BOGROT

Yes. Bogrot. We have far, far too many books, the old bookcase we gave a home to a few months ago is already full, and we have to do something. So I've decided that Bogrot is the answer. Buy One Get Rid Of Two.

I'll let you know whether it works (but I'm not holding my breath).

Not Downton Abbey - a competition!

I'm talking about the wonderful Upstairs Downstairs, which showed how it should really be done. And as we have duplicates, I am offering a DVD of one or two episodes as a prize (they were freebies, but a DVD is a DVD). All you have to do is write a limerick about maids, the aristocracy, a stately home - in fact, anything Downton- or Upstairs Downstairs-ish.

Ditch your NaNo for a few minutes and have a go.

Downton Abbey (again)

Every week, we watch in fascination as another episode of unlikely plot and clunky prose crosses our screen, to a background of beautiful buildings and pretty frocks. Come on, fellow-writers! Couldn't we all do better than this? Last night's highlight, after the miraculous recovery of Matthew, who leapt from his wheelchair apparently healed, and the next day (or thereabouts) took the lovely Mary in his arms for a quick waltz round the drawing room:

Mary: Can you dance without your stick?
Matthew: You ARE my stick.

Isn't that lovely? No-one has ever called me their stick before (sigh). And there's m'lord, kissing the maid, telling her, "I want you with every fibre of my being". Aaaaah. Bless.

I wouldn't miss it for the world. Roll on the next series.

Magpie 90

Here lie the family of Moore,
No longer here, but gone before.
Their motto? "Always do your best.
Remember: better Moore than Lesse."


(With thanks to Magpie Tales for the picture)

Horse diaries

Titch likes to mess about. He prances up to other horses in the field, and nips them on the bum. This doesn't always go down well. Today, he has a cut on his knee where he's been kicked.

Titch: We're not going out, are we? I've got this sore knee.
Me; It's just a little cut. You'll be fine. Have you been in another fight?
Tich: Yeah. You should see the other guy!
Me: No-one else has been injured. Just you.
Titch: Oh, Is that right?
Me: That's right.
Titch: And we're going out?
Me: Too right we are.
Titch: Can we go to the dairy?
Me: Okay. We'll go to the dairy.

The dairy is a route much beloved of all the horses because it is short. It's the convalsescent route for those recovering from colic, minor injuries or whavever. Titch loves it, and as we set out, he completely forgets his sore knee. We bounce along the road, shying at everything in sight, and when we meet a woman in a bright orange coat, he turns tail and canters off down the road. With some difficulty, I pull him up and apolgise to the woman, who is looking startled.

Me: What on earth was that about?
Titch: You know I hate orange.
Me: I think you're feeling a lot better.
Titch: No, I'm not. I've got his sore knee....By the way, are you still thinking of...of ...getting rid of me?

I think about the huge bill I've just paid the stable. Then I look at Titch's glossy coat, his big dark eyes, his long legs and his ridicuously kissable nose. And I sigh.

Me: No. Of course I'm not.

A journey in the quiet carriage

We went London today, booking seats in the quiet carriage, so that we could read our books. Fair enough?

But why do they penalise us by ALWAYS putting the quiet carriage at the back, so we have to walk miles to reach it, and also have to trawl through about seven (noisy) carriages to buy a cup of coffee? It's as though we're being punished for not wanting to listen to people telling us, loudly, that they're "on the train, and will Malcolm remember to buy the rabbit for the stew/polish his boots/get Andrea to send that unrgent email"? I think, instead, there should be a noisy carriage - several if necessry - at the back of the train, well away from the rest of us.

But when a mobile phone went off in the quiet carriage this morning, there was a general bristling and tutting. And when a second one rang, and was anwered at length, a lynch-party descended upon it. There was much huffing and puffing and flying of feathers, and a timid little voice was heard to whimper that she "hadn't been on a train for ages". That excuse cut no ice with the lynchers ("pshaw!"), and the timid little voice seemed to vanish. I felt quite sorry for her. Well, almost.

Horse diaries - in memoriam

Titch: Where is he?
Me: Where's who?
Titch: Westy. My neigbour. You know.
Me: Well....
Titch: There's something you're not telling me, isn't there?
Me: Titch, you'd better sit down for this.
Titch: Don't be ridiculous!
Me: You're right. Sometimes I forget. Well, you know that Westy was old?
Titch: Older than me?
Me: Much older than you. And he had that bad leg, which never really got better. And he was in a lot of pain. In the end, there was nothing more they could do.
Titch: You're talking about the vet with the...with the...?
Me: I'm afraid so.
Titch: I'll really miss him
Me: Me too. Westy was a real gentleman.
Titch: More so than me?
Me: I'm afraid so. You've got some way to go yet.
Titch: But did he have a famous grandfather? I bet his grandfather wasn't as famous as mine!
Me: Maybe not. But not everything's about you, you know.
Titch: Perhaps not... You know, I always felt safe with Westy. He saw me past cows, and wheelie bins. Told me not to worry. Said he'd look after me.
Me: Yes, he did.
Titch: Not any more, though.
Me: No. Not any more.
Titch: Everyone's been looking so sad.
Me: Yes. We all miss him. He was one in a million.

Westbury (Westy to his friends) died last Thursday. He is buried in a field on the farm where he lived for most of his life. We all miss him very much.