A Year of Much Bickering by Jane Ayres

FIRE! FIRE! I noticed the first of the snow drops, ‘winter’s timid children’ in flower by the wall when I took the lads out for their afternoon walk. Despite the biting wind, these little flowers always lift the spirits. I usually feel a bit flat after the bustle of Christmas. Flat and fat. The trousers were definitely feeling a bit tight in the waistband and I was puffing as I came back up the hill. I vowed to myself that I would lose a stone before Easter, and then arrived home to more of Cook’s fruit cake. A fter the lamb shank/salad debacle,  I didn’t dare to refuse and risk offending her again and tucked into a hefty slice. Alyona  had just finished mopping the  kitchen floor but Brexit still seemed convinced that she’d missed something tasty under the freezer. The minute we came in he went straight to the corner and started scrabbling at it again  It might well be a mouse. Mrs Tibbs had eaten so much turkey over the festive season that she's a bit off her

A VISIT TO GRANNY T AND A WALK IN LONDON Jerome has gone back up to Cambridge (I  still get a little teary when my boy leaves) and with Crichton up in London again, the house seemed very empty, so I decided to take the dogs for a walk across the fields to see Granny T. She always shakes the blues out of me.  She’ll be eighty-four later in the month and is still as fierce as the day Crichton brought me home for her approval. We’ve had our spats over the years, but I love her for her brave refusal to stop being fearless, even now she’s getting on a bit.     A crisp frost would have been my choice rather than mizzling rain and mud, but Trenton didn’t care. He worked along the hedges, nose down, tail wagging in the hope of a lively pheasant. Labradors are always so reliable. Brexit is anything but. He shot to the end of his extendible lead and began to pull like a train. I know he’s ‘a hound’ but really, it’s got to stop. Maybe this will be the year. He calmed down eventuall

BACK TO SCHOOL The run down to  Kent  wasn’t as bad as I’d been dreading. Tunbridge Wells is a pretty place and I bought Arraminta lunch in a café in the Pantiles before I dropped her off at St Audrey’s. She was quite chatty for once and didn’t moan one little bit when I reminded her to buckle down to her studies this term. I assumed she wanted something. We talked about her having ‘a season’ this year but she is adamant that she’d rather die.    ‘Honestly, Ma. Nobody does that anymore. But…’    I knew something was coming.    ‘…some of the girls are going back packing in Nepal with a group called YOUTH ACTION. It’s a much better way to spend the year…’    I was about to point out that she was already having one ‘gap year’ doing her resits, when I thought better of it. No need to break the mood.      ‘…and they help build schools or something and are   a very worthy cause ,’ she said, ‘and I’ve pretty much promised to go too…and I can’t let them down now…and we’ll do

TWELFTH NIGHT -  TWO HANGOVERS,  ONE TREE  AND A LOT OF NAME TAPES I'm worried about Arraminta. She's so wild. The twins arrived back from the last party of the season  by taxi just after eleven this morning and both looked like they needed a good bath and an Aspirin.     ‘Did you have a nice evening, darlings?’ I said in my best non-confrontational mother voice.    ‘ She  did,’ said Jerome and dumped a carrier bag down on the table.    Arraminta rolled her eyes, ‘Boring!’    ‘Don’t say  she,  dear. Your sister does have a name.’    ‘OK, Ma. She…the one they call Arraminta Trehorlicks, got very, very drunk indeed and threw up on my cashmere sweater. It’s in there,’ he said and nudged the bag. ‘And I’m not going to be the one to wash it.’    ‘Well don’t look at me,’ retorted his sister. ‘Nobody asked you to hang around all night getting in the way.’    ‘It’s a bloody good job I  was  hanging around all night, or you’d be in the nick and Dad would be down the

NEW YEAR RESOLUTIONS FOR CYNTHIA AND CRICHTON Why, oh why do I let Crichton us get into these scrapes?  We attended the usual New Year’s bash at Bunty and Derek Gainsborough’s last night and I rather wish we hadn’t. The meal was delicious of course (Bunty is a marvellous cook) and the pile of empties pretty impressive, by midnight. We all sang  Auld Lang Syne , and danced around in a circle, spilling our drinks on the carpet and the Shih Tzu.   And then talk turned to resolutions.  ‘I intend to learn to play the ukulele,’ Monica informed us to cheers and groans, ‘and Douglas will be cutting down on jammy dodgers. He’s insatiable.’ ‘I am,' he said and pulled a face, ‘but only for you, my darling.’ Inky said he’d just do his best stay alive until next year and Sally said she would try to be more tolerant; she is already the kindest person I know.   I thought I'd better add something to the mix, so I told the assembled company that I would be keeping