Any idea?

Another SOS for you planty people out there.

This has invaded my tiny front garden.

It smothers everything, and provides excellent cover for snails, the other great enemy.

It has tiny bulbs, and slender strap-like leaves.

It also leaves your hands smelling slightly but persistently of chives when it's pulled out to allow the tulips and pansies to survive.

Information and advice welcome!

Later: 

Thank you for your thoughts so far. Here's an update.

Above is the wild garlic that is so plentiful in the Dene, though not yet in flower. It smells unmistakably of - yes, garlic.

And this is the onion weed flower. It smells of chives, according to the many Australian websites that bring despair to the gardener or farmer seeking to eradicate it without the use of Agent Orange.


I don't think my alien invader is either of those rather pretty plants, although it may be related, but this I know: it is impossible to get rid of!

Next day: Many thanks to Rattling On, who correctly identified it as Allium Paradoxum (Few-flowered garlic) and gave me this link: 

http://www.ukwildflowers.com/Web_pages/allium_paradoxum_few_flowered_garlic.htm

Hurrah! Now to discover how to reduce its vigour and curb its Mongol Hordes tendencies.....

Blue day

Stained glass shadow in the lobby.

Rosemary in flower, looking bleached in the bright sunlight.

Receiving visitors.

Flossie waiting for her walk, ball at the ready.

Grape hyacinths.

A hint of blue water butts with my (former - small repressed sob) allotment just visible through the park.

A bluish-grey smudge in the trees that turned out to be a squirrel, leaping seconds after I pressed the shutter. Numbers are increasing, despite the bloody war being waged.

Sky reflected in Flossie's river before she churns it all up.

A small blue bruise under my nail, the result of an over-enthusiastic leap by Flossie for the stick I was holding. My, a dog bite, even a completely accidental little one, is unbelievably painful!

And then there's the depressing conversation with the estate agent this morning, who admitted that no, nothing in my area was selling. In other areas, things were looking up. I must try not to feel blue about that.

Perhaps I should occupy my time with doing something about those disgraceful cuticles....

There's only one Florence

Oh, no there's not! There are two - or at least, there will soon be two....

Gretel Parker, artist, needlefelter extraordinaire, blogging in the Middle of Nowhere, author of the delightful Mrs Mouse's Cupcakes, and a great deal more besides, is creating a small Florence for me. It was her figure of Tommy (below) that prompted me to commission the figure. In deepest Florence black, of course.

Gretel promises that there will be photos of the work in progress. From fluff to Florence.... thrilling!

All I know at the moment is that Florence the Small will have a scarf and a favourite toy. She will be somewhat slimmer than Tommy, who looks as though his enthusiasm for dinner outdoes hers.

She will also be kept well out of the way of Florence the Large, whose drooly enthusiasm for anything loveable, soft and woolly can already be predicted.

Dining with Pavlov

The daily routine:

It's five o'clock; Tosca reminded me ten minutes earlier. She has a clock in her stomach, I swear, although it runs ten minutes fast.

"Dinner for dogs!" I call. That's my equivalent of a dinner gong, and it's music to their ears.

The cats, who can eat freely whenever they like and no longer have a set meal time, gather to watch the floor show. The dogs hop up and down and trip me up.

Dogs' dinner time is somewhat ritualistic, and fraught with tension.

First there's the waiting. The scoops of food are dispensed, warm water added. (The water slows Flossie down a little, and helps 7-toothed Tosca to manage her kibble.)

Flossie illustrates the Pavlovian conditioned reflex.

Then comes the wolfing. Dinner lasts only a few seconds for Flossie; she will also eat anything.

Flossie's dinner is served in the back kitchen.

The baby gate is there for a reason.

It takes longer for Flossie to do her washing up than to devour her dinner. When her bowl is spotlessly clean, she waits again; then she must fetch it to me...

...and hand it over. She learned this from the other dogs at Fran's house.

Meantime, on the other side of the baby gate, Tosca is tucking in. She eats steadily, but hasn't got Flossie's high-speed hoovering technique.

Her Personal Taster has inspected the food, and pronounced it safe to eat, although not appetising to cats.

The gate gives Tosca time to finish her dinner without having a large black dog looming over her, watching, waiting, drooling.

When Tosca has finished, Flossie does the washing up for her too. Nobody can polish a dish like Flossie can!

Then it too is handed over.

And they both get a little treat.

Dessert for dogs.

And then it's all over till breakfast the following day.

It's a simple enough life.....

Just do it!

June 2010

A little rush of decisiveness to the brain today....

Last year we had such a good time at an archery taster event in the grounds of Belsay Castle, that we said we would take a class. Then life and more housey stuff intervened, and it didn't happen.

Today, remembering the enjoyment of that day, I searched, downloaded, telephoned, and applied. I'm starting a beginners' course in early May.

Twang!

Being Mum

Mothering Sunday.

Usually, there is the amusement of waiting for the inevitable text/email/telephone call of horror and abject apology from the Lovely Son, generally late in the day, as he realises that once again he has forgotten. My neighbour would say in outrage "How many mothers does he have?" but it always made me laugh; I have deep sympathy for anyone whose memory lets them down at inopportune moments, a dislike for the commercialisation of such days, an awareness of his erratic working hours, and I know that the Lovely Son loves his mum regardless of what day it is.

But the Lovely Son came to stay for the weekend, although he had to catch an early train back to London this morning.

He spent the weekend bathed in dog-breathy adoration.

We shopped, we whizzed round the house preparing for a viewing yesterday (silly girl who didn't read the spec, and therefore didn't realise the house wasn't big enough for her and three others) and he supported me in the sad and long-delayed task of emptying the shed on the allotment, prior to giving up the plot. We walked, and talked, and talked some more.

He was repeatedly sat on and washed.

He went off this morning carrying still-warm cheese scones, as well as other nice things to eat, and left flowers, a card (with an intensely loving message containing the word 'selfless'- oh, sob, sniff! and how I wish that were really true!), and two moping dogs.

He sent his usual complaining text from the train (running late, someone smelly and barefooted sitting next to him - later, when he reaches Darlington, there will be complaints about mobile phones, screaming kids, shouty people, inexplicable waits in fields, and interminable loudspeaker announcements). I wish I'd had the forethought to copy and keep his often-hilarious train texts over the years; they would have made a delightful compilation of how much suffering accompanies modern rail travel. The Lovely Son likes to share his suffering with me, and he makes me laugh.

I shall miss him too.

Back to the quiet life now, without such regular meals, so much tidying up, so many unfinished cups of tea, so many dishes to wash. We're planning for me to see him in London at the end of the month. Apparently I must meet Someone....