Good old BBC

I am putting the television on in the mornings as soon as I wake up in the hope that this will stimulate me into getting up (it doesn't). Last week it said on the BBC News that a report had been issued that stated that Britain hasn't recovered from the credit crunch and we are still in a recession. The next day I was listening to BBC Radio 2 when the newscaster said that, 'it is official that the country is now out of the recession.' Excellent. The very next morning again on the BBC TV news, 'We ask why America has recovered from the recession, but Britain hasn't'. So which is it to be? Have we, or haven't we?

I have decided to join a large part of the nation and go on strike. It seems to be the trendy thing to do. The horses will have to see to themselves. Presumably one of them will have worked out how to open the shutter doors and let themselves out. One can muck out and the other can do the feeds. They'll have to draw straws to see who wants to drive the tractor. After all, if postmen, dustmen and bus drivers can go on strike, I'm sure I can, too.


When we moved here it didn't take me long to realise we are 2 miles from the nearest village. That would be fine except that the road that leads to the village is more or less a vertical drop. This is fine for getting there, but an absolute nightmare for staggering back up. And even if I do go, there is only a post office and a general store. Remember, I don't drive, so I have to have a very good reason to go. Imagine my confusion when a delivery driver couldn't be bothered to leave a parcel last week. My initial feelings of joy that I didn't have to go all the way to Chesterfield were soon replaced by the realisation that the onus was now on me to walk down to the village post office and collect it. The parcel turned out to be a horse rug, huge and in a bag. This was fine, except that no matter how I carried the thing I couldn't see over the top of it. The second mistake was that I took the dog with me. The trouble was I couldn't see her over the top of the parcel either, and she kept meandering about in front of me, picking up her 'wee-mails.' Halfway up the hill I was overcome with a desire to go to the nearest house and knock on the door, and beg them to take the parcel in until my husband could come and collect it after work. Realising the insanity of this, I continued to slog up the hill, trying to avoid tripping up over the dog. My only consolation was that if I fell over it would be a soft landing.

The other problem with the nearest corner shop being 15 miles away is that I can't satisfy those random urges for chocolate. How wonderful it is to have a telepathic husband who seems to know when these urges will strike, and who has the wisdom to buy supplies on his way home from work.