like Rip, the big black dog my parents got when we were living in Kluang, Malaysia. My only memory of him is from the few photographs that still exist. He had to go to a new home when he started to nip us children, as he was a big dog who was difficult to control. Pickles, a little black cat, was famed for – when he was a kitten – emerging from my brother’s pram when they were on their way to the Naafi for supplies. He’d tuck himself under the storm apron of the pram and obviously the jiggling brought him round and he came out to see what was going on.

Then there was Omo, a little long haired white hamster. I must have been around 4 years old and only have a very vague impression of what he was like, although I can see him quite clearly in my mind. This was long before hamster balls allowed safe free ranging exercise, so he met an unfortunate end when his curiosity got the better of him and he ventured into the back of the t.v. set. Poor boy, he didn’t last long on that exploration. Of course, it would never happen these days, as most t.v. sets are a) too thin to accommodate a hamster and b) have no access holes anywhere.

Apart from Susie the cat, the earliest pet that I have any strong recollection of was Chirpy, our blue budgie. So far as I recall he lived a good long life, which ended while he was being taken care of by my Aunt & Uncle while we were abroad again. It must have been difficult for my parents, having an animal-mad daughter, yet owing to my father serving with the Royal Engineers we rarely lived anywhere for longer than 4 years at a time. Inevitably, Dad’s postings included tours of duty in Germany and further afield. In those days of course, animals crossing country borders would have to stay for 6 months or so in quarantine. It was a lot to ask of an animal.

This was the quandary that we were in, once we learned we were to return from Germany. What to do with the cat? She was a superb character. I can remember her sitting on the draining board in the kitchen of the married quarters house we had in Münster, Germany, watching the tap dripping and trying to catch each drip before it hit the sink – then shaking her paw in disgust at the wetness, before repeating the whole process again.

She was a lovely grey striped tabby with big white patches and the whitest paws. Mind you, she was no angel! So many times, she would lie in wait behind the sofa – then dash out and grab you by the ankles as you walked past. The trouble was, when she grabbed, she used claws. Ouch! The little monster was responsible for many nasty scratches and quite a few holes in both socks and stockings!

She also loved to drag herself along the ground, using her claws to fix into the material of the sofa. Round and around she’d go. Hysterical to watch, of course, but my poor parents’ sofa was a little the worse for wear because of this activity.

Knowing how active a cat she was, it would have been cruel to have subjected her to six months in a cage. So, we left her behind with (and I quote my Dad) “a lovely farm home, where she can catch mice all day”. I hope it was so – and I hope she did catch mice all day. We missed her terribly.

So basically, from Susie onwards, there have been very few weeks where I haven’t had one animal or another – or very often, several – to share my life.

These are their stories, far more than mine.

Chapter 2 : Horses.

JONTY SPINS.

Every so often, my keyboard would be appropriated by one or other of the household pets.  In this instance, it was Mr Jack, the greyhound.

The missus has asked me to put paw to keyboard and relate to you the latest amusing incident from the life of that young blade, Jonty. She would do it herself - only she's still rolling around on the floor, helpless with laughter and isn't very sure when she will be coherent again.

She had just returned home from collecting the boy from that school place (shame we can't send Jonty there) and had opened up the Big Chair Room again. We're not allowed in there when the people are out, because otherwise young Stupidhead-The-Woolly-Eared-One trashes the place and destroys everything. It's not so bad, as we get to use the Big Bed Room instead, where Jonty amuses himself by flinging the teddies around the room and chewing off their noses.  ~rolls eyes~  Anyway - I digress.  Before she went out, the missus threw a new box of tissues onto the back of the Long Big Chair so that it wouldn't get eaten by the Devil-In-A-Dogsuit while her back was turned.

In later life and innocence personified.

As soon as the door is opened we all pile into the Big Chair Room and Stupidhead does his normal thing (he's SO lacking in decorum) of throwing himself upside down onto the Long Big Chair, in one (he thinks) smooth movement (imagine a hairy fish landing in the bottom of a boat and you've got it). He likes to do this, as he thinks it looks as though he's been there for hours and in the hope that nobody will chuck him off, you see.

The tissue box was jolted by the Great Hairy Twit landing like a ton of dog biscuit on the Long Big Chair and started to slide downwards. Mum and I noticed this, Jonty didn't.

The next thing Jonty knew (and it only took a split second) was the tissue box landing on his upside down head.

What happened next has proven to me that cartoon animators do, actually, work from life instead of imagination.

In a matter of seconds, Jonty had managed to spin (I swear this is true - trust me, I'm a greyhound, would I lie to you?) three complete circles, whilst juggling the tissue box. He was a blur of ears, paws and tail, and achieved keeping the tissue box spinning in midair throughout. After the third revolution, he managed to leap clear of the nasty, violent tissue box and onto the floor.  Our only wonder is that he didn't wet himself in the process (because you know, he's very likely to!). It’s just as well he didn't, or the whole room would have copped it as he was spinning like a catherine wheel.

I can't remember the last time I saw something quite SO funny. Mum was hysterical and I was grinning for ages. Ooooh, he might be a pain sometimes, but I tell you what - he's definitely good for a laugh!

AND THEN, THE PHONE RANG ....

There are moments in my life when things are trundling along how they should be, everything in its place, everyone carrying out their allotted role - and then the phone rings and in the blink of an eye, everything goes to worms.  This is one such moment, from more years ago than I care to remember (around 2003!) and when I still had working legs.

Initially, you need to know the geography of the lower level of our house for this one.  Imagine three rooms, on the right is one big room (utility and computers), on the left are two small rooms (bathroom and kitchen) and the phone is beside the computers.

Steve is in the kitchen making dinner.  Our son Morgan was just a wee fellow back then  and he and I are in the bathroom, washing hands ready for dinner. Jack – our extraordinarily huge black Greyhound - is laying on the carpet by the computers in the utility room.  The washing machine (also in the utility room) is busily working, all three computers (yes, we've gone one each) are switched on and humming away, Steve has got music on in the kitchen.  All of which is fine, except the phone rang.

In what was probably less than ten seconds, all hell broke loose. Morgan ran towards the phone (don't ask me why) and fell over Jack, who immediately panicked and jumped up  because he always thinks he's at fault, bless him.  He attempted to exit stage left by scooting towards the stairs by the kitchen doorway, causing Steve to fall over him as he ran towards the phone from the kitchen. Meanwhile, I am picking Morgan up off the floor where he's fallen between the two computer chairs. Steve reaches the phone just as the washing machine starts its VERY NOISY spin cycle.

I manage to complete a very athletic (for me!) move and hit the "off" switch on the washing machine, because I just know that Steve will not be able to hear himself think with that going on. In the meanwhile, he is muttering about "pan of chips in kitchen" as he answers the phone. Jack has run upstairs, making enough noise for a herd of elephants, I'm on my way to rescue said "pan of chips". Morgan is wailing about his poor knee and Steve is trying to talk to the phone company about their complete inability to issue a correct bill for the television/phone/internet service.

At this point I realise that - inexplicably - Morgan is waving a can of Mr Sheen furniture polish around, looking like he has every intent on using it (where did he get it from? Surely he didn't have time to find it, in between washing hands and falling over dog?).

Photo c/o Hayford Peirce

In a somewhat delayed reaction, hubby hits what he thinks is the "off" switch on the washing machine, except of course he’s turned it back on. As I pass, I swoop upon the can of Mr Sheen and wrest it from the grasp of the then indignant son, finally reaching the kitchen to discover that "pan of chips" is indeed as described - a frying pan with chips sizzling in hot oil. Now this is a complete nightmare for me - I just don’t do that, it's too scary! If anybody wants me to cook chips in our house, its an oven job or nothing. I realise that the chips are done, so turn off the gas and start fishing them out before they turn into something you could use to nail a fence together, when the washing machine starts spinning again! Eh? In confusion, knowing that I'd switched it off earlier, I dash out and switch it back off again - and dash back to the kitchen, where I throw everything that hubby had just taken out of the oven back into the oven again.

Bedlam.

I think the phone company has got our house bugged and knew the very worst time to ring. They had to. That couldn’t all have been coincidence. Could it?

THE ONE ABOUT THE HIGHLAND, THE CORTINA AND THE BRUSSELS.

Rosie, shortly after arriving from Yorkshire, at around 18 months old

This tale takes us back quite some time ago to when I lived in Oxshott in Surrey and owned ponies.

Rosie (the Highland pony) was about four years old. For anybody interested in pony lineage, Rosie's registered name was Rosette of Gleneagles and she was by Cock'o'the North (what an unfortunate name for a stallion - but it probably did his street cred no end of good!) out of Rose of Balinoe. Anyway, Rosie came from aristocratic stock which you wouldn't believe if you met her as she was a true St. Trinian. In human form, she should have had pigtails with blue ribbons tied in a bow, wrinkled socks which were always in concertinas around her ankles, scuffed toes to her shoes and a smudge of mud on her nose. You probably get the picture. So now convert that to a medium-sized (14.1hh) mushroom coloured VERY hairy pony who had always got a dirty tail and you had Rosie. She was also completely adorable, by the way.

Now Highland ponies are renowned for being easy to handle, with calm characters and an amiable disposition. What people don't tell you is that they are incredibly hard on their surroundings. They won't walk around something if they can just trample over the top of it, if when leaned on it gives then push it over. As a result, fences were made to be pushed over unless they were electrified (and even then, Rosie bit it three times before she believed it was the fence which was walloping her!), they also have an inbuilt curiosity which constantly gets them into trouble.

Rosie had a bit of an unfortunate start in life, which left her committed to searching out as many different types of food as she could lay her whiskery lips upon. If you attempted to walk across the field with a plastic carrier bag in your hand, you'd be mugged until she had been able to put her head inside and examine the contents, consuming anything remotely edible at the same time.

She was a sore trial to her mother, but I loved her all the same.

Rosie at 3 yrs

I kept the horses (I had another Highland, Kellie of Whitefield) on a four acre field and would regularly drive my car (said Cortina which went by the name of The Duchess) across the field and up to the feed shed and hay barn which was situated on the geographically highest point. It was an interesting drive in the mud and/or snow and you certainly learned how to control a skid (eventually).

On the day in point, I'd driven The Duchess up to the feed shed and parked it in the shade provided by the buildings, which meant it had its nose buried in a dog rose bush. I'd been particularly keen on keeping it shaded as my Sainsbury's shopping was in the back of the car. Because of transporting horse feed, hay and several dogs around, I very rarely had the back seats available as seats, instead opting to keep them collapsed down so as to maximise the available space in the Estate part of the car. Cortina Estates were vast inside and it was a very useable space. It was also a very good space for all your shopping to roll around in and so I'd been in the habit of stacking it all up behind the driver's seat. Because of the dogs, I was also in the habit of leaving the windows rolled right down on hot days - making the car rather less baking to get back into.

I had been industriously unloading sacks of bags of horse feed from the back of the car to the feed shed - and both ponies had been very interestedly watching the proceedings in the way small children watch shopping being unpacked - quite sure you're going to get to the sweeties eventually. On the last trip (which involved carrots for all), I closed down the back of the car and went to get everything settled and sorted into its bins and cupboards. Kellie followed me and I thought Rosie was probably behind her.

Rosie, growing nicely, at 4 years

After a while, I realised there was no Rosie and everything was suspiciously quiet. Now, because I *know* Rosie, I went looking for her very, very quietly. Telling Kellie not to make a noise, I tiptoed down the passageway that leads back to the field - Kellie was somewhat perplexed by this odd behaviour but watched with interest. Hmmnnn, no Rosie by the hay barn, no Rosie by the water trough, looked out across the field and there wasn't a Rosie in sight anywhere.

I wondered if she was still by the car and hoped she wasn't licking it. They liked to do that, I think it was the salt from the road that was the interest but it didn't do the paintwork any good, particularly when the teeth were employed. As I continued my stealthy approach around the corner to where I've left the car, I was rewarded by the sight of a vast pony backside standing extremely close to the driver's side of the car, the rest of the pony being temporarily obscured by the vastness of the backside and the growth of the dog rose bush. What is it that she's so interested in? Move forward and around to the side a little, for a better view, but then notice something moving IN the car. Um, that looked like a pony head in the car. Eh? IN the car? I move a bit closer and yup, she's got her whole head and neck in the car, through the driver's window! EEK! On second thoughts, I'd better not shout, just in case I make her jump and she hurts herself trying to get out in a hurry (not to mention trashing bits of the car en route). Moving even closer, I realise that there's a number of things scattered around on the grass and dried mud and under her (shod) feet. In fact, she's standing on a packet of ham. In the dog rose bush is a bottle of mineral water (she obviously didn't want that as she couldn't get into it. On the floor beside her is a loaf of bread, the plastic wrapper torn to pieces (that one was yummy!) and a large hoofprint in the few remaining slices. By the side of the bread is the remains of a packet of Rice Krispies breakfast cereal. The box is slobbered into papier mache, but the plastic inner bag is still intact (got bored with that one). At this point, I don't really care if she gets her silly head stuck or not and ask of her "ROSIE!! WHAT are you doing??".

Well, she took off like a Harrier jump jet - except her head was still inside the car. I was a tiny bit concerned about the future of my car versus the damage half a ton of panicking Highland could wreak - but I was also more than a little bit peeved about my shopping! Goodness only knows how she'd managed to get her head through the window and across the back of the driver's seat to reach the shopping with her determined and semi-prehensile upper lip, but she had and it was all unravelling back the other way as she attempted to extricate herself from the incriminating evidence.

As her head finally twisted and turned and popped back out of the open window, I realised she had hold of something in her mouth. A second look revealed it to be a freezer bag containing a bag of frozen runner beans and another bag of frozen brussels sprouts - which had been chomped and was scattering its contents like mad green confetti as it swung from her teeth. Head free from the car, off she went - straight through the dog rose bush like it was Becher's Brook and off across the field, bag swinging from her teeth, brussels spraying everywhere, ears pricked, head slightly turned so she could watch me chasing her, tail up and she might as well have had a big sign over her head, saying "You gotta catch me first!". So I'm running after her, yelling "bring back my Brussels!!" and notice a family of four cyclists who had paused on the road and were watching our little charade with great amusement. It was at this point that the ridiculousness of it all got the better of me and I stopped chasing her - but Gyp (my lurcher dog) took over. Off they both went, around and around the field, Gyp barking and chasing Rosie, Rosie still spraying brussels sprouts from the bag between her teeth (who knew it contained that many!) and Kellie standing looking utterly amazed with possibly a bit of admiration mixed in, watching it all going on. I was doubled over with laughter at this point.

Grown up Rosie, being shown by Lynda at Kent County Show in 1999

Bless her heart, if she wanted Brussels sprouts that badly, she could have 'em! I eventually managed to retrieve the runner beans, but the sprouts were a gonner.

Happy days.

FROG-GONE IT!

Not our frog - picture borrowed from the internet

Many, many moons ago, we owned a tropical fish tank that supported a number of well grown fish, which ultimately had to be dismantled when we moved to Dorset. Everyone found new homes to go to - and they all left home via a cooler box (which had been turned into a warmer box), hopefully to continue to live to a ripe old age.

At one stage in our aquatic adventures, Steve took a fancy for owning a couple of frogs. We thought - and quite rightly so, as it turned out - that they would provide some added interest to an already quite attractive collection of fish.

Well, as often happens, one of the little chaps fell foul of some unknown malfunction and popped his little webbed clogs some two weeks or so after we introduced him to the tank. However, the other was going from strength to strength and causing no end of consternation amongst the fish. He had a habit of nipping chunks out of the floaty tails – which wasn't winning him any friends. He’d also shown a tendency toward looking for a way out – and there are two small cutouts on the tank cover where cables for the air pump and heater pass through. We were of the opinion that the holes were too small for him to negotiate – however, this particular morning’s antics proved us wrong.

The fish tank was, at this stage, in an alcove in our bedroom – and it was lovely to lay in bed and watch them doing their fishy thing. However, upon waking this one morning, I couldn’t see the frog. I looked everywhere in that tank – no sign of Froggy. Hmmn. I looked around the outside of the tank, just in case he’d escaped and was flopped, gasping, in the tiny gap around the edge. Nope. No Froggy.

Time was marching on, so I had to put the lost frog to one side and get on with the necessary of getting everybody ready for work and play school (which shows how long ago this was, as said child is now an adult!).

Later on in the day and having still not found the frog, I was downstairs tending to the laundry and had just come back into the kitchen from the garden. As I walked through the kitchen, I saw a dead leaf (or what I thought was a dead leaf) on the floor. This is not an unusual occurrence with dogs in the house, so I bent down to pick it up and bin it. Two thirds of the way to picking it up, it moved.

Oh, I nearly died a death on the spot. It was the frog. Covered in dust, dog hair, bird seed and feathers, all wrinkled and dried out looking, but there it was struggling frogfully across our kitchen lino. Poor, poor, little chap! But – what to do, what to do? I knew if I plunged him directly into cold water, he might die of the shock and if I tried to produce warm water, it’d probably be too hot. So I ran with my little pyrex bowl to the sitting room where the octagonal fish tank lives (where all the man-eating Barbs do their fishy thing! lol) and quickly scooped a half bowl of fish tank water. It might be foreign water, but at least it was the right temperature.

I’d got a sudden attack of the heeby-jeebies about touching him, so I picked him up gently in a piece of wadded kitchen paper and plopped him into the bowl. He just sat there, motionless. I bet he was thinking “Oh damn it! So near, yet so far!”. After all, he was heading for the back door and freedom. (How did he know?).

In the meanwhile, I'd got a cotton bud and very gently washed some of the bits and pieces off of him. He started to look a bit more like a frog again, after that. Within a couple of minutes, he was starting to come to life and was paddling gently around the bowl.

I didn’t quite know what to do next .. put him back in the tank? Take him to the vet? Sign him up for the Paras? ~shrug~ So I rang Steve (after all, it was his frog!) who suggested I just put him back in the tank for now.

I felt so sorry for him. (Now renamed by the misnomer of “Lucky”). After all, he’d escaped from the tank, fallen down the crack in between the tank and the wall, then fallen from the alcove to the carpeted floor. He’d crawled the length of the bedroom carpet, out onto the landing, down the stairs (which had to have been an experience on its own), traversed the breadth of the dining room carpet (which is a main thoroughfare – its just amazing he didn’t get trodden on by people or dogs) and got halfway down the length of the long, narrow, kitchen floor and to within six feet of freedom. He’d achieved all this without getting eaten by a dog. In truth, he should really have been rewarded with his freedom – but I’m guessing a little one inch aquarium frog isn’t too well equipped for freedom – even if he IS an intrepid explorer. Poor Lucky .. back in solitary. Maybe I should have given him a baseball and catcher’s mitt on the way back into the tank.

As it turned out, we couldn't keep him in our tank, he was a complete Houdini and made several more escape attempts. We eventually rehomed him with a friend who is very experienced with fish, frogs, lizards, spiders, snakes et al. So far as I know, his new home stopped any further adventuring.

STRANGE TIMES, FOR SURE.

You hear a lot of people saying it, but we do indeed live in strange times.  For us, as a family, we were under a lot of pressure to get certain priorities dealt with before the Coronavirus' effects seriously hit.  For instance, getting Basil the Jack Russell to the vet for repeat prescriptions and learning what to do about getting successive prescriptions for him if the crisis worsened, getting Peggy the Bedlington home from the RSPCA shelter (which we did with a couple of weeks to spare) and organising and carrying out the buying of a new car and selling of our current old faithful, amongst other priorities.

Well, we managed the car thing with unbelievable speed.  I am one of those people who doesn't like to attempt to multitask, I like to deal with one priority at a time and give it all the thought and attention it requires, checking and double checking that I'm doing stuff right.  It might take me months to think about the issue - particularly if it involves anything anxiety-inducing - making sure I have my head around what it is going to require and making sure I am ready for the stressful bits.  I will be the first to agree that this is otherwise known as prevaricating.  My hubby, Steve, is slightly similar in that he likes to research and plan the process through, but he is one of those who likes to just get on with it and adjust the plan as we go.  Well that scares me to death, so I'm afraid he's had to learn to chivvy me just enough to not make me dig my heels in, whilst proceeding at a slower than he would like pace.

Aaanyway, finally all that was left for us to do was the car thing.  So I set myself to searching for "the" car much in the same way as I searched for "the" dog - I looked up as many online points of reference for used cars as I could find and bookmarked the possibles that were within our price range.  Then hubby and I would compare notes and chuck out the ones that weren't likely or sensible for whatever reason - including checking their MOT history, which is a brilliant way of finding out just how reliable a car is likely to have been and how carefully it has been looked after.

We'd been doing this in a very small way for quite some time and had noted various types of car that were possible and - more to the point - lots of types of car that weren't!  However, once we got serious about it we found a Nissan Note that was literally just around the corner from us at a dealership and went off to have a gander.  As it turned out, I loved the concept of the Note - the space inside the cabin, the flexible luggage space (for Anthony the mobility buggy), the lightness of the steering, the driving position, the ease of getting in and out - it was all perfect.  The only problem with this one was a) the wiring loom looked like it had been eaten by rats and put back together again by Mr. Gaffer Tape and b) the brake calipers were worryingly moth-eaten.  Following a test drive (which was a LOT of fun), we decided to leave it there and continue looking.  Even though the Note had swiftly ascended to the top of the "possibles" tree, I wasn't disappointed as I felt sure we could find one in better condition.

That evening, I cast my net across the used car adverts and turned up three Notes - one of which looked very nice indeed.  We arranged to go and have a look at it the following day - and bought it.  We came home, got a taxi back out to the car and brought it home that same day.  It's red, it's now called Cherry and is a cut above the one we saw at the dealership in its specification and in its condition and the price would leave us with enough money in the kitty to deal with any unforeseen costs and/or the first MOT.  Couldn't ask for better.

The following day, we put Alfie the Amalfi Lemon Coloured Skoda up for sale at a price that was a fair bit more than the part exchange we'd been offered - and Steve's mobile phone went completely bonkers within seconds of the advert hitting the internet.  The first fella who came to see him bought him - and took him away there and then.  *blink*  I don't think I've ever dealt with a vehicle purchase/sale at quite that speed before.

Strange times?  You're telling me!