Mindy Hammond - Express

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Mindy Hammond on Getting A New Puppy

MUCH as our columnist loves her menagerie, there comes a time when enough is enough. Well, nearly enough...

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sunday, June 22, 2014


Mindy promised her daughter a puppy if she passed exams – but she chose an iPhone instead     [SUSAN HELLARD]


Promises, promises. Or rather, one promise with two conditions. Izzy has set her heart on going to a particular school once she turns 13 and she recently sat the exams for a couple of scholarships. I told her that if she got both, she could have a puppy.

A safe bet, you might think. But no. Credit where it’s due, our eldest daughter worked amazingly hard and did wonderfully well. Now it’s time to honour my part of the deal.

“So, Iz,” I said last week. “Have you decided what kind of puppy you’d like?”

“Well, um... I’m not sure,” she replied (not the answer I’d been expecting).

“OK, but make a decision soon because we need to get a summer puppy. Otherwise we’ll be trying to house-train it in the wet.”

“Yeah, I know,” she sighed.

“Have you seen those Pomeranian/husky crosses?” piped up her sister, hopefully.

“The thing is,” Izzy continued, “I’ve been thinking about it, and what you said about the responsibility and everything...”

“Yes, well, if it’s your dog you will have to look after it.” (I know it’ll end up being me, but you can’t just give in.)

“Well, yeah, I get it and everything... but I was thinking, you know, I don’t want to feel guilty about my puppy and then not see my friends.”

“Well I don’t mind looking after it for a day...”

“Yes, but...” There was the faintest hint of a quivering lower lip and then out it came: “Could I have an iPhone instead?” She smiled sheepishly.

“Oh hold on there, bucko! I know this trick. We get you a fancy phone and then in a couple of months you’ll say, ‘I never got the puppy.’ Daddy will fall for it and you’ll end up with both.”

She smirked in a shifty way.

“It’s one or the other,” I said.

“Well... what do you think I should do?”

“It’s not up to me. This is your decision.”

There we left it until the weekend. And by Monday, her mind was made up. It was the phone.

“After all,” she said. “I don’t want to upset Rucksack with a puppy now he’s so old and it’s not as though we’ll never have another dog, is it? I just don’t think now is a good time.”

“That’s really considerate of you, Iz, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“Yeah. I think so. A blue one.”

“OK, done.”

To be honest, I was relieved. Rucksack has welcomed many puppies over the years, but our poor old ginger tom isn’t the man he was, and in his dotage he wants peace and quiet.

So just for now, I think we have enough animals. A couple of days later, Richard returned from the Lake District. He and his brother Nick had been on a boys’ jolly – biking, camping, yomping about and visiting their great mate Les, a shepherd at Buttermere.

We caught up on weekend events, then Richard turned to me and said, “I need to talk to you after the girls have gone to bed.”

Oh lord, this sounded bad. Was Top Gear sending him to Mars in a home-made space ship? Later that evening, I poured two stiff G&Ts and braced myself for the big news.

“Come on then – out with it,” I said.

“Yeah, um...” he replied, fiddling with his phone (oh God – don’t tell me he’s going to start tweeting, I thought). “Er, you know you told me to ask Les if he had any bottle-fed lambs for Willow?”

“Ye-e-e-s?”

“Um, he can’t really part with any lambs but he might have something else for us.”

“Ye-e-e-s?”

“Erm... you know his best dog, Tess? Well...” Then he showed me his phone, and there was this picture of a tiny, black-and-white collie pup, with an irresistible pleading look on its face.

“It’ll be her last litter... and this one’s the runt. She’s so calm and sweet... and Les said she’s ours if we want her.”

“Oh Richard!”

“I know, but...”

“These are working dogs, and it may have escaped your notice but we don’t actually have any sheep.”

“Ah, well, that’s the other thing – Les will set us up with a small flock. You’re lucky I didn’t come home pulling a trailer with six ewes and a puppy.”

I sighed. Why fight it?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/483554/Mindy-Hammond-on-getting-a-new-puppy

 

Richard Hammond @richardhammond
 7 Jul 2014
I've got home to a new friend. Meet Bleaberry; she even looks small next to me.

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 Richard Hammond @richardhammond
 10 Jul 2014
This morning we have discovered 'going downhill'. Tricky, but got it. Tomorrow: 'up'

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Mindy Hammond On Pets Killing Bats

WAS that a knock at the door? Maybe not, but you get jumpy when you’re harbouring outlaws

Published: Sun, June 29, 2014

Mindy was shocked to find that her pets had massacred a couple of bats [SUSAN HELLARD]

It all started last week, when Izzy and Willow were playing on the lawn. I was half-watching from the kitchen, when I realised that the game had stopped and they were examining something on the ground.

Moments later they trotted indoors, Willow cradling something in her hands. “look,” she said. “I think it’s dead.”

It was a long-eared bat. “Poor little thing,” I said. “I wonder what happened.”

“Should we bury it?”

“If you like.”

“Yes, but Wills,” her sister chipped in, “don’t you think we should leave it outside?”

“That’s a bit mean.”

“Not really. We leave dead chickens out so the foxes get a meal. Maybe we should leave the bat so something can eat it.”

“But what would eat a bat?”

“Oh, owls I guess, or maybe a buzzard. I don’t know – even a fox if it was really hungry.”

“Izzy has a point there,” I said. “After all, there are so many animals that are trying to feed their young at the moment.”

“OK. I’ll put it somewhere obvious. Bye bat.” Willow gently placed the little corpse on a low wall and they carried on with their game. Sure enough, the following morning it had gone.

Later that day, I was sweeping the patio. The girls were at school and the sun was shining as I pushed the broom under the table. Then I stopped. There, curled up, its wings tucked in, was another little creature. This one was a horseshoe bat.

I picked it up carefully but it had clearly breathed its last. It didn’t look injured in any way – even its delicate wings were intact. So what was happening?

It was still warm outside as I locked up later that evening, and as usual the bats were flitting about in pursuit of insects. I checked on the girls, and smiled at Rucksack and Satchel, lying across their toes. Frazzle was snoozing on the windowsill but unusually there was no sign of Ketchup.

I went back downstairs and called her from the front door. She didn’t come, which is very unlike her, but it was getting late so I went to bed. Ketchup was there to greet me next morning – a bit sleepy but otherwise her usual, over affectionate self.

Some hours later, our friendly builder Dan arrived to talk about the work on the girls’ bedrooms (as described the other week). “Oh blimey,” he said. “Thousand pound fine there.”

“Huh?” He pointed to the doorstep – and another little furry body.

“If you kill a bat now, that’s the fine.” Then I saw Ketchup. She sauntered up to the bat and pawed it.

“You little monkey!” I said. “So that’s where you’ve been, is it? Bat-murdering. Oh, Ketchup!” I scooped her up and took her inside for a talking-to. “That’s at least £3,000 you’re up to now, young lady, and I’m not covering your tracks for you. You need to change your ways and stop the killing spree, or they’ll cart you off to cat prison!”

Ketchup was clearly not impressed, and despite my warnings returned to her life of crime. Forensic evidence next morning pointed to another cat-bat incident. I removed the body quickly and hid it under some wood in the skip.

I was just about to return to the house when I spotted Boot, our giant yard dog. He was gazing dopily at me and panting, with a string of drool hanging from his lower jaw. At his feet was a headless jackdaw. Then Ketchup trotted up, rubbed against her giant friend’s front leg and pushed her head lovingly into his chest.

“Oh, so that’s it, is it, you wicked animal? You’ve recruited Boot now. Where will it end?”

As I write this, our very own Bonnie and Clyde are lying low. There has been no more blood, but it can only be a matter of time before they strike again – unless the FBI gets them first.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/485054/Mindy-Hammond-on-pets-killing-bats

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Mindy Hammond On the Astronomical Cost of Kids Going Back to School

THE cost of going to school and learning is going up – at least according to Mindy’s 1970s school calculator

Published: Sun, July 6, 2014


School children are expected to have expensive laptops and clothes that run into hundreds of pounds [SUSAN HELLARD]

It was brown, it had sciency squiggles on its buttons and it lived in its own special wallet. Boy, was I proud of my pocket calculator (made by “Texas Instruments” – how exciting was that?). Better still, my teachers were actually going to allow this amazing machine into the classroom.

But that, along with a pencil case and a pair of hockey boots, was the sum total of new equipment for my first day at grammar school. Haven’t times changed? Izzy starts at big school in September, and already the dosh is leaving my bank account by the barrow-load.

Take the PE kit: where I made do with a pair of plimsolls, a skirt and gym knickers, now it’s “base-layer shorts”, leggings, tops, a gilet and a tracksuit. Izzy is a hockey player like her mum, so we’ve also acquired various protective items (she doesn’t want to end up with bumpy shins like me) as well as “Astro boots” (so they play in outer space now, do they?). And those are just the cheap things.

New pupils are expected to bring laptops, which have to be of the sleekest, shiniest variety so they can talk to the school’s own IT system. My father would have had a fit – and not just because computers in his day were the size of wardrobes, too big for even the pluckiest 13 year old to carry on her hour-long walk to school (come rain, shine or snow).

Speaking of which, the new school run means leaving not at the familiar 7.45am, but at the previously unheard of 7.30. “Hang on,” said Daddy. “There’s a school bus – look!” Sure enough, there among the reams of paperwork sent to new parents was a timetable. “That’s part of the fun, isn’t it, catching the bus?” said Richard, a faraway look in his eyes (maybe he was back with those bad boys on the rear seat, playing Top Trumps with his dinner money, though I suspect he was just contemplating the horror of rising at dawn to drive his daughter to school).

One glance at Izzy’s face told me this idea was not a runner. “But that would take the best part of an hour,” she wailed. “I’d miss our morning chats and stuff.”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine. I’m happy to drive you,” I said (even though my face now takes at least an hour to fall into place each morning). “We’ll just brew the tea a bit stronger.”

Izzy looked happy with that, as well as with her shiny new laptop. I’m sure she is – but could she possibly be as pleased with her many treasures as I was with my little brown marvel of 1970s science? Somehow, I doubt it.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/486475/Mindy-on-expensive-school-equipment

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Mindy Hammond On Choosing Choosy Daughters' Bathroom Decor

OUR columnist’s home-improvement project turns into a sight for sore eyes

Published: Sun, July 13, 2014


The decorator has been called in to make the bathroom to look more grown up [SUSAN HELLARD]

Izzy and Willow have demanded a bedroom each, as regular readers may recall. Our girls now being 11 and 13, that seemed reasonable enough, so once again Hammond Towers has rung to the jolly sound of building work.

The bedrooms are coming along fine but there’s just one problem: their bathroom. This was last decorated five years ago, when they were little. It’s blue and white with a jaunty seaside feel: there’s a lifebelt on the wall, a huge yellow rubber duck on the bath, and I even made curtains out of fishing net. I love it. The girls, sadly, don’t – at least not any more.

Even I had to admit the decor was looking a little tired, so, cradling my favourite ducky in his red sou’wester, I opened negotiations. Which then followed a somewhat familiar pattern. “OK, I’ll redo the bathroom, but only if you promise to actually use it and stay out of mine and daddy’s.”

“We will! But please can we have a proper shower – you know, a cubicle?”

“Er, no. You’ll have a proper shower over the bath.”

“But we never have a bath! We have showers. We don’t need a bath!”

“That’s not true, you love your bubble baths, especially when you’re poorly. And trust me, in a year or two you’ll be in there for hours.”

“No we won’t, and it’s not big enough. The screen doesn’t even go all the way round.”

“Good grief, we didn’t even have a shower when I was growing up – you girls don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Yes, we know, you had a tin bath in front of the fire once a week, ‘whether you needed it or not’.”

“I’ll have you know, young lady, that the first time I had a place with a proper shower was when I moved to London and lived in a shared house with five other girls. That shower was over the bath. It didn’t have a shower screen, it had a curtain that used to fall down, so you ended up doing a weird dance with a wet sheet of plastic stuck to you, in a bathroom whose only source of heat was two electric bars in the roof.”

“Aw muuuuum!”

“Right, OK, I’ll get a proper screen to go all the way round. But I’m sorry, the bath stays, otherwise there’s only one bath in the whole house, and that’s no good when we’ve all been out in the snow and the mud, is it? After all, do you really want to share a bath with me?”

“Eeeew! No. Fine. But pleeeeaase can you make it nice?”

“I will, I promise.”

So, after a day spent trawling the internet, I joined Dave the decorator for a site meeting.

“What about a feature wall?” I said, chewing the arm of my purple designer specs like I knew what I was talking about. “You know, in a soft, warm colour, to make it feel more grown-up?”

He sucked his teeth. “First you’ll need to do something about them cracks.”

“Yes, but you can fill those, can’t you?”

“Well, I can, but in an old house like this they’ll only open up again. You’d do better to paper it – there are some nice wallpapers these days, specially for bathrooms.”

“Yes,” I said, as though I’d known this all along. Then I retreated downstairs for another look on the computer. Unfortunately, halfway down I tripped on a flip-flop and dropped my glasses, which – being blind as a bat without them – I then trod on.

So I hope the girls like the wallpaper I’ve chosen for them. It’s sort of swirly. At least I think it is. Or maybe those are flowers. Or are they giant pink sheep?

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/487948/Mindy-Hammond-on-choosing-daughters-bathroom-decor

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On Looking After Sick Animals

IT’S been a difficult week for all creatures great and small – but Nurse Mindy is on the case

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, July 20, 2014


With all the animals that need care, Mindy is concerned her home may be becoming a hospital [SUSAN HELLARD]

These are supposed to be the dog days of summer, when it’s too hotto move and everyone lies panting in the shade. Unfortunately, the wildlife round our way hasn’t read the script.

It all started with the arrival of Willow’s long-awaited lamb (or rather lamb-plus-one, since Mummy came too). “Porridge”, as Willow instantly christened her, turned out to be the most adorable creature you ever saw, with a snow-white fleece and a teddy-bear face.

She and her mother joined Rosie the donkey in the paddock, and next morning all three came trotting cheerfully over to greet us. All seemed to be well – but then I noticed Rosie’s ears. Flying insects are a problem for all equines in summer, and those with foot-long ears are a magnet for hungry midges.

When Rosie’s late friend Rex was around, the pair of them would simply retire to their shelter when the flies were bad, but now she wanted to be with her new friends in the sunshine, even though she was getting bitten to shreds.

I once heard that Google HQ has a big screen that randomly displays current searches. If so, there may have been some chortling in California but I can assure you that “donkey ear protectors” really exist, and a couple of days later Rosie was kitted out.

It was a curious look – best described as half donkey, half nun – but it worked, so on we went to the next medical case. Checking the eggs in our incubator, I was delighted to find a little grey chick, with another on its way.

The girls were thrilled, the old guinea-pig enclosure came out of the barn, the infra-red lamp was set up, and two chicks were soon chirping merrily away as they waited for the rest of their family to join them.

But “in the midst of life” as they say, and I walked out of the front door to find the tiniest little sparrow chick, prostrate on the paving. It had a smattering of feathers but was clearly not a fledgeling, and their was no sign of a nest.

Cursing crows and all their works, I scooped the little chap up. He was still alive – just – so we set him in his own little enclosure in a hastily made nest of hay, and investigated what was best to feed him. Insects, said the book. Ugh!

Willow and I foraged about and came up with a couple of flies and a few aphids, but the patient wasn’t keen. Sadly, funeral arrangements were soon required. But there was no time to mourn, as Richard came stomping in with a very cross look on his face. “Mind, will you please clear up after the dogs. It’s like a minefield out there.”

“But I walk them in the fields!”

“Really? Come with me.”

Richard led the way towards something unmentionable on the lawn.

“Not guilty M’lud,” I said.

“What d’you mean?”

“That, my dear Watson, is badger poo.” (Aren’t I a font of useful knowledge?)

“A badger? This close to the house? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Just at that moment, our friendly, all-knowing gardener, Charlie, appeared.

“You should get the girls to stay up and watch them,” he said. “There must be three or four here every night.”

“Three or four what?” asked Richard.

“Badgers!” we chorused. Richard harrumphed off, and just then there came a yell from the barn.

“Mind! Quick!”

It was Auntie Mel. A house martin had flown into the window and was on its back, twitching.

“It’s probably just stunned,” I said, gently laying it on wood shavings in a quiet corner of the old stable.

It seems to be recovering and I’m pleased to see it doesn’t need a new wing.

But I’m beginning to think that Hammond’s Animal Hospital might.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/489530/Mindy-Hammond-on-looking-after-sick-animals


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On Getting Another New Puppy

A NEW pet joins the already impressive Hammond menagerie – and despite Mindy’s doubts, it’s love at first sight

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, July 27, 2014


Richard is besotted with the family’s new border collie dog Blea [SUSAN HELLARD]

There was no room for discussion – the answer was no. After Izzy had sadly but wisely chosen not to have a handbag dog as a reward for her academic efforts, we could hardly get a new puppy ourselves just a few weeks later.

The collie that Richard had seen while visiting his friend Les in the Lake District was adorable, I had no doubt, but we weren’t having it. Absolutely not. Richard agreed, but several times over the next few days he couldn’t stop himself telling me more about the perfection of this little pup.

I’d never heard him talk about anything like that before – not even a motorbike – so, well, I caved in. Pinching his phone, I scrolled through his contacts and sent Les a hasty text. “Hi Les, it’s Mindy. It’s not all over with the pup. Please keep her and I’ll be in touch about collection. Big surprise! deleting msg now. X”

Richard was about to leave for the Top Gear European tour and I planned to collect the pup while he was away, but then the doubts began to set in. What if Richard really had decided it would be a mistake and wasn’t pleased at all? So the night before he left, I sat him down in the kitchen.

“OK, I wasn’t going to tell you, but I think I should. I’m going to the Lakes next week.”

“Are you? How come?”

“Er… I’m collecting a puppy.”

His face fell. “Ah, Mind, sorry you can’t – I told Les to let her go.”

“Yes, and I told Les not to. She’s waiting for me.”

“You’re kidding? Oh my little pup!” He beamed from ear to ear. “Have you told the girls?”

“No, but I reckon once they see her they’ll fall in love, so I’m going to keep it a surprise.”

That, I have to say, was easier said than done. It would be a long journey and I’d have to stay somewhere. I waved Richard off in his taxi and racked my brains for a reason to be away overnight. Eventually I cracked it: it was the week before my birthday, so I could pretend I’d gone racing.

The girls know that’s my secret treat, but this time it wouldn’t be Cheltenham, it would be “somewhere up north”. A long way up, in fact. Fortunately, Willow was deep in rehearsals for her school play and Izzy was immersed in “leavers’ activities” (another innovation since my schooldays), so for once they didn’t ask too many questions.

After five hours on the road, I arrived at the Bridge Hotel in Buttermere, which conveniently has no phone signal. I had a brief chat with the girls using a payphone, managing to fudge the details of my location, and sat down in the bar for dinner with Les and his girlfriend Sharon.

“You’d best come an’ meet this pup,” he said, so next morning I walked round to his farm, where one corner of the yard had been fenced off around a large kennel. As soon as they heard us, two little black-and-white collie pups came tumbling out. Both were girls.

One with a half-white face was leaping and bouncing all over us and then there was the smaller one, who sneaked up and lay on her back at our feet, with white stockings, a white tum, the most perfect collie markings on her head, and the softest, gentlest hazel eyes.

Within half an hour, the little puppy was in her crate on the back seat, on a waterproof blanket in a plastic bed, on a plastic tray sitting on a rubber mat. Thorough preparation, you might think, but after two hours we’d travelled 10 miles.

The poor mite was not a good traveller. But she eventually got the hang of it and we managed the rest of the journey without a murmur.

As predicted, the girls fell instantly in love, and couldn’t believe I’d managed to keep such a secret. As for Richard? Well, he’s been home for two days now and the pup has walked every inch of our land with him. He’s besotted with “Blea” (from Bleaberry Tarn, which overlooks Buttermere) and they’re a match made in heaven.

When she’s alert, her ears are vertical, like a little bat, and all she wants to do is please and be loved. The other dogs completely adore her and it’s already as though she’s been here for ever.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/491323/Mindy-Hammond-on-getting-another-new-puppy

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on Daughter Leaving School to Start a New One

IT’S a big moment for young Izzy, as one door closes and another opens – on to a whole new world

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, August 3, 2014


When one chapter closes another opens for young Izzy [SUSAN HELLARD]

How I used to long for the end of term, especially in summer. But this year there were tears aplenty in the Hammond household, and not of the joyful variety.

Izzy, our eldest daughter, has just left the school whose nursery class she joined at two years old. She had been there for 11 years – as long as she can remember – but this September she goes to a new school, and for the first time she and her younger sister Willow will be split up.

The leavers at Izzy’s old school were rewarded with various treats after their exams, ending in a final week outdoors, when they slept under canvas and took part in raft-building and various other exciting activities. the trouble is, Izzy just hates being away from home. She tried boarding once in her 11 years and described it as the worst night of her life, so even camp was going to be a trial.

Every night I braced myself for a distress call, but it never came. Instead her texts grew brighter with every day, and she happily completed the week. The camping party returned to school on a Friday, in time for various ceremonies and a leavers’ dinner, followed by one last night in the dormitories.

After camp had gone so smoothly, I hoped Izzy would be fine – but on Friday afternoon my phone pinged with a plaintive message. “Please come to school early to see me before the rehearsal for prize-giving.”

When I arrived, there was Iz, her face damp with tears. “I don’t think I can do it,” she stammered.

“Do what, baby?”

“Stay.”

“Oh, but Iz, everyone’s staying. You’ll be fine.” She sniffed a bit and nodded sadly, then I set off for home. But before I’d got halfway, my hands-free rang. Izzy was sobbing so hard that I could hardly make out her words.

“I ca-can’t d-do it… p-please can you... collect me?”

“But Iz, you’ll never get this night again – if you don’t stay you might regret it for the rest of your life.”

“Ca-can’t you c-come after the dinner? I don’t want to stay... pllleeeeaase! I won’t be able to eat… I feel so sick.”

Izzy’s nervous stomach is legendary. I knew she really would be ill, which would spoil her last evening for ever, so I promised to be there at 9pm. At 8.30, the phone rang again. “Hi Mummy, sorry but can you come at 10?”

“Oh, Iz… OK.” I turned the car round. At least I now had time to lock up the ducks and chickens and walk the dogs. At five to 10, I drove through the deserted school gates and stopped in the car park.

After a moment or two, another car appeared. It was Izzy’s inspirational drama teacher, Mrs Lupton, and she had a passenger. The car stopped and a girl stepped out. She wore a short, sleeveless, pale-blue dress with a white petal collar, and she looked so tall and elegant that I hardly recognised her.

I jumped out of my car as she came closer, and then I saw her red eyes. “I’m sorry, Mummy, but I’d like to stay… Everyone’s crying. Even the boys. Is that OK?”

“Of course, baby, you enjoy it. Stay up all night and be with your friends.”

So we went our separate ways. And I was so proud of her, I wept all the way home.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/494186/Mindy-Hammond-on-daughter-leaving-school-to-start-a-new-one

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Nightmare in the Hammond Household

OUR columnist faces a veterinary nightmare this week – but the darkest hour comes just before the dawn

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, August 10, 2014



Our columnist faces a veterinary nightmare this week – but the darkest hour comes before the dawn[SUSAN HELLARD]


Hammond Towers baked quietly in the sunshine. The girls were playing nicely, Rucksack had buried the hatchet with Sparrow (having explained that he didn’t appreciate canine exuberance and could clean his own ears, thank you) and Mrs Mallard was proudly marching her nine babies from pond to pond, carefully watched by me so that Ketchup couldn’t pick off the stragglers (a long-eared bat, a mouse, two shrews and an unidentified furry thing being our sabre-toothed tabby’s tally for the week so far). All was well – but then I heard a horrible howl of pain.

TG, the Top Gear labradoodle, has a chronic back problem, and it had chosen that moment to flare up. I ran to the medicine cupboard and gave her the maximum dose of painkillers, but by evening she was restless and just after bedtime, she began howling again.

“I’ll go and sleep in the other room with her,” I whispered (Richard had to be up at 5.30am for work). But I’d forgotten that the spare room was full of furniture for the girls’ new bedrooms, so I ended up on the sofa with TG (who’s heavier than me) sprawled out with her head on my chest. We managed to doze for a while, but every hour or so the pain would wake her. Then Richard’s alarm trilled and the day began, with all three of us bleary-eyed.

I rang the vet’s surgery as soon as it was open, and was told to double TG’s dosage. But I had hardly put the phone down when Willow came running in to tell me that Max was in a bad way. My lovely old fell pony was rolling in the field, lathered in sweat – the unmistakable signs of life-threatening colic, every horse owner’s worst nightmare.

We managed to get him up and with the help of wonderful friends (thank you Bev, Wendy and Charlie), we began leading him round. The vet arrived in no time but the news was not good.

“Max is in a lot of pain,” he said. “There are only two options. Either we put him to sleep or we operate.” He looked me in the eye. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get him to the hospital.”

Half an hour later, we were there. Max held on until he was in the stable, but then he went down and groaned with pain. I stroked his head.

“Come on Maxy, good boy.”

He managed to get back on his feet for his shoes to be removed, then the IV line went in and I walked with him to theatre, fighting back the tears. After that I had to leave, knowing this might be the last time I’d ever see him.

Three hours later, the phone rang. Max had a twisted gut but they’d managed to release it. Thanks to our quick action the outlook was hopeful, said the vet, although the next couple of days were critical.

“It’s a massive procedure for any horse, let alone one of Max’s age, but he’s in great condition and he’s come round OK, so fingers crossed.”

“When can I visit him?”

“Well, there’s not much point coming today.

He won’t know you as he’s still a bit groggy.

But tomorrow should be fine.”

I’m writing this at 1.30am. Seven more hours and I can ring the equine hospital for an update.

TG and I are on the sofa. We both have bad backs now, but she’s due some more medication in an hour or two, and I’ll be happy just as soon as I can see my beautiful old pony once more and hear his deep, welcoming whinny.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/496970/Mindy-Hammond-column-on-pets

[heymysock]

Seems to be a paragraph missing.

After, "...and just after bedtime she began howling again." Comes the following...

“I’ll go and sleep in the other room with her,” I whispered (Richard had to be up at 5.30am for work). But I’d forgotten that the spare room was full of furniture for the girls’ new bedrooms, so I ended up on the sofa with TG (who’s heavier than me) sprawled out with her head on my chest. We managed to doze for a while, but every hour or so the pain would wake her. Then Richard’s alarm trilled and the day began, with all three of us bleary-eyed.

I rang the vet’s surgery as soon as it was open, and was told to double TG’s dosage. But I had hardly put the phone down when Willow came running in to tell me that Max was in a bad way. My lovely old fell pony was rolling in the field, lathered in sweat – the unmistakable signs of life-threatening colic, every horse owner’s worst nightmare."

[RedMoon11]

Fixed, Thanks for catching that. That's what I get for posting without my glasses on early in the morning 

[RedMoon11]

on Family and Animals Falling Ill

MAX the fell pony is making a good recovery – but new patients are queuing up at Hammond’s Cottage Hospital

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, August 17, 2014


Mindy Hammond plays nurse to take care of two sick animals, poorly daughter and injured husband [SUSAN HELLARD]

Last week I told you that Max, my beloved fell pony, had been rushed to equine hospital for life-saving surgery. Well, soon after writing those words I received the wonderful news that he’d made it through the first night after his operation. “His heart rate is high,” said the vet, “but that was a major procedure for a four year old, let alone a horse of Max’s age. He’s not out of the woods yet, but so far so good.”

Choking back tears of relief, I arranged to visit him next day. Willow, who had been first on the scene when Max started to show signs of illness, was desperate to come too. “But Wills, he’ll have drips and tubes in him and a big bandage. He’s not going to be all perky and pleased to see us.”

“I know that, Mama, I’ve been watching vet programmes on TV. But I really, really want to come.”

Willow had seemed a bit under the weather the previous day, and she’d brightened at the prospect of seeing Max, so I gave in and we both set off in the car. We were greeted at the hospital by Max’s vet, who gave us the latest news – still encouraging – as we walked past dozens of other patients in all shapes and sizes, from elegant thoroughbreds to little ponies.

Finally we reached Max’s stable. Five bags of various liquids were suspended from the ceiling, feeding through a coiled tube into his neck. It was an arrangement that meant he could lie down or even walk around if he wanted to, but the whole of his stomach was a huge blue bandage and he was hanging his head, clearly still in a very bad way.

“Max..?” I called gently. His ears pricked and he let out a soft, low whinny. He knew we were there but was too exhausted to move. We gave him a stroke and a careful cuddle. “Good boy, Max,” I said.

“Mummy, I’m going to be sick,” whispered Willow. At first I blamed myself for bringing her, but when we reached home I had a thought. “Say aah,” I said. “Ahh” she said. “Ah,” I said. “Welcome back, tonsillitis. We’ve missed you.”

That evening, Willow’s temperature shot up, so I was on hourly checking duties – though I can’t say it made much difference to my sleeping patterns. Poor TG the labradoodle was now on 14 tablets a day for her back trouble, but the new drugs hadn’t yet kicked in, so we were back on the sofa where I spent most of the night playing nursemaid and vet.

Tomorrow Max will be discharged. He’ll have his staples removed in a week’s time and will be on strict box-rest for the next couple of months. Meanwhile TG is finally, thankfully, pain-free (and now snoring loudly on the kitchen floor). Willow has regained a bit of colour, and today she came out to the stables to see Rocky the palomino, although she won’t be allowed to ride him for a few more days until her temperature comes down to normal.

I had just started to relax a little when Richard phoned. “I’ve been knocked off my bike,” he said. “I’m OK but a bit bruised.” He has just arrived home with sore ribs, and is tucked up with all the other patients on the poorly sofa.

All nurse Mindy has to do now is make sure the right patient gets the right treatment…

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/499646/Mindy-Hammond-on-family-and-animals-falling-ill

[RedMoon11]

on Shaping Up For Family Beach Holiday

WHAT'S a girl to do with only days to get ready for the beach? Mindy works it out for herself...

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, August 24, 2014


Mindy takes a long-deserved rest after tiring herself out from doing strenuous chores on turbo mode [SUSAN HELLARD]

Our recent medical dramas (see my previous columns) have taken their toll and after yet more nocturnal disturbances (badger invasions, the return of the hedgehog to Boot’s kennel, hyperactive children on their school holidays), I am what doctors call “very tired”. What’s more, the cracks are starting to show.

A couple of nights ago, having finally reclaimed the TV from the girls at 10pm, I flopped down with a G&T and a good old-fashioned romcom. Then I felt a sudden yearning for something sweet. Mmm… popcorn! I knew I’d bought some and to my amazement it was still there at the back of the crisp cupboard. So I filled a bowl, pressed “play” and settled in for the night. Then… crunch! A kernel, maybe? But hang on, why did I suddenly have fangs? Oh, fabulous – I’d broken a tooth.

With Richard due home in a couple of days, this would need fixing sharpish or I’d be greeting him with a witchy grin. But dentistry is the least of my problems. Rather than blobbing out, I should have been shaping up. Our beach holiday is fast approaching and my bikini seems to have shrunk by several sizes. It would be a shame to frighten small children when they’re on holiday, so I bought myself a get-amazingly-fit-in-no-time DVD and decided to really go for it.

“You only need 25 minutes a day,” it says on the sleeve. But who has 25 spare minutes? Not me, unless I do PE instead of cooking, cleaning, tidying up, washing, dog walking, mucking out and all the rest of my daily chores. I spent nearly a week trying to work out how to do my work-out. Finally, after managing 12 minutes before the girls really needed to watch Dance Moms Meets Honey Boo Boo (or whatever), I gave up. Or rather, I decided to design my own personal work-out plan.

It goes like this… Wearing your gym kit, take two dogs and walk briskly for 15 minutes (warm-up). Then grab a shovel and a large muck-bucket, and march to the paddock, raising bucket to shoulder height as you go (bicep curl). clear paddock of pony poo in a maximum of 10 minutes (high-energy blast). Run with brimming bucket to land Rover (cardio burn) while attempting not to stumble (balance – that’s a bit of yoga thrown in). Deposit contents in back of land Rover (serious core-strength training), then finish off with a brisk walk to the kitchen (cool down).

Swig a long glass of iced water, followed by a large glass of wine (rehydration). Finally flop on the sofa with your feet up (stretch). According to my DVD, it’s especially important to “enjoy the stretch”. I’ve found that 90 minutes is the optimum length, which coincidentally is about the run time of a good film. At this rate, I’ll be as fit as a flea by the time Richard gets back, though I haven’t yet fixed the fangs.

But if all else fails, there is one thing I’ve learned from Dance Moms, and that’s how to use make-up to look toned (it’s like blusher for cheekbones, except on your tummy – bizarre but true). So all I need by midday on the date of Richard’s return is a visit by a mobile dentist and make-up artist.  

Though I’d better see if the make-up artist is free to come on holiday with us and is a contortionist (I think we’re only allowed hand luggage).


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/502209/Mindy-Hammond-on-shaping-up-for-family-beach-holiday

[RedMoon11]

on Nursing Poorly Horse Back To Health

MAX the pony is supposed to be convalescing. So how come he’s horsing around?

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, August 31, 2014

Max went crazy when he was finally allowed to go outside during his bed rest [SUSAN HELLARD]

Max the fell pony recently had a narrow squeak, as regular readers may recall. Major surgery saved him from the potentially fatal effects of colic, and after several weeks at the equine hospital he was finally allowed home, but it’s still going to be a while before he’s fully healed and back to his old self.

“It’s box rest for you, my boy,” I told him – though for Max that’s less of a hardship than you might think. Although horses are naturally herd animals, Max isn’t that keen on others of the equine persuasion. He’ll briefly pass the time of day (sniff noses for about 10 seconds) but then he’ll put his ears back and threaten to bite unless the other party gets out of his way.

People, on the other hand, he just loves, particularly if they have tasty treats in their pockets. So with Radio 4 Extra for his entertainment (he likes the afternoon play) and regular visits from me to administer his various medicines, along with an extra bit of grooming and affection, Max’s morale has held up pretty well.

“He’s doing very nicely,” said the vet when he came to remove the staples from Max’s surgery scar. “We still need to be careful while everything knits back together, but maybe it’s time to graze him outdoors for 10 minutes a day, just to get him moving again.” Operation outdoors commenced the very next morning.

Izzy and I opened the stable door, Max padded cautiously out to the paddock and as soon I removed the lead rope, he obediently leaned down to munch the grass. “Good boy, Max,” I whispered, as I closed the gate behind me and stood to watch. Two more seconds ticked by, and then everything went mental. Max jerked his head up, bunnyhopped with all four feet off the ground, shot forward, bucked, cantered, rolled in the grass, got up, shot round again and then trotted past us like an Olympic dressage horse.

“Woah, Max… easy boy… Woooaaah!” I called as calmly as I could manage.

“Why is he being such a pillock?” asked Izzy. “He’ll hurt himself.”

“He’s just so happy to be alive, Iz, but you’re right – I’m afraid this isn’t going to work.” So Max went back to his stable.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t turn him out just yet,” agreed the vet on his next visit. “He’s still doing well and there’s nothing to worry about – though I must say I wasn’t expecting frisky behaviour from an old boy like Max.”

“I just wish he’d act his age,” I chuckled. But although he carries on like a teenager, Max is a canny old thing, and getting his medicine into him each day is no easy job. Syringe it into his mouth? No good – he’ll just spit it out when he thinks you’re not looking. Hide it in his food? He’ll eat everything but that bit.

In the end, I’ve resorted to soaking a bit of hard food in antibiotic solution, moulding it round a horse treat and hand-feeding him. Naturally, he also tries to escape whenever I go in or out, but between us we’re managing. And to while away the hours in the stable, Max has been extending his repertoire of tricks.

If you point to the ceiling and say “lalala”, he cranes his neck, curls his top lip and pretends to sing. Point to his front hooves and he’ll dance (Britain’s Got Talent, here we come). And remember the Mindy workout – aka “how to get fit while doing normal outdoor activities”? Well, after just two weeks of that, combined with the extra work (and stress) of looking after Max, I’ve lost half a stone. I might even make a DVD.

Now, who fancies standing up to their leg-warmers in hay and horse poo?

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/504708/Mindy-Hammond-on-nursing-sick-horse

[RedMoon11]

on Rewind festival and Bob Geldof's brave performance

MINDY and friends party like it’s 1989 – but it’s a celebration tinged with sadness

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, September 7, 2014


Mindy and friends party like it’s 1989 – but it’s a celebration tinged with sadness[SUSAN HELLARD]

We’re old friends, the osteopath and I, but this was one of our more interesting encounters. “You’re completely twisted,” he said. “One leg is a whole centimetre shorter than the other. What on earth have you been doing?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” I replied. “Heaving hay bales about. And horses.”

Several cracks later, he sighed in a resigned sort of way. “Well, we’ve got your back unlocked but I’m not convinced your neck will hold. You’ll need to make another appointment and in the meantime, don’t do anything daft.”

I promised – with my fingers crossed behind my back, because I knew I’d be spending the next two nights on a blow-up mattress in a tent.

Friends Lou, Tilly and I had absolutely loved our first visit to the fabulous 80s Rewind festival, and we’d been looking forward all year to a return.

But since last year’s highlights did not include the accommodation, we were now going to glamp it up in a “hotel bell tent”.

The sun shone brightly as we strolled through the festival site in our shorts, flip-flops and wellies. But our smiles faded when we were shown to our pitch.

“Oh no, not again,” groaned Lou.

Yes, we were right next to the loos, showers and extremely loud generator.

Being seasoned festival-goers by now, we decided we deserved better – so a quiet word was had, and we were quickly swapped into another tent with four comfy-looking beds (well, comfy-ish) and a tea light chandelier (get us!).

After unpacking, we headed straight for the bar and bagged ourselves a picnic table, nice and close to the action.

A couple of cosmopolitans later, we were dancing on the table and singing our hearts out – as were thousands of others, including half a dozen Honey Monsters, whole gangs of CHiPs motorcycle cops and countless Zippy, George and Bungles (most of whom had clearly spent their post-Rainbow years raising families).

But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. Our party was very serene and quiet, especially when Helsy, our lovely festival virgin, joined the gang. Not at any point did anyone fall off the table, and Tilly categorically didn’t call out “we love you Rick” to every act including the great Mr Astley himself. Instead, we just basked in happy nostalgia as the music brought memories flooding back.

Then it was time for The Boomtown Rats, and we all wondered who the front man would be. After all, none of us expected Bob Geldof to appear so soon after such a terrible family tragedy. But then we heard that familiar voice and as Sir Bob ran on to the stage, 60,000 people went wild with amazement and delight.

The song we most wanted to hear was I Don’t Like Mondays – but after Bob sung the line, “What reason do you need to die?” he just stopped. There was silence on stage, and then the audience began cheering and clapping, in an outpouring of pure sympathy and support. Most of us were mothers, fathers, grandparents – we all had at least an inkling of the pain he must be going through.

Tilly, Hels, Lou and I all felt the tears roll, and by the time he resumed the song, everyone around us was wiping their eyes.

The band finished their set and left to huge applause. Other fabulous artists played till the end of the night, and we all danced, drank, sang and laughed, but I doubt that anyone who was there will forget Bob’s brave performance, or the heartbreak in his eyes.

Driving home the next day, tired but happy, we vowed to do it all again next year. And next time we’d stay in an actual hotel with proper beds (my bone-cracking friend will be pleased). Then Tilly woke with a start and said, “We love you Rick… and Bob.” And we all had to agree.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/507688/Mindy-Hammond-column

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond is all at sea

A SAILING holiday seemed like a good idea – but Cap’n Mindy wasn’t banking on a serious storm...

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, September 14, 2014

A sailing holiday seemed like a good idea – but Cap’n Mindy wasn’t banking on a serious storm... [SUSAN HELLARD]

Like so many good ideas, it all started with a few glasses of wine. “I know,” said someone, “why don’t we all go on a sailing holiday?” When we booked it, the whole thing was so far in the future that it hardly seemed real. But then, all of a sudden, here we were – Hammonds, friends, friends of friends and children – standing on a quayside, contemplating a small flotilla of yachts. In Croatia.

For most of us, our nautical experience extended no further than the cross-channel ferry (the dads had been away for an intensive sailing course, but this was more of an opportunity to drink lots of beer and give each other dubious nautical nicknames). We weren’t entirely helpless, though. We had Darko – or Tarzan as we ladies quickly dubbed him (well, he does like to dive off the rails and swim from boats, six foot plus of chestnut muscle and foppy blond hair). But although our local skipper looks the part – and totally knows his stuff, having sailed almost from birth – we have noticed that every evening, no matter where we’re moored, he disappears until about 4am. Does he swing from tree to tree, calling the forest creatures to him, with a semi-wild monkey on his shoulder? No – he’s in the bar. Pop goes that bubble then.

Anyway, back to Day One – which turned out rather more dramatic than we’d hoped. There we all were, aboard our respective vessels and ready to cast off into the unknown, when someone pointed out to sea. Near the horizon, the sky had turned black – and it didn’t take much ocean-going expertise to recognise this as a bad sign. Then the temperature began to drop and everyone decided to wait and see what would happen.

What did happen was something Croatia hasn’t seen for 50 years: a hurricane. Our placid marina whipped itself up into a frenzy, our boat bucked like a bad-tempered bronco and anything that wasn’t tied down flew into the drink. We looked at each other dumbstruck. We hadn’t even left the harbour yet – what on earth had we let ourselves in for?

Next day, I’m happy to say, dawned blue, clear and calm, and our delayed departure went without a hitch. But if you’re imagining us basking in the white-leather sofas and mahogany-lined cabins of some high-powered superyacht, think again. This is caravanning-on-sea. There are no frills and it’s all hands on deck (there’s no room for them down below). Today we unfurled the sails for the first time and managed the ear-shattering speed of four knots.

Seafaring is a serious and safety-conscious business, of course, but with the sails hauled in and the motor engaged, I have to admit there was some larking about. Fire (in the form of eggs, tomatoes and water bombs) was exchanged between Cap’n Jack Hammond and HMS Thomas. The Hammond pirates were victorious and the Thomas crew needed a good swabbing down – but now we’re nervous. Everyone restocks tonight and revenge will be sweet. Uh-oh…

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/509613/Mindy-Hammond-on-sailing-holiday

[RedMoon11]

on Post-Holiday Blues

AFTER a brilliant sailing trip, our columnist has a case of the post-holiday blues – but she’s soon surrounded by water again...

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, September 21, 2014


Mindy has a case of the post-holiday blues – but she’s soon surrounded by water again[SUSAN HELLARD]

Ah… home sweet home! After a week sailing the Adriatic, swabbing the decks and unfurling the sails, we were finally back in Bollitree. Memorable and wonderful it certainly was, but this was no swinging-in-a-hammock kind of holiday for the 37 hardy sailors in our flotilla of caravans-on-sea. All those 3.30am finishes and nightly deck parties (complete with some serious Welsh singing) had left the adults rather weary as we contemplated the task of taking our kids back to school the next day.

As all mums know, the first 24 hours home are a horror. There’s the unpacking, which inevitably means the discovery of at least one exploded tube or bottle (in our case some particularly gooey tinted moisturiser). Then there’s the pile of still-wet swimming costumes, which were hastily thrown into the bag at the very last minute and have brought with them not only a rather unpleasant whiff but also half the seabed too. And what about the presents the girls bought for their friends, inadequately wrapped and now in pieces? And finally, the husband’s trainers – still caked with dried mud, which has now been sprinkled throughout the rest of the bag. Excellent.

So with a heavy heart, you sit there among the piles of filthy rags that once resembled clothes and begin the tedious job of sifting the washing: whites, darks, colours, swimmers, and that other pile of stuff that’s not really a colour, but a general “good luck chaps” pile which you throw in at 30 degrees and cross your fingers.

Unusually for me, I embraced the sunshine that first morning back, and was up with the lark with machines a-washing.

The sun was shining, so I set myself a target to turn all the holiday gear around by sunset, which would have been fine apart from a couple of problems. One: Izzy was due at her new school at 4pm for a five-hour introduction, and we were to attend as well until 6pm. Two: Richard was still at home, which meant he wanted a cooked breakfast and roast lunch plus time to ride one of his bikes and do a spot of pond dipping with Willow.

So, having seen to animals, delivered breakfast and hung out half the washing, I finished the unpacking to discover we now had only one of three phone chargers, which went down like a raw egg through a porthole. Then I set off for the supermarket at full tilt to escape the arguing over whose charger now remained, and who was responsible for losing the other two (mentioning no names but oldest daughter did most hopping between boats).

Several supermarket sweeps later (why do they always decide to move all the aisles around just before you have a speed-shop emergency?), I ran back into the kitchen and set about chopping and cooking for dinner, before charging to the stables to check on Max and give him a small hay net. So far, so on target.

Everyone ate, I showered, washed and dried hair, managed to walk all the dogs and get everyone into the car at the right time for school, then returned to do final animal bedtime tuck-ins. Then I discovered it. A small flood was creeping out from beneath the concrete in front of the stables; a similar flood was pooling in chicken woods and the six mummy ducks and their ducklings were having a ball in their triple-sized pond.

Uh-oh. So which super-efficient, oh-so-clever mummy left the hosepipe on? Oops, this is not Bollitree-on-sea, Mindy.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/512696/Mindy-Hammond-on-post-holiday-blues

[RedMoon11]

on An Eventful Horse Jumping Show

WHEN a pinched pony sends young Willow flying, Mindy rockets to the rescue

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, September 28, 2014

When a pinched pony sends young Willow flying, Mindy rockets to the rescue [SUSAN HELLARD]

With her big sister off to a new school, was Willow going to be lonely? Not if Rocky had anything to do with it. Lately – and incredibly – Willow has been up at eight o’clock each morning to groom her beloved palomino till you need sunglasses just to look at him.

The other day, after a visit from her equally equine-minded chum Otty, Willow fixed me with her best pleading face. “There’s a little jumping show on Saturday… Can I take him? Plleeeaasse?!”

“Well, we’ll see.”

By 10am on the appointed day, we were off in the lorry with Daddy close behind.

There were several classes – some “clear round” jumping, where you simply have to complete the course without a refusal or knocking down a fence to get a rosette, and then a jump-off against the clock.

It was all very professional, with a bell to start each rider off, and the course was rather complicated. Fortunately, junior riders were allowed assistants on foot – but unfortunately, Willow’s assistant was me and I have never been very good at remembering courses.

All was going well until one particular corner, where Rocky – very unusually – got spooked. He hesitated, all three of us got flustered and confused, and Rocky ended up knocking a pole.

Willow was most put out, and for her second circuit she banished me to the sidelines with Daddy.

Once again, all went well until that corner, when suddenly Rocky bucked and Willow flew up in the air. She landed out of the saddle and Richard leapt to his feet, but then we watched with amazement as Willow kept control and shuffled back into position to finish the round clear. What a girl!

For the third round, I went back inside the ring. “I’ll go and stand in that corner,” I told her. “I don’t understand it but there’s something over there he just doesn’t like.”

“Good idea,” Willow replied.

The bell sounded and Willow nudged Rocky into a trot. Then, from nowhere, Rocky exploded. He shot forward, bucked, and began to kick like a rodeo horse. Willow held on, trying to ride him through it – once, twice, but then his third kick launched her sideways and she landed flat on the ground.

I was running and the organisers were dashing in, but Rocky didn’t stop – he was still leaping, his bridle was off, and I had to jump away from his flying hooves. Someone grabbed his mane, but then he noticed that his friend was on the ground and suddenly he was his normal self again.

Willow was examined by the first-aiders and thank goodness she was fine – bruised and a bit shaken, but mostly worried about her pony.

“I don’t know what happened,” she said.

Neither did I – but today the horse chiropractor came to check Rocky over. She was very surprised that the kindest, gentlest and most well-mannered of ponies had behaved so strangely – until she examined him. His right-hand side was very sore, she noticed. Then she said, “Can I see his saddle? Ah – it’s twisted, see?”

Oh dear. Poor Rocky – it turns out he still is the kindest pony in the world, but he just couldn’t stand the pinching of his saddle on Saturday. He has a new one now and guess who’s going to be test pilot? All’s well that ends well, I suppose, though I really didn’t sign up to be a stunt mother. Now, where’s my parachute?

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/515544/Mindy-Hammond-on-horse-jumping-show

[RedMoon11]

on The Morning Rush

HOW do you get two sleepy girls out of bed and ready for school? If you find out, let me know, says our columnist

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, October 5, 2014


Morning rush gives a little headache to Mindy in this week's column[SUSAN HELLARD]

It seems like yesterday that Willow and Izzy would bounce out of bed at dawn and expect all their playmates to join them. But today, the bed sock is firmly on the other foot, and it’s their mother who must set the alarm for 6.15am to begin the long and increasingly difficult progress of getting the girls up, dressed and off to school.

“Iz? Izzy? Time to wake up, baby.”

“Mmmuurgh… Ugh… No… Mmm.”

“Come on, up you get!”

“Mmmm…”

Tickling is useless – it just causes further burrowings under the duvet – so the only option is to manhandle her feet on to the floor, then hoick the rest of her after them until she’s standing there in her oversized Cookie Monster T-shirt, eyes still firmly shut. Then, after aiming her at the bathroom and giving her a gentle push, it’s on to Phase Two.

Her little sister requires a more subtle approach, not least because Rucksack – our venerable ginger tom – is usually asleep in the crook of her arm, and it doesn’t do to startle the old folk.

“Wills,” I whisper, tiptoeing over the model horses strewn across the floor. “Morning, darling.”

An eyelid flickers, an arm stretches and a smile creeps across her face. Then both eyes snap open and she sits up.

“Oh my God! I had the most incredible dream…”

“Wow, riding your pony bareback through the surf! Again! That’s amazing but you need to get up now and get ready for school. Come on.”

By 0630 hours, the coffee machine is dripping wake-up juice into the jug and I’m jogging to the stable yard with the dogs. Soon the ponies are munching their hay, the chickens and ducks are released from their houses, and Rosie the donkey has swapped paddocks with Porridge and Elwyn the sheep.

Then we jog back to the house, where Blea the puppy gets her breakfast, TG gets her medication and the cats’ bowls are refilled. Now it’s 0647 and time for a yell up the stairs.

“Girls! Are you dressed?”

“Yes!”

“Well come on then, hurry up!”

Bread into the toaster; milk, juice and cereal on the table. Now it’s O655 and still no sign of life.

"Girls! Downstairs! Come on, now!”

“OK, we’re coming.”

“Willow, what about you?”

“Oh. Oh yes [clearly playing with horses], coming!”

Finally, thunder on the stairs heralds their arrival at the breakfast bar.

“Willow, where are your shoes?”

“Huh?”

“Go and find them, please.”

“I don’t know where they are.”

“I put them by the back door.”

“In a minute…”

“No, now please. Iz, have you packed your homework in your bag?”

“Yeah [glances up from phone]. I did it last night.”

Now it’s 0720. “Hair, girls, please.”

They fumble for brushes, combs and scrunchies in the “hairdressing drawer” (table mats and tea towels had to be rehoused).

At 0725 I grab my bag. “OK let’s go. Willow, where’s your tie?”

“Erm… I think it’s at school.”

“But you had it last night!”

“Well I can’t find it.”

“Oh for heaven’s... look, just get in the car, OK?”

At 0732 I start the engine.

“Knickers. We’re late.”

“It’s only two minutes, Mum – we’ll be fine.”

And yes, they will. As will millions of other children, being chivvied along by millions of other mums at precisely the same moment all over the land. So let’s just spare a thought for those mums. We may be on autopilot, we may be exhausted, we may nag, be boring, embarrassing and sometimes just plain weird. But remember this, kids – we do it all because we love you more than you could ever imagine.

Just thought you’d like to know that.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/518004/Mindy-Hammond-on-morning-rush

[RedMoon11]

on Population Explosion in Chicken Woods

EVER wondered how the duck got his shiny plumage? It all started down Mexico way, thinks our columnist

By: Mindy Hammond 
Published: Sun, October 12, 2014

Ever wondered how the duck got his shiny plumage? It all started down Mexico way, thinks our columni[SUSAN HELLARD]

As regular readers may know, we’ve had something of a population explosion in Chicken Woods this year. But it’s nothing to do with the chickens – it’s all down to our OAP Muscovy lothario, Nobby. With his bobbly red nose and a swagger in his tail, he’s charmed the ladies and fathered – wait for it – 30 ducklings.

Now, I’m as much of a sucker for a little ball of yellow fluff as the next person, but there are some things about ducks that Disney doesn’t tell you. For instance, you can show mother and babies into a nice, cosy duck house with chopped hay for a nest, you can smile benevolently as you shut them safely away from Messrs Fox, Rat and Badger – and what do you find next morning? Let’s just say you swiftly decide to change the bedding. And this happens every single day, even though Mummy duck gets incredibly cross when you try to interfere with her dreadful housekeeping.

All of which has set me thinking. I’m well aware of Mr Darwin’s theory about the origin of species and Mr Kipling’s story of how the Bakewell got its cherry, but something tells me that Muscovy ducks came about rather differently…

Once upon a time, many years ago, some very big ducks lived in Mexico (don’t be fooled by the name – that’s where Muscovies come from). They were so plump that they didn’t like to waddle very far and they were completely useless at flying, so they stayed exactly where they were. Ducks being ducks, their patch of mud soon became a slippery, slimy mess – and one day a particularly plump duck lost his footing and slid all the way down the bank into the river.

Considerably embarrassed, he somehow managed to scrabble back up to join his chums. But far from quacking with laughter, they clustered round to admire his clean and shiny plumage. How, they all asked, had he managed such an amazing transformation? Whereupon our friend repeated his slipping-and-sliding trick, the others all followed and the whole flock discovered that water is not only easier to get about on than land, it’s a good deal more hygienic, too.

Sadly, though, your Muscovy – being an incredibly lazy creature – is more than happy to revert to its pre-evolved state, just as long as there’s some idiot available to clear up after it.

With 30 new beaks and (dare I say it) bottoms to contend with, that’s a lot of work, let me tell you. And while writing this very column, I took delivery of another duck house, just in time to find two more newly hatched families. Yes, make that 36 ducklings for Nobby, and a booking made for the poultry auction in two weeks’ time. After all, you know the saying – where there’s muck, there’s brass.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/520725/Mindy-Hammond-column

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond's Girls Can't Resist a Fluffy Bunny Called Pumpkin

WHEN the girls plead for a new playmate, our columnist is caught on the hop

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, October 19, 2014

When the girls plead for a new playmate, our columnist is caught on the hop[SUSAN HELLARD]

There’s a lot of it about. Izzy has been off school, Willow has been too poorly to go riding (that’s poorly) and as for me? Well, someone has to keep the home fires burning. By last weekend, the girls were showing signs of recovery but I was feeling distinctly tattered, so rather than attempt cookery I took them out for a Sunday roast.

This turned into something of a trip down memory lane when Izzy asked if we could drive by our old house.

“Oh I loved that place!” she said. “It had an enormous living room, and do you remember when Mickey the pony used to escape from his paddock and come into the kitchen?”

“Yes, and he tried to follow you upstairs to your bedroom, too. But you know, the living room wasn’t really that big – it’s just that you were so little.”

As the roads grew more familiar, the memories came flooding back.

“Look, Mummy, there are horses in the field where Finn lived when he was a foal!”

“Did Finn live here?” Willow asked.

“He was born here,” we said.

“Wow…”

Talk of my beloved hunter reminded me of Monty – a gentle giant, long retired, that we borrowed for Richard to ride. “Do you remember when Daddy took him out one day and we heard the hunt in the distance?”

“Oh yes!” said Izzy. “He went bonkers when they blew the horn.”

“Oh no! What did Daddy do?” asked Willow, wide-eyed.

“Well, fortunately the hunt was going past our house so he managed to get home OK – just rather more quickly than he was expecting. I don’t think he rode him on a Saturday after that.”

Just as we passed our old home – reassuringly unchanged – I realised that we were also near the feed merchant. Three dozen ducklings and nine chicks get through a lot of tucker, and supplies were running low so I decided to call in and stock up.

Willow and I were just loading our trolley when Izzy came running over.

“Wills! Wills! They’ve got bunnies!”

Sure enough, over the other side of the store was a display of hutches. Unfortunately, all the inhabitants were for sale.

“Awwww, look! Isn’t she gorgeous?” said Willow, pointing at a lop-eared ball of grey and brown fluff.

“Oh, she looks just like a baby Darwin,” Izzy cried (Darwin, I should explain, was Izzy’s pet rabbit when she was little).

“Oh can we get her… pleeeeeeaaasse!”

“No girls, we’ve got enough pets, and you won’t look after it.”

“We will, we promise,” they chorused. Then an assistant came over.

“Aah, you’ve chosen the best one,” she said. “She’s so friendly.”

Uh-oh.

“Does she mind being picked up?” Izzy asked.

“No, look –” said the assistant, cradling the rabbit in her arms for the girls to stroke.

“Oh please, Mummy, please!”

I was tired and not up for a battle. I just wanted to go home. “Oh… go on then. But if you don’t look after her, I’ll give her away.”

And so we have Pumpkin. She is, I have to admit, the friendliest, cutest little rabbit you could ever hope to see, and the girls couldn’t be happier.

Yes, another mouth to feed is hardly what we needed – but childhood memories are so precious, and there’s still time for our two to make some new ones.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/523911/Mindy-Hammond-column-on-new-family-member

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Fowl Play

THERE'S fowl play at Hammond Towers this week, but it’ll all come out in the wash

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, October 26, 2014

There’s fowl play at Hammond Towers this week[SUSAN HELLARD]

It’s not easy being evil. But it was the day before our local poultry auction and recent events had left us with too many beaks to feed (when it takes an hour just to get them all to bed, you know things have gone too far). So which little duckies would be going to market?

Some were easy decisions, like the young lady who refuses to settle down at night, upsetting all the others. “But we have to keep Miracle,”

I explained to my friend and fellow duck-wrangler Mel. “I promised Wills and she is sweet, isn’t she?”

Miracle, I should explain, was late to hatch and always the last to feed. She’d straggle after her siblings when Mummy led the way to the pond and we feared she wouldn’t survive. But somehow she did, and she’s grown into a curious but delightful-looking little creature – half duck, half Dalmatian.

So we moved on to the hordes of fluffy ducklings. Even though it’s only a matter of weeks before they turn into big, messy ducks, the thought of snatching a mother’s entire brood was too much to bear. So we let fate decide. We herded the mummies into their houses and whichever duckling followed closest would stay with her. The rest would have to go.

It was easy enough to pick up little ducklings and place them in their cosy travelling boxes, but to catch full-grown ducks with well-developed talons, we needed a cunning plan.

That evening, Mel and I gathered all the old dog crates we could find and hid them behind the stables, well out of sight. Then we herded all the ducks into their houses as normal.

“Off to beddy-byes,” we trilled.

“Nothing to see here!”

Once they were all locked in, munching on corn, we silently placed an open crate against the end of each duck house. Then, with Mel holding a crate against the door, I opened each roof and shooed them all into our fiendish trap.

“Ha-ha-ha-ha!” we cackled, like a pair of Bond villains.

Then we realised our mistake: Miracle had gone in too. We didn’t dare risk opening the door, so gauntlets were fetched and, without a thought for my own safety, I went in. After several failed attempts, much scrabbling and something unmentionable on my sleeve, Miracle was free.

The chosen ducks would be spending the night behind the stable door in their various boxes and crates, but there was one final task to perform before market day. No one likes a mucky duck, so the hosepipe was set to a soft dribble and they all had a shower, whether they liked it or not (not). Then heat lamps were set up to dry them off (yes, I know they’re ducks, but still). Finally they were each left with their last meal of corn mix and we retired to bed.

The following morning, a small, quacking convoy made its way through the Herefordshire lanes to market. I’m happy to say that the day was a great success and all our ducks found new homes. But I got a bit of a surprise on my return to Hammond Towers. It turns out that ducks are smarter than you think, and two of our mummies had managed to hide a pair of their offspring from the child-catchers.

I don’t really mind. After all, I suspect we’ll have no more rebellions at bed time. “Better do what she says,” they’ll tell each other. “Otherwise you disappear!”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/526861/Mindy-Hammond-on-selling-ducks-at-the-market

[RedMoon11]

Keeping tidy? No chance in this household, says MINDY HAMMOND

WHERE there’s a mess, says our columnist, there’s a man. Or a cat…

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, November 2, 2014


Where there’s a mess, says our columnist, there’s a man. Or a cat…[SUSAN HELLARD]

Whoever invented spring-cleaning obviously didn’t have two muddy-booted daughters and a husband who likes tinkering with cars. In our house all the Hoovers, brushes and mops are on constant duty and every day is wash day.

Autumn is the worst, when all the leaves in Herefordshire end up on our lawn and half of them get tramped into the house (sometimes I wonder about Mother Nature – I mean, if she was any sort of woman, the whole lot would drop on the same day, making it a darn sight easier to tidy up).

Which brings me to the laundry cupboard on the landing. This is ever so useful, especially as there’s a radiator lurking behind it – but being dark, cosy and full of warm, soft bedding, it is also particularly inviting to cats. And because the door is old and rickety and the catch doesn’t close properly, it’s not unusual to reach in for a fluffy towel and grab a fluffy tail instead.

That problem came to a head recently, when we were expecting overnight guests.

I went to the cupboard for clean linen, only to find every towel coated in cat hair and every duvet cover, pillow or sheet autographed with paw prints. The whole lot would need washing again.

On the day of the great task, the first load went in at 6.15am and our hard-working washing machine groaned and puffed until the last lot came out at teatime. By then the whole house smelled like a spring meadow and every single radiator was draped in sheets and duvet covers.

“What’s going on?” asked Richard, sauntering in from the garage clutching an oily rag. “Why does it look like a laundry in here?”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be for long. Just don’t touch anything.”

Shooing him towards the kitchen and the Swarfega, I hoovered out the cupboard and set about filing it with freshly cleaned, fluffy towels in size order, followed by sheets and spare pillowcases (why are there always so many of these, and why are they always pale blue?).

Then, after fixing the catch to keep out fluffy intruders, I hurried downstairs to fetch another armful. But what do you suppose I discovered on my return? The cupboard door wide open, a missing bath sheet and a very large, purring tabby cat.

“Oi, Ketchup! No!”

I scooped her up, wondering how she’d managed to jemmy the door open, what she’d done with the towel and how the place had got so messy in less than a minute. Then I heard the sound of splashing from the shower, and a faint masculine whistle. Mother Nature? I think not. She is definitely a he.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/529456/Mindy-Hammond-on-cleaning-in-hectic-household

[RedMoon11]

on Current Affairs

WATTS UP? Our columnist makes a shocking discovery about current affairs

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, November 9, 2014


Our columnist makes a shocking discovery about current affairs

Electricity and I don’t get on. Never have.

I’m not as bad as Richard, who’s been banned from power drills since he cut through a cable and sent himself flying across the kitchen, but the IT department at my old office used to dread my calls (“Sorry, it’s me – I’ve done it again”). Nobody could explain it, but computers would take one look at me and self-destruct.

Airports are even worse – I could walk through the scanner stark naked and still set the alarm off (causing the usual scene – Richard and the girls harrumphing, queue building up and a log jam on the conveyor belt).

Until recently, however, barring the odd spark zipping between the light switch and my finger, it was all quiet on the electrical front. But you know that scene in The Wizard of Oz when the weather vane changes to herald the coming of the Wicked Witch? Well, it was kind of like that.

With the forecast warning of downpours later in the day, I decided to bring the ponies in early (they were all standing at their gates whinnying, so it was more their decision than mine).

By 3.30pm everyone was put to bed except for Musca, our mini criollo, who’s always last as he likes an extra mooch around in the clover by the yard. But with dusk approaching and the clouds building up, I brought him in and took off his rug.

Then I went to give his nose a rub, and zap! – a bolt of static shot out from my hand.

“Oh Muscamoo! Oh I’m sorry, boy!”

But it was too late. The poor thing was backed into the corner of his stable, staring at me with wide eyes as if to say, “What did I do to deserve that?” I tried to give him a cuddle but it took several horse treats and 15 minutes of oochy-cooing before he even vaguely forgave me.

The rain was coming down in torrents by now, so I pulled my hood up and stomped towards Max’s paddock to turn off the electric fencing. There’s a flip-switch that sticks out under the power unit, so it’s a two-second job… unless your wet fingers miss the switch and touch the live terminal.

“Oooh!” I yelped as the shock went up my arm. No wonder the ponies avoid it.

That should have been an end to the day’s unpleasantness. But the dogs expect their pre-supper walk, come rain or shine (the wetter it is, the more they enjoy it) so I let them out of the house and into the big field, recently vacated by Musca and friends.

This has a line of electrical tape across it and I was wandering along, somewhat lost in my own thoughts, when I noticed a join that looked as though it was coming apart. I bent down to push the two ends back together.

“Owwww!” I squeaked, as 12 volts of car battery shot up my arm and down to the soles of my feet. Something was clearly not right here, so I decided to turn off the power before the dogs came back. Still with feet a-tingle, I pressed the off button.

“Mmmmwaaargh!”

This time I fell backwards on to the grass, and the next thing I knew I was surrounded by wet and muddy dogs, all eager to kiss me better.

Had I not been wearing a hood, I’ve no doubt my hair would still be standing on end as I write this. I’m even more pleased that no one was watching. But mostly, I’m very, very thankful that wellies have rubber soles.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/532563/Mindy-Hammond-on-electric-shocks

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond Predicts a Wet Winter

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, November 16, 2014


Our columnist confidently predicts a wet winter – but it arrives rather sooner than she’s expecting

What a lot of weather we’ve been having. And what a lot more we’re going to get, according to the experts – though they can’t seem to decide what kind we’re in for. Last winter I heeded the warnings and stockpiled snow shovels, road salt and woolly socks. A complete waste of time, as it turned out, so this year I’m making a winter weather prediction of my own.

One that can’t fail to come true: it will rain.

And here’s something else from Mindy’s crystal ball. As soon as the first puddles appear, children everywhere will reach for the wellies they left lying around in spring. Surprise, surprise, these will no longer fit, and you will be a terrible mother for sending your offspring out poorly shod (they will splash about in their trainers or school shoes, ruin them and then return to the house miserable because their feet are wet and cold, which will be your fault as well).

That’s why this year I decided on a full pre-winter service and inspection of the Hammond welly stocks. With the result that the girls have a new pair each – with ponies on for Willow (natch) and shocking pink for Iz. As for me? Well, my feet stopped at size four some years ago, but I still suspected there might be a leak.

Ice crystals on the toenails are no one’s idea of a fashion statement, even if you are a bit inclined towards those new shades of blue nail varnish, so I dug out my winter boots and put them through their paces. First came the spider test, which yielded only one, slightly anorexic-looking harvest spider who obviously hadn’t ventured far from the boot in search of nourishment.

Then I marched off to the stables for the official welly-waterproofness test, aka standing in a tin bath.

“Right, here goes,” I told Sparrow, our black Labrador, who was looking at me with a confused expression as I stepped into my improvised test tank.

First signs were good. Feet seemed to stay dry with no spongy sock feeling. But what if there was a split hidden somewhere that would only reveal itself with movement? Test Two was a slight stomping action. Yep, still dry – the wellies had passed with flying colours.

Unreasonably pleased (it’s strange what gets us country folk excited) I jumped out of the water and danced a little jig. Unfortunately, thinking she should join in the celebration, Sparrow leapt to her feet at the same instant and we collided in midair. I lost my balance and landed – you guessed it – in the bath.

Next week, the plastic jumpsuit – a must for all Labrador owners.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/535169/Mindy-Hammond-on-wet-winter

[RedMoon11]

Ghost of Christmas Past: Mindy Hammond on Internet Shopping and Homemade Gifts

THE GHOST of Christmas Past stalks our columnist this week – and it has very muddy paws

By: Mindy Hammond
Published: Sun, November 23, 2014

The Ghost of Christmas Past stalks our columnist this week

The lights are up, the decs are out and Santa Claus is coming to town. But will I be joining him? I’m not so sure. Last year I decided to drag my Christmas shopping into the digital age and do it all online. Let’s just say that was a mixed success.

It still took me days, and not everything looked as appealing in real life as it had on screen (funny, that). Worse still, some things arrived so late it was impossible to exchange them, so I was left with a motley collection of leftovers and rejects.

I could go back to pounding the pavements, or even hit the Christmas fair circuit. I tried that a few years ago and it was quite interesting, though I found myself coming home with a lot of presents for me and very few for anyone else (blame the mulled wine).

Then there’s my other problem: what do you buy for the man who already has every (car-related) gadget under the sun?

So this year, I’m going to ring the changes. When I was little, my aunties used to spend every spare minute between September and Christmas knitting and sewing.

I loved my homespun teddy, and the fabulous framed cross-stitch of a show-jumping horse and rider that had pride of place on my bedroom wall for as long as I can remember, until the glue failed and the frame fell apart. It’s still a prized possession, carefully wrapped in tissue paper in my memory box, and I’ll never forget that magical feeling of opening a present that was made especially for me.

That’s why I’m going to give the shopping a miss this year and use the time craftily instead – though I promise not to repeat what I did in my poverty-stricken days in London.

Doing two jobs and still struggling to pay the rent, I wondered how on earth I could buy any Christmas presents. Then I hit on the idea of making dried flower arrangements.

I found a local supplier who was closing down, bought as many bits and bobs as I could afford and made everyone their own display.

Very nice they looked too, except I then had to transport them home to Gloucestershire, along with my two dogs – a very large white long-haired German shepherd and a border collie.

That was a bit of a packing challenge, as you can imagine, but eventually we set off, with Christmas songs on the tape player and my lovingly hand-made creations carefully arranged in the foot wells. Unfortunately the traffic was dreadful, and after two hours on the road I decided to give my passengers a comfort break.

I found a convenient lay-by, but it was pitch dark and pouring with rain by this point, so as soon as we’d stretched our legs we all dashed straight back to the car and jumped in.

It was such a relief to get to our destination that we spent the rest of the evening thawing out in front of the fire.

So it wasn’t until the next morning – Christmas Eve – that I went out to unpack the car. Oh dear.

What had left London as pristine works of art (or so I thought) had become tangles of broken twigs with chewed ends, liberally embellished with mud and dog hair.

I spent the rest of the day trying to repair them, and everyone who received one of my distressed designs was very kind and loyally pretended to be delighted.

My old car must have gone to the crusher with bits of twig and crumbs of Oasis in every crevice, and the whole experience was one never to be repeated.

So this year my home-made Christmas will involve flavoured gin instead. Let’s just hope that Sparrow, TG, Captain and all their friends don’t develop a taste for that.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/537823/Mindy-Hammond-Christmas

[RedMoon11]

Christmas craze: Mindy Hammond on Starting festive preparations on time

’TIS the season to be frantic, says our columnist. Unless you want your goose cooked, that is...

By MINDY HAMMOND                                     Published: Sun, November 30, 2014



Here they are then, the holiday adverts. Pictures of sun-kissed beaches and smiling, bronzed people frolicking in the surf. Don’t you just loathe each and every one of them? While we’ve got the rain rattling on the windows and the wind whistling round the eaves, these smug creatures sip their sangria and slop sun cream on their burnt bits. And why are they even bothering? It’s far too late to book a holiday, now everyone’s diaries are full up till June. But wait a minute, that reminds me – there’s something else that needs to happen round about now. Oh yes, Christmas.

Now, you may think there are still weeks to go. But listen to your auntie Mindy when she says you’ve got seven days. Seriously – if you’re not done and dusted with icing sugar in a week’s time, you’re heading for trouble. Just like last year, remember?

Yes, you’ll be queuing for hours to park, the shops will be rammed, your feet will be wet, sore and cold and there won’t be a sit-down or a cup of tea to be had anywhere between the toy shop and the car. You’ll get home with a filthy headache and less than half the required number of presents. But that’s OK because you’ll then discover that the only wrapping paper in the house has “Happy Birthday” and toy trains on it, the Sellotape has fused into an ice-hockey puck and the scissors have run away to start a new life somewhere tidier. Or is that just me?

And while I’m giving you the benefit of my bitter seasonal experience, here’s another top tip: invest in a pair of those magnifying specs and keep them next to the kettle until after Boxing Day. That’s if you think you might be called upon to cook, read assembly instructions or play Scrabble at any point over the holiday.

I’m sorry if this doesn’t apply to you. Actually, that’s not entirely true – I’m slightly envious if this doesn’t apply to you, and you still have perfect vision. But one day you’ll need this information, so file it in your mental Rolodex (though I suppose you’re too young to know what that is – pah!). Anyway, here is my spectacle-related cautionary tale.

Last year I bought a frozen turkey crown* for Christmas lunch. I didn’t have my glasses with me at the time, so I couldn’t read the defrosting instructions, but I guessed it would be 24 hours.

On Christmas Eve, I removed the giant lump from the freezer and – specs on – wiped the label. “Defrost at room temperature,” it said, “for a minimum of 48 hours.”

Nuts. Coat on for a mad dash to the supermarket, leaving Richard harrumphing in the kitchen.

“Really?” he sneered. “You think you’re going to find a large fresh turkey on Christmas Eve? No chance. Sausages for Christmas lunch then. Super.”

Sensing that I needed moral support, Izzy came along for the ride.

“Er, what are we going to do if there aren’t any left,” she asked.

“Think positive,” I said. “There will be… I hope.”

“Well, I suppose there’s always fresh cockerel…”

“Izzy!” I exclaimed. “He might be listening! Poor old Flynn. And anyway, if it came to that, would you fancy going up against him?”

“No! That’s your job.”

“Well, I’ll resign and we’ll have a vegetarian Christmas.”

“Fine by me.”

But we returned triumphant – with the very last turkey in the shop, having learned a lesson never to be forgotten.

Well, I say that, but although various festive groceries have been clicked on and delivered,

I haven’t actually ordered the bird yet. Better warn Flynn to stay indoors for the next couple of weeks – just in case.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/541087/Mindy-Hammond-Christmas-preparations

*Turkey breast in the US, I had to look it up

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Hailing the Conquering Heroes

All hail the conquering heroes, says our columnist – but behind every good team there’s a great coach

Published:  Sun, December 7, 2014



School’s nearly out – which means presents must be bought, wrapped and hidden before all those junior Sherlocks start scouring the house for traces of sparkly paper. And aren’t there lots of folk to buy for now? There’s all their teachers, for a start – though one lady at Willow’s school definitely deserves a special gift this year.

I speak of the wonderful Mrs Bailey, coach of the hockey team. This comprises Willow and most of her friends (it’s a very small school) and the other day we all set off with sticks, kit bags and an industrial quantity of Haribo for the annual under-12s national championships.

It was bedtime when we arrived, but as soon as we saw the opposition next morning, our faces fell. They all looked so big and strong, and so well turned out. Each school had its own strip – brightly coloured, pristine and professional. And then there was our little band of hockey heroes, gamely warming up in their faded maroon polo shirts with frayed edges and haphazard numbers tacked on their backs many years ago.

The first match was at 11am, by which time our supporters’ club had grown to nine. The other teams had far more, and even the opposing parents seemed bigger than us. But our girls were keen as mustard, hanging on Mrs B’s every word, and they won their first match. Then they won their second. By the third game, the injuries were mounting up. One small warrior had been struck in the eye, another winded in the back, and my own little star had fallen and skidded across the pitch, limping off with bloody, swollen knees. But they all came back stronger, more determined and desperate to do well. They fought their way to the semi-final and then – to our amazement and delight – the final itself.

Everyone was tired, cold and emotionally drained as they resumed their positions for one last battle, and that was just the parents. Our girls’ opposition looked like giants, and I’m sure some of them had tattoos.

As the game began, we roared our encouragement, and we gasped at the near misses from both sides. But by the end of the match, the score was 0-0, which meant extra time – and a golden goal. With some of them limping and some fit to drop, but everything still to play for, Willow and her friends rose to the challenge and we witnessed the most incredible passing move, from one to the other to the next and.... GOAL!!!!!!

We yelled, we jumped in the air, we cried, we hugged our girls. We even hugged Mrs B, whose famous smile was wider than ever.

The team were promised a proper strip if they made it to the semi-finals, but for Christmas their coach will be getting one of her own. On the back it will say: “Mrs B, U12 Champions Coach 2014. We love you – the team.”

That’s because between them all, they proved something very important on that chilly winter afternoon: that it isn’t how big you are, or how good you look – it’s what’s in your heart that wins the day.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/543625/Mindy-Hammond-conquering-heroes

[RedMoon11]

on The Greatest Christmas Gifts

FROM Christmas past to Christmas present, the greatest gifts are never forgotten

By MINDY HAMMOND                                    Published:Sun, December 14, 2014                         


SUSAN HELLARD

He may be checking his list twice, but have you? Never mind Black Friday, Cyber Monday and all the rest, we could all do with taking a long, hard look at what’s in our seasonal shopping baskets.

I’m as bad as anyone (“OMG it’s two-for-one!”

I say, grabbing the novelty bubblebath). But many years ago I was taught a very important lesson.

I was about five years old and I’d been taken to visit my great aunts, who were twins in their nineties. It was a heavenly summer day and great aunt Enid sat next to me on the garden bench, grasping a glorious collection of blooms from their carefully tended flowerbeds. She was a very elegant old lady, her long, grey hair in a loose bun with falling tendrils that framed her face (I often imagined she’d been a ballerina; she certainly had the bone structure and poise of a lady who once pirouetted en pointe).

It was very hot and although I was the sort of little girl who’d normally be climbing trees or paddling in streams, that day I just sat with my aunt (“seen and not heard” was the rule) and felt incredibly special to have her attention. Aunt Ethel, her twin, normally dominated our visits. She was smaller, stouter, very rambunctious, and aunt Enid would simply smile and waft in and out with tea and cakes while her sister held court. But today was different.

Aunt Enid and I just sat there, looking out over the garden to the fields beyond and the cows grazing lazily in the heat, until I glanced sideways and realised she was watching me, smiling.

“It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.

I smiled back at her and nodded. Then her slim arm pulled me close as she asked, “Of all the flowers in the garden, which is your favourite?”

I considered my answer carefully. After all, there were hundreds to choose from. But there was one plant that I’d never seen before, that seemed to be twice my height and exploding with flowers in many different shades of pink.

“That one,” I said. “It’s really pretty. And daisies, of course. I really love daisies.”

“Daisies are a wonderful gift to us all. They arrive without invitation and ask us to play.”

She chuckled and gave me a gentle squeeze. “Mischievous and adorable, just like you.”

Normally when visiting my aunts, I was never quite sure whether I was behaving properly or doing the right thing. But when she said those words, I felt overwhelmed with happiness and love.

“Those other flowers are hollyhocks,” said Enid. “They’re very wonderful. My favourites too.”

Our little chat was ended by the arrival of Aunt Ethel with glasses of home-made lemonade, and then it was time to leave.

That Christmas, one present under the tree was wrapped differently from all the others.

It was covered in thick white paper with hand-drawn flowers and tied with a yellow silk ribbon.

On Christmas morning I opened it carefully, and inside was a strange and wonderful contraption made of wood, with screws on the corners and a little home-made book.

Inside were pressed flowers in a beautiful pattern – daisies and hollyhocks. There was also a little packet of seeds, and on it was written:

“I shall be the hollyhock and you the daisy, and we will smile at the sun together. With so much love, your adoring Aunt E.”

I planted those seeds, and from that day to this I have always had hollyhocks and daisies wherever I’ve lived. I have also known that the presents that cost the least so often last the longest.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/546423/Mindy-Hammond-Christmas-gifts

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Christmas in the Stable

OUR columnist looks forward to a traditional Christmas – and where better to spend it than in a stable?

Published: Sun, December 21, 2014


Mindy looks forward to a traditional Christmas – and where better to spend it than in a stable? [SUSAN HELLARD]

How excited are we? The Hammond tree is holding up its spiny skirt, ready to receive piles of presents, and the stockings are ready to dangle in the fireplace. I can’t see the back of the fridge, so if I’ve forgotten something I won’t even find out until the big day. But I don’t care – we have the important stuff and best of all, we have lots of friends and family coming to visit.

With Izzy at her new school, we were treated to two carol services, and as usual I had to bring out the hanky (am I the only person in Britain who blubs at Hark the Herald Angels Sing?). But school’s out now and even Richard has finished work, so we managed our usual family pilgrimage to the horse show at Olympia. Richard and the girls even sneaked in some last-minute shopping between the Shetland Grand National and the showjumping.

The dogs each have their own stocking this year (well, it’s Blea’s first Christmas) and the cats get a toy (as well as the chance to play in the wrapping paper on Christmas morning). And while I’m on the subject of pets, we all know the rule – no animals for Christmas. It’s upsetting for them if they end up unwanted and it’s unfair on the recipient if a puppy is more of a shock than a surprise. So our new arrival isn’t a Christmas present – it’s just that it took me until now to find her.

Izzy’s original pony, Tom, proved a bit too much of a handful.

He needed more from life, so we sent him off to do eventing, showjumping and various other feats of derring-do. At first Iz was happy to wave him off and conclude that riding wasn’t for her – but then she changed her mind and the pleading began.

That’s how we found ourselves at a trekking centre recently, expecting to try a 13-hand pony. We didn’t know what she looked like, except that she was accustomed to novices.

But there, standing next to a hay net, was Kitty – all 14 hands of her.

I was worried that Izzy would take one look and turn tail, but she didn’t. She walked quietly up to Kitty and began stroking her. A few minutes later, she was on board, and as soon as I saw her beaming smile I knew these two would be right for each other.

Kitty has been with us on trial for a couple of weeks now. She and Izzy have bonded, and Max the fell pony is hopelessly smitten (Kitty won’t talk to him over the fence, even though he stares at her with lovesick eyes).

As a result of all this, the girls have made a plan for Christmas morning that involves all of us – even Daddy – trooping out to the stables, mucking out, and wishing all the ponies a merry Christmas with a carrot and a bowl of treats.

Offers of help in the stable are never spurned, so the place has been hung with festive decorations, and beautiful Kitty – who is a traditional black-and- white cob with a flowing mane and feathers on her feet – has a pink tinsel tiara (well, she is a lady). On Christmas morning, we’ll all be together with the animals we love. Will I cry? You bet I will.

That’s it for now, except to say happy Christmas to all my wonderful readers, and to all those you love, whether human, furred or feathered. Thank you for sharing our stories.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/547594/Mindy-Hammond-Christmas-in-the-stable