Country ways

This afternoon, it being an amazingly balmy Spring day, I put my crumpled hat on my head and a straw in my mouth, and went to the kissing gate outside my garden, anent the footpath, and leant on it, yokel style, in the hope of engaging unwary walkers in conversation.
Frogs was my mission in fact. Below my hedge there is a dyke, water-filled after the rains, and a great place for amphibians. I had heard a sort of purring, reminiscent of Turtle Dove, but too early for them, so I knew it would be frogs in the dyke indulging in their usual chat-up routines.
And sure enough, in no time at all, a citizen in wellies came by with a border collie in tow. I have learned to dispense with the preliminaries (Lovely day, isn't it? What a nice dog! All that stuff). Instead, I plunged straight in:
"Funny things, frogs. Croon like Bing Sinatra when they're roused. Can you hear them?" says I.
I got a funny look.
But then, it was an incomer to the village, not used to our country ways.

Ten Steps to Fitness

When you reach old scrotage, fitness regimes are, to say the least, daunting. For this reason, I have given some thought to a 10-step route to fitness for the chronologically-challenged. Whether you follow it is up to you, but don't blame me if your joints creak for lack of exercise.

Step 1
Park at least 200 yards from your wine merchant's door and enjoy the invigorating walk to it. The mental/emotional anticipation adds to the efficacy of this simple workout.
Step 2
Park at the far end of the supermarket carpark. If you are zimmerframe-ready, grab a shopping cart to help you make the trek to the entrance.
Step 3
Always stand up to get dressed or undressed. Falling over is just part of the workout here. Try taking your underpants/knickers off over your head. Does wonders for the cardiovascular system. Whatever that is.
Step 4
When picking something up off the floor, stay bent over and consider what else you could usefully do while you are down there. The exercise here is based on the principle of dynamic tension. Whatever that is.
Step 5
When lying in bed last thing at night, or waking first thing in the morning, alternately stiffen and relax your whole body. I have no idea why this is good, but it sure feels good. Not every time, of course....
Step 6
Avoid all forms of mechanical/electrical grinders and mixers. Do it all with fork and spoon. Get stirring, and don't worry if your arse wobbles uncontrollably: it's preferable to having it just hang there sagging.
Step 7
Food: keep cakes, biscuits, chocolates and other sweets (candies) on the highest shelf in your kitchen. This way you have to stretch to reach them, giving a healthful torsion to your shoulder muscles.
Step 8
Food again: always keep the crackers in a separate room from the cheese, thereby requiring you to walk a bit before you tuck in.
Step 9
Television: I know it's tempting to slouch on the couch and rely on the remote, but really you ought to get into the habit of getting up and going to the set every time you want to change channels. On second thoughts, bollocks to that.
Step 10
Sex. A delicate subject, I know, but it is another occasion to get those muscles moving, those lungs gasping for air and that little pulse throbbing violently in the temple. Whether you have someone with you at the time is a matter of personal choice. And opportunity of course, which, as we all know, is a fine thing.

Well, it's either my ten-point regime or yoga. Personally, I don't trust anything with live bacteria in it.

Bloody Starlings, bloody squirrels, bloody birds

Put up feeders filled with expensive food for your birds, and what happens? It all gets noshed by Starlings (seriously endangered, my arse) and squirrels (they WILL be endangered if I can do anything about it), while your pretty birds perch at a distance wondering whether they could make a better living in the Algarve.
So, I spend megashekels to buy and put cages over my feeders that small birds can negotiate but larger creatures can't.
Sure, but nobody told the small birds that, so they are starving in the midst of plenty, because NOT ONE has yet worked out how to get through the cages.
Meanwhile, the squirrels and starlings have moved next door to pillage my neighbours' feeders.
Somehow, I don't feel that this is progress.

Trellis on diet, moreorless

I am grateful to my correspondent from North Wales for these useful observations.
Dear Clement Freud, she writes, I was very interested in your comment about potatoes. I once went a whole year without eating potatoes but I didn't lose an ounce (or should that be kilowatts? I am still confused by this metronome conversion thing). Not only that, but I had lots more salads, makes you feel like a rabbit, doesn't it, but I persisted, even with fish and chips.
Not that it mattered, you understand. The late Mr Trellis always used to say he liked his women "meaty", not that he was much of a one for getting his teeth into meat, having lost all his during an unfortunate encounter with a gerbil, but he could suck something lovely. But I don't want to dwell on that.
I didn't understand your reference to your "peacemaker". I don't approve of guns, but I suppose where you live, you have to protect yourself. I understand East Anglians are still very Viking in their habits, it's all rape there, isn't it, along with arsing and pillagery?

Verdict

Today, still suffering, I went to see my regular doctor about my ribcage/chest/lung pains and associated nastinesses. He examined me and delivered his verdict:


"You're fat," he said.
"I demand a second opinion," I said.
"You're ugly, too," he said.
Well, not really, but it seems that my problem is muscular, which is a relief. But he did suggest that I should return as soon as possible to Papworth (the heart hospital) to get my pacemaker checked.
Oh, and the usual: watch my diet, get more exercise, cut down my alcohol intake, avoid large women on tractors.....
So, I am going to be good: I am going to eat fewer potatoes from now on.

An offer you can't refuse

So, there I was, installed as the Principal of a hybrid academic establishment which became registered as King's College of Further Education. You gotta admit, that has a certain ring to it.
And one day, I received an enquiry about putting on a course for a group of Libyans to prepare them for entrance to Polytechnic HND courses.
So, I picked up the phone and spoke to the author of the query. And we clicked. And my school got the job.
And, later, the man who phoned me - I will call him Dr L - invited me to a meeting in London with the Libyan principals, after which he said "One day, I will make you an offer you can't refuse." Talk about the Godfather!
But he did, and I accepted, and that was the beginning of my great adventure into the world of industry, engineering, management training and seat-of-the-pants consultancy.
It was hectic, crazy, mind-numbing, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world. Why? Because it opened my eyes to a world beyond the cosy confines of Academia. And it was very well paid too.
Later I went back to Academia, but I was no longer the same person.
Call it perspective.
Thank you, Dr L, you were a bad old bugger, but you did a lot for me - and for a lot of other people too.
Rest in peace.

Great Scott!

Mrs Trellis, once again, betrays her literary leanings.

Dear Scott FitzGerald, she wrote, imagine my surprise when I discovered that you were still alive, despite your appalling habits! My answer is a resounding YES - write write write - you are the most fascinating person I know after the late Mr Trellis, who, bless him, never got round to writing his memoirs because of his terrible trembling hand.
Mind you, he did once gain a certain notoriety on a visit to Pontypridd when he scrawled a graffiti (shouldn't that be graffito?) on the wall of the local Polytechnic (now, alas, a bum university) as follows: "I may not know what I like, but I do know nothing about art".
Listen, dear, I know that most of what you wrote after the Great Gatsby was not much cop, but Zelda believed in you, well, some of the time, and so do I.
Why not go for something pungent, you know, like Gray's Allergy in a Country Churchyard, an idea not to be sneezed at. Just my little joke!
Your literally
Blodwen Trellis, Mrs, Widow, Retired