To Cleo

A young cat came into the garden this morning, skulking because he knew the territory wasn’t his. The owner was away on a long journey you see, so he could linger for a while and roll in the sun. He didn’t see me watching and being reminded of the old girl, who once frolicked and chased butterflies on that same grass when she was young.

He was lucky she wasn’t there. Cleo was her name, and though small she would have soon let him know of her displeasure, and with flailing claws sent him on his way. Then, licking imagined wounds, and with ruffled pride she would have settled back down again in the sun to fight another day. Until she lost the final battle that took her from us, forever.

He knew none of this, and didn’t care that it had once belonged to another, though he was very wary and could smell the void. Half expecting to be harangued at any moment he constantly cast an eye for the owner, or was it that he sensed her watching from afar.

Still now after all these years, my heart hangs heavy, and tearfully I sit here drawn back to her memory. From that timid little kitten, that hid behind the furniture when she first came to us, she grew into a loving pet that gave us many years of pleasure and fun. The children adored her, and grew up with her always being there, to chase, cuddle and tease with a ball of wool.

Eventually she tired of playing and became the sedate old lady that just wanted to curl up on a knee, and be stroked. She lived long enough to meet and be loved by our grandchildren, and sparked the desire for them to have their own pets. You want to warn them not to, to protect them from the day they’ll have their own hearts broken, but that’s impossible.

After all would I have all those sweet memories erased, to save me from these tears? No I wouldn’t, they are too precious.

Thank you Cleo.

Vive l'oignon.

Today, Ladies and Gentlemen, and any other sentient creature that may care to drop in, I would like to announce that the first crops have gone in.

Approximately 350 onion sets, of three different varieties, are now nestled into a couple of beds waiting for the birds to pull them up again. Actually I got away with it last year, but being ever the pessimist I’m sure it’ll happen this year.

The theory goes that the little blighters think they’re worms peeping up through the soil, and pull them up in the hope of a free snack. You’d think they’d cotton on after the first few and leave the rest alone wouldn’t you, but they don’t, so I suspect there’s also an element of avian vandalism involved, or even revenge.

When I gave my wife the good news, a concerned expression crept across her face.

“And how many have you put in this year ?”, she asked, in a tone not dissimilar to that used when asking how many pints I’ve had, on my return from the pub.

“Err, only about 300”, I replied, anticipating where she was coming from. I thought leaving the odd 50 off would somehow make it sound better, it didn’t.

“So we’ll have enough to last us about three bloody years then, and that’s after we’ve used the other 200 still hung up in the garage from last year”, she said. She’s very good at mental arithmetic you see.

Of course she’s right, I did over do it last year and resolved to aim for quality rather than quantity this year on the plot. But onions are just so easy to grow, you just plonk ‘em in, replant them once or twice after the birds have been round and “Voila”! you could supply a small french town, if you had a bike and a beret.

Now, what did I do with.....?

I had another walk down to the plot yesterday, across the green fields with birds singing all around, and would have arrived full of the joys of spring, if it hadn’t still been officially winter.

I went over to one of the other bloke’s plots to have a natter, who’s about the same age as me. After comparing notes on carrot fly and potato blight for a while, we got on to medical matters as people of our age tend to do sometimes.

When asked what tablets I was taking for the blood pressure, I told him it was the ones that make you pee a lot.

“Oh Bendroflouazide” he replied with a knowing air of wisdom to his voice, then added with a large hint of disdain, “But everybody’s on them though, aren’t they………owt else?”

“Statins”, I replied. Who was I to disappoint him.

“Ah, now my cholesterol's OK, you see”, he informed me, with an emphasis on the “my”, and a smug smile on his face.

I went on regardless, “And one of those ACE inhibitors as well, but can’t quite remember its name”, just to amuse him further.

With the same authoritarian tone, that by now made me want to piss on his cauliflowers the next time the Bendroflouazide kicks in, he said, “That’s one of the side effects of ACE inhibitors you know”.

“What is?” I asked tersely, a bit perplexed.

“Short term memory loss, I bet it’s Perindopril you're on”, he replied. Admittedly, the name did sound familiar.

Feeling a bit decrepit by now, I bid him farewell and wandered back to my plot with the intention of having a sandwich and a cup of tea from the flask.

Trouble was, I had forgotten to bring the damned bag with them in, hadn’t I!!!

Something to make your hair curl.

As a coincidence to the last blog, and in continuance of my “finds from the plot” series, here's a find I didn't post last time, shown in the pictures. The reason being, was that I had no idea what it was or whether it had any age to speak of.

It is made of a similar material to that of clay pipes and has a makers mark on the end, “WB” under a crown.



At first I thought I it was quite modern, a porcelain switch handle maybe, and then wondered if it was some kind of stamp for pottery making.

After a bit of research I have eventually tracked it down, and it turns out to be an 18th century Wig Curler, dating to around 1750. Or more correctly, half of one, the other end would have been exactly the same.

It seems they were used to curl wigs in Georgian days, by tightly curling the hair around them, dampening the wig, and then baking in an oven.

Apparently, the wearing of false hair, or “periwigs” reached its peak in France and England during the 17th and 18th centuries, and a great variety were for sale, together with the necessary accompaniments of a wig stand and wig curlers.


These curlers were made from pipe clay, some being hollow to allow heat to penetrate, and it is thought that they were made by pipe makers. The WB stamp is by far the most common of those found.

They are also found in America, for example on an archaeological dig at Ferry Farm, George Washingtons’s boyhood home, and here is a very interesting link for our friends across the water.
http://www.kenmore.org/ferryfarm/archaeology/arch_special/washington.html

Here you’ll see they found wig curlers with exactly the same makers mark, as this one found in a small corner of an English allotment. So as that old saying goes, it’s a small world isn’t it.