A Year of Much Bickering by Jane Ayres

WE'RE ALL PROUD OF DOROTHY    Arraminta came home for half term. She looks peaky to me. Cook made her favourite chicken for dinner but she was quite rude about it and announced that she's become a vegetarian, then flounced off without even asking to get down from the table. I have told Crichton that it’s probably her hormones, which prevented a scene. That kind of talk usually stops him in his tracks. She  spent her last exit with Candida Bellmarsh and her family which rather let us off the hook. They live near Bicester. Mrs B seemed charming when I rang , and she told me that Candida’s older brother is in the fire service, so I can put my mind at rest on that score. I'm so pleased that A is making friends at last but it doesn't seem to have cheered her up. Quite the reverse.    Dorothy’s funeral went off rather well all things considered. The family had hoped for a cremation but in view of the metal plates in her head, they were advised to go for a

ST VALENTINE'S DAY    The Fire Brigade have rung. The cause of our little conflagration would seem to be a ‘gnawed flex’ on the freezer.     ‘Mice?’ I ask, ‘Rats?’  They said something rather larger was to blame…Oh dear Brexit, you are a very naughty dog.  We won’t tell Crichton unless he asks, but just in case, I determined to spoil him a little on  Valentine’s Day. The fund raiser was my main concern of course, but I still had time to find him a little treat… a dear little bear with a blue nose. I know he pretends not to like these things but after so many years, I know he does really. He has quite a collection on his bedside table now. And then I saw  a teensy helium balloon in the card shop to add to the surprise…customised in glitter ink, with I LOVE YOU LITTLE BEAR. He will adore it.    I dashed to Paula’s at two for planning meeting. She seems to have thought of everything. Her daughter has even found some heart shaped tinsel to decorate the tables. 

DRINKS WITH THE FAIRBROTHERS    How Caro manages it, I do not know. Sixty-five guests in a drawing room the size of a rabbit hutch…soggy Ritz crackers spread with tinned pate, egg sandwiches and sausages on cocktail sticks, all served on chipped plates.   Crichton has always said she’s still stuck in the 80’s. Best place to be imo, but I digress. Yet again, it was the best party of the whole Year.  That could be because Stephan and Caroline live within walking distance of the Manor, (so no driving for me) and they always serve their home-made cider. Neat, it would take the skin off an egg, but watered down with a drop of gin, it’s truly delicious.  Just for once, Crichton didn’t go for the record (maybe New Year’s Eve has taught him a lesson), and we walked home arm in arm in the chilly afternoon air, with a certain amount of rolling from side to side, and I allowed him a little snooze in front of the television. I’m not a total ogre, whatever he says.    In

A TRIP TO THE VET I was surprised how quickly everything got back to normal after the fire.  Crichton went back up in London and I have the house to myself, which is a good thing in many respects. A woman can only take so much of her husband WFH (working from home) before she wants to brain him, and Waffler and Trehorlicks doesn’t run itself.   Now all that is left to do is to persuade him to sanction the kitchen refit. Unfortunately, Alyona has done such a good job with the J-cloth and bucket, t hat t he kitchen doesn't look too bad at all and Cook is happily rolling out the dinners again.  I will have to work very skilfully if I am to get him to agree and have loosened the handles on the cutlery drawer in readiness for the weekend. The new freezer arrived in all its glory with plenty of polystyrene packaging for Brexit to chew up. It's  huge.  Double door, drinks dispenser and a screen that tells you what you’ve run out of. Goodness knows how that works, but Cook