I’m sitting here on one bottom cheek, perched awkwardly on my comfy office chair with an excruciating pain zipping down from hip to shin. And all because I went Belly Dancing last night. Yes, you read that correctly, belly dancing. I’ve always fancied having a go at this but maybe I should have done it back when I was 25.  Still, I had a lot of fun and I jumped into it full gusto, imagining myself as an Eastern temptress shaking my jingly hip belt for all its jangly worth. 

Shook it like Shakira on a shakefest, I did.

Consequence now visits in the cold light of day. This is rather unfortunate as I am attending the village coffee drop-in and luncheon for the first time ever and I wanted to make a good impression rather than hobbling in like Jake the Peg. Perhaps it might play to my advantage and I can curry favour with the locals for my injuries before they burn me with their torches. We will see.

Village Life

I’ve been working hard on Marmalade Cottage. The poor thing seems to have been lacking some TLC. I am slowly restoring love with each wipe, each lick of paint and each visit from some sort of house doctor.  I’ve met some of the neighbours too. One of them has yet to be seen despite my knocking relentlessly on his door. I asked another neighbour who lived there since I couldn’t get an answer.

“Oh, that’s Jeremy. He’s a bit… shy…”

You can imagine that conversation playing out in a thriller on Netflix, can’t you? I am now on edge about what “a bit shy” really means. 

The thing is, I have a beautiful Victorian wall at the side of me that encloses my garden and used to surround the old Methodist chapel that once stood there. However, it is spawling and some of it will need attention. But, like most things in villagey England, nobody knows who is responsible for said wall. No plans detail it, no documents exist, everybody thinks it’s theirs or somebody else’s but nobody can prove it. I’m trying to take ownership because then I can make sure it survives but you have to tread carefully around posh villagers. If you’ve watched Clarkson’s Farm you’ll know what I mean. 

The Queen Needs A Throne

In the meantime, many little jobs have been seen to but there’s a way to go yet before the little Marma can be called fit for a picky resident. One interesting thing that has happened – the visiting plumber told me I had one of the poshest toilets on the planet in the main bathroom.

”You got yourself a Villeroy and Bosch ‘ere!”

“I do?”

“That there’s worth about 800 quid, if not more.”

“800 nicker for a bog? Don’t be daft.”

“Go look it up,” he urged. “You’ll see.”

So I did and he’s not wrong. Who knew that one day I’d really get a throne…

That One Blows Hot and Cold, She Does

Even though it looks like I might actually be renting out the village cottage it didn’t stop me from buying a new toy. As you can see from the latest headlines, the villagers’ peace and quiet has been threatened by a dangerous leaf blower.

Look, I couldn’t help it. There it was on sale looking all big and menacing and there happened to be lots of leaves that needed picking up. And yes, maybe I did take the right royal piss out of the leaf blowers in Texas who ruined any kind of mid-morning chill out on a porch due to their penis issues, but still… I haven’t got a penis so I can be obnoxious for no reason whatsoever. I have to say I am rather taken by it and look forward to Autumn when I can rev it up again. 

Brrrrr-each Babes

Apart from all that I took another little jaunt back to the seaside to visit my BFF.  There’s nothing like a North Yorkshire sea breeze whipping into your face to blow away, well, pretty much everything.

We went for a nice gusty walk along the front. Then we nipped into the pub because it would have been rude not to. Luckily, my usual seat was available so I plonked myself down and got settled.

And, my best mate sat next to me in her seat…

We put the world to rights over a few Whitby chasers and then realised it was time to give in to the rumblings within.  Fortunately, my pal had the sense to book a rather nice restaurant on the seafront so we could watch the people getting blown off the pier whilst filling our boots.

I must say, there’s nothing quite like fresh fish at the seaside.

Followed by a kickass Sunday dinner the very next day served at a beautiful Victorian hotel in Robin Hoods Bay, overlooking a rather sunny start to springtime. Lovely.