Tent-warming Party

We dearly loved our little Coleman Ridgeline, but it took a lot of strain in the North York Moors' winds at the end of last summer. And frankly, it just wasn't going to cut it in the Outer Hebrides for our propsed wild camping trip in August.

So we blew my invigilation money (one step around the Great Hall = 1 cm2 of tent) on an Outwell Colorado 5. We put it up in the back garden this morning (erected with great ease: we are already won over by it's slick Danish design and smashing Mocha Chocalata ya ya colour-scheme). We had friends around this afternoon for a tent-warming shindig and the elderflower and cava cocktails went down particularly well in the glorious heat. Hopefully the first of many happy little times...

Twelfth Night

The much-loved head of English at P's school is retiring after 21 years of service and in his honour, the staff staged a (much-abridged) production of Shakespeare's dark comedy, "Twelfth Night" this week.

Philip was cast as Antonio, the sailor. He spent weeks learning complicated chunks of text and Ben proved to be a worthy practice partner (dare I say, often reciting the lines with more applomb than his dad). I think that maybe Shakespeare may have gotten under the young lad's skin (something to do with him shouting, "The gentleness of the gods go with thee!" when I left for Sainsbury's the other evening). That's my boy.

P was initially directed to play the role with a very broad South African accent. This predictively evolved into a very camp South African accent.
We went along to watch the second performance on Tuesday night. Nico drove all the way from Cambridge and will bear credible witness to the fact that his brother did actually act and did actually act very well. He received some of the heartiest rounds of applause and as our friend, Robin, summed it up, was "worryingly convincing" as a gay, love-lorn sailor.

You've got to admit. He's come a long way since I plucked him off the beach, made him put on some shoes and get a haircut.

Just loving the look, dahling: especially those tattoos.

Happy birthday Gill!

We (and the Fields) spent the weekend with Gill and Dave to celebrate G's birthday. Clever Lou, being very crafty (in both senses of the word) organised key-ring and monster-making for the kids while the three big kids went to the pub to watch the first Lions/SA match.

Followed by a trip to the park...

And a braai later on. P was (uncharacteristically) the first to head to bed: momentous indeed. I'm sure it was nothing we said. Just a busy week camping it up in the staff's production of "Twelfth Night" (story to follow in another post but well-worth popping back for!)

And then out for breakfast on Sunday morning.

Family Weekend

We spent a relaxing, sunny weekend (mainly in the garden and mainly eating lots of meat and drinking lots of everything) with Nico and Fi and cousin Duncan and Fi. B spent the weekend seeking out volunteers to play his new Cosmic Catch talking ball game, N and D compared "wiry grey hairs" and everyone did a lot of yapping. A certain Irishwoman was even spotted eating a bit of biltong (ok, so it was mixed with loads of butternut). Anna loved her cheerleader pom-poms (or "dancing things", as she calls them) from Duncan and Fi, whose very wise pink purchase has seen them automatically fast-tracked to "favourite cousin" status. Sorry, Chris. Women are just so fickle.

And then there were four...

So we've been chatting to a few local chicken experts.
(And there do seem to be a lot of them in this village. Coincidentally, they all bake their own sourdough bread, drive a Volvo and get their groceries delivered by Ocado). They concur that two is definitely not a good number. Apparently the cockerel dominates the female and this leads to a less generous egg yield.

So rather than fowl-up the delicate balance in this green and pleasant little corner of Englandshire, we raced off to Cotswold Chickens on the South Newington Road on Friday and bought two new "redhead" hens: Florrie (after the flame-haired eponymous drama queen from "Florence and the Machine") and Tintin (after the auburn/ginger/strawberry blond (?) adventurer).

Initially the new-comers didn't receive the warmest welcome from territorial Mayonnaise and Pie, and some serious scuffles ensued. But they seem to have settled down now (there's nothing like a sunny weekend and a few glasses of wine round the ol' chicken water dispenser to ease tensions).

Dare I concede that I was wrong and that maybe the chicken-thing was a good idea afterall? Benanna love running outside to let out the chickens each morning. They check for eggs and sprinkle some feed and love around. And hey, if the kids are happy, then who am I to get into a flap?

Ok, that's the last of the pathetic chicken puns. I promise.

Florrie strutting her stuff...

Chicken Pie and Chicken Mayonnaise

Meet our two new family additions: Mayonnaise and Pie...
which is what they may end up as if their laying or behaviour is not up to um...scratch.

They arrived on Monday night (from next door - long story, but personally I think that if the neighbours don't want them anymore then perhaps we have every reason to be circumspect). They seemingly adjusted to their new home (coop built by John from Bloxham School maintenance, of course) and the chicken run heroically constructed by Philip and his poultry-partner-in-crime, Frans (with much support from the makers of XXXX).

Bit of a cluck-up yesterday morning though as they kept flying over the chicken wire and escaping into the secret garden (the chickens, not Philip & Frans). Fortunately Philip and Frans seem to have asserted their "Baas-ship" and they are safely back in their run.

To quote Mr "Chicken Run" Tweedy: "These chickens are definitely organised". I think fun times may lie ahead (for the chickens, not necessarily for Philip & Frans). Let's hope that Philip's little malapropism on Twitter, "Anyone know how to build a chicken coup?" is not prophetic.

Mayonnaise (in white) and Pie (wearing classic black).

Anna proudly showing off the first egg.