Mindy Hammond - Express

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Catching Up After the Summer Holiday

BACK from holiday, our columnist is in the pink, but the same can’t be said of her ailing animals – and ponies who’ve piled on the pounds...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, September 11, 2016


Back from holiday, our columnist is in the pink, but the same can’t be said of her ailing animals     HELLARD

Aaah, back to the comforts of home. It’s so nice to go travelling but bizarrely, even better to land in the pouring rain and breathe a sigh of relief, driving through our green and pleasant land.

Two weeks is a long stretch for the Hammonds to be away and catching up is always a long process. The vet had visited and was pleased with Max’s progress. Although his pedal bone wasn’t by any means perfect yet, with Pat-the-perfect-farrier’s help it was certainly heading in the right direction. Unfortunately, our vet was more concerned with the expanding waistlines of several of our equines.

Like the vast majority of pony owners across the UK, we were doing our very best to restrict their grazing, but the weather has been perfect if you happen to be a patch of grass and lush grass means laminitis – a really nasty and very painful condition that can strike horses and ponies and is potentially fatal. Even though our paddocks are as bare as they can be, the shooting grass is still coming through and the ponies were all getting fat.

I inspected the troops and as they all peered over their stable doors, I explained to a line of long faces, “There’s nothing else for it, gentlemen – I’m afraid it’s Weight Watchers for you. Rations will be cut and you’ll have limited time in your paddocks.”

Then I turned to Romeo the super pony – or should I say Romeo the portly pony?

“I’m afraid, young man, you’ve bitten off far more than you should’ve chewed,” I told him. “We’re breaking out the leg warmers and it’ll be aerobics and the cabbage soup diet for you before long.”

He put his ears back.

“No good pulling faces. Willow is under strict instructions – two hours in your paddock, then exercise, stable, exercise, stable and half rations. For goodness’ sake, the girth on your saddle hardly goes around you!”

As I was giving my speech, Megan, our 30-year-old pony, was merrily trotting around and whinnying. The others shot her an evil glare, but she still looked absolutely perfect – not an ounce overweight, a glossy chestnut coat and her blonde mane and tail flowing in the breeze.

“It’s no good being jealous. If you didn’t stuff your faces all day long, you’d be living the dream too. Honestly, why do boys have no handbrake?”

Hay nets were weighed and feed reduced.

They’d cope and hopefully we’d soon get them all back on track before the first frost, which is traditionally when laminitis can be at its worst.

Heading indoors I passed Mrs Mallard. When we left, she had nine ducklings and I was delighted to see she had managed to keep five, which is good going for wild ducks. We’d still managed to keep control of our duck population, although two of our lady Muscovies were huddling together in the back of their house with a small clutch of eggs.

They’d been so determined, it seemed cruel to remove their eggs and perhaps some wouldn’t hatch.

Back indoors, there were a couple of issues – TG had really missed us, as she always does, and her various health problems had clearly been exacerbated with the stress of separation.

She is on an incredible cocktail of painkillers, yet the stiffness in her joints is evident whenever she gets up from a lying position and we’ve noticed she never just sits any more. On all fours or lying down are her two modes.

I suppose the change is clearer when we’ve been apart and although she was over the moon to see us, grabbing my hand in her mouth and leading me around the house for 15 minutes, while wagging her tail furiously, her uneven steps worried me more than ever and we spent a long time together making up for the days apart.

Meanwhile, poor Rucksack the cat had developed an abscess on the side of his face – the vet had given him a long-acting injection of antibiotic, but because of his very advanced age wasn’t keen to do anything invasive. He was still eating and drinking, and we simply had to hope it would go of its own accord. Meanwhile, his best friend Satchel, the cream Maine coon cat, was sticking to him like glue and washing his face and ears for him constantly.

Dimple had grown and went bonkers (spraying the floor as she went) and the sheep had almost recovered from their virus. Boot was on fine form again and to our delight, his pressure sores had healed and even diminished in size.

On the whole, a pretty good result thanks to Claire, Charlie, Bev and Mel, our silent heroes.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/708179/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-summer-holiday

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An Eventful Camp-out Weekend

DESPITE a water-slide drenching, forgetting her wellies and sheltering under a leaky tarpaulin, our columnist and friends were happy campers.

MINDY HAMMOND
Sunday, 18 September 2016


Despite the bad weather and inconveniences, our columnist and friends were happy campers      HELLARD

Ah, the annual camp-out weekend – how the kids love it, meanwhile the parents try desperately to avoid a night under canvas. This year, despite blazing sunshine for days, the gods heard our prayers and torrential rain left the site too muddy for camping, so instead of eating around the campfire it was decided a barbecue in the barn and comfy beds for all would be the better option.

The adults breathed a sigh of relief and we all knew a spot of rain was never going to put a dampener on proceedings for the kids. They couldn’t wait to dive in the lake and when they discovered the biggest water slide in the world, they began praying for another cloudburst.

Our host Markie had spent ages on a steep hill in one of his fields, pinning down an enormous sheet of industrial-strength plastic. After several bucketfuls of diluted washing-up liquid had been delivered to the site, together with 17 children crammed into the trailer, Markie’s little red tractor was groaning slightly.

But the squeals of delight from the girls and heroic sliding from the older boys (including Markie) made it all worth the effort.

We adults decided to wander down to the lake to see how they were doing, although halfway there, as my pathetic cotton pumps became sodden, I realised forgetting my wellies was a serious mistake. Still, it was sunny and they’d dry out.

Down by one of the lakes, Richard and Charlie had discovered the other tarpaulin, which had been strung from a couple of the trees to make a shady area. Unfortunately, the weight of the overnight rain had turned it into an enormous, limp flag, so they reassembled it and made a very inviting seating area beneath using tree stumps.

The girls – me, Lou, Helsie, Sarah and Fudgie the terrier – agreed it was a fabulous bit of boy-scouting and while the rest of our party toasted their success with a glass of rosé, Helsie, Fudgie and I headed towards the water slide.

The first big drops of rain were starting to fall as we watched Otty and Willow hurl themselves at breakneck speed down the 50ft-long slide.

Poor Fudgie was completely befuddled and dashed to their rescue, covering them in kisses as soon as they came to a halt – although she thought she could somehow stop the dangerous sliding by grabbing a mouthful of T-shirt at one point, which didn’t go quite so well for the T-shirt or poor Fudgie (who isn’t terribly fond of high-speed sliding).

The heavens opened and while Markie was busy competing for who could slide farthest with the older teenage boys – regularly going beyond the plastic and landing in cow pats – Helsie “borrowed” his jacket and we used it as a rain hat whilst running back.

We were fairly damp by the time we arrived and spent the next half hour taking it in turns to poke the tarpaulin roof with a stick to empty the gathering water – not realising there was a hole in the middle at one point, which gave Lou a rather unexpected shower.

I needed to drive home quickly to sort ponies and dogs before the night shift arrived, and, assured the rain had stopped, decided it was a good window to make the 30-minute drive.

The sun was shining all the way, and my soggy feet and jeans were a little drier by the time I parked up. I changed my clothes and had just collected Romeo from his field when the sky turned black and I had a strong sense of déjà vu.

There was no time to run back to the house for a jacket as all the other horsey types were calling from their gates. The dogs had taken shelter in the hay store and all watched as I became more and more bedraggled. By the time the ponies were in, I was drenched and there were still ducks and chickens to put to bed. Oh, well.

Typically, the drive back to the camp out was sunny and bright. I’d missed Sarah falling out of the rowing boat fully clothed, but we could sympathise with each other’s sogginess and although the rain soon followed me there, it still didn’t stop the kids from swimming or the adults from having a great time.

We left Charlie and Markie with a completely sodden hallway, wet and muddy paw prints everywhere from the eight or nine visiting dogs, an abandoned (and very stuck) Range Rover by the lakes, and various items of abandoned clothing that might eventually find their way home.

Why do they do it to themselves every year?

We sometimes wonder, but we’re all very grateful they do.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/710863/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-camp-out-weekend

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Children Flying the Nest

WITH both of her daughters now at senior school, our teary columnist can’t help thinking about the day they will fly the nest...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, September 25, 2016


Mindy can’t help thinking about the day they will fly the nest                                                  HELLARD

At last, the new shoes have broken in, nicely. However, the new sports socks are showing signs of stains and we’re already one jumper short. Such is the way when the new school term begins, and this year’s a big one. Willow has started senior school and joined big sis (who’s delighted to have her close by again).

On her first day all new parents were assembled for a welcome speech by the headmaster, and there was one part which really struck me. He reminded us that all of the first-year pupils would be leaving the school in just five years’ time and Izzy was already in her third year. Where does the time go? They’re no longer little girls, they’re both quickly morphing into young women. Izzy will be studying for her GCSEs this year and in a blink of an eye she’ll be off to university, closely followed by Willow.

Perhaps I’m too soft, but much as I swell with pride at their achievements and their increasing confidence, the thought of the girls leaving home reduces me to tears. When Willow played Slipping Through My Fingers, that Abba song from Mamma Mia!, as we were driving into town a few days later, I absolutely sobbed, “Oh Wills! Quick, change it. You know it makes me cry.”

Both girls looked on me with pitying eyes.

“Aw, we’ll never leave you Binds,” Izzy smiled.

“Nah… you’re too good at mucking out,” Willow chuckled.

“Ah thanks, I feel so reassured. But you will go one day and you should, but I’ll miss you both.”

“Oh no…,” a thought had suddenly struck Izzy. “What will you do if Daddy retires?”

“He can never retire,” I said pointedly.

“No…,” she paused, then they both said together, “He’d drive you mad!”

We all laughed, before Izzy spoke again. “But seriously, what would you do?”

“Don’t worry, Daddy knows he gets bored easily, so he’ll always have some project or other on the go even when he’s 80. As long as he isn’t expecting me to go with him to the North Pole or swim with sharks, I’m more than happy to let him get on with it.”

“What will you do?” Willow sounded concerned.

“Well, I’ll probably still be mucking out ponies!” I laughed.

The truth is, we have started to think ahead a bit (mostly when I’m distraught about being in an empty nest) and although Richard makes lots of encouraging noises about the things we’ll do when the girls spread their wings, we both know there’s nothing he can do to soften the blow.

As parents, all we can do is our very best for our children and cherish every moment they’re with us. Of course, we all have to weather various storms, from those first days when your new baby is inconsolable for no reason and sleep is a rarity, to teenage emotions and 12-hour lie-ins. But love is our constant companion; an invisible glue capable of spanning continents, which I know will ensure the girls are always with me, wherever they are.

I’ve found myself telling friends with newborns to make the most of this precious time, because it will be gone before you know it, conscious I’m repeating the words told to me when Izzy and Willow were little. I used to smile and think to myself, “Yep, sure, I can leave my house to be a mess while I sit and play with the baby – who will do the washing? Who will cook? Tidy up? Seriously… the carpet hasn’t seen the Hoover for over a week.”

But at bath time, when it was just us, we used to play and play until the girls were like wrinkled prunes; then, wrapped in towels, we’d pull every single nappy sack out of the box, littering the floor. When Willow could just about sit up in her fabric-covered doughnut, she and Izzy would giggle and play for hours, surrounded by adoring dogs and cats.

Now they walk together into school in matching uniforms, looking more like smart young secretaries than schoolgirls, their high ponytails swinging as they march. I sit in the car and smile at my glorious girls as I watch them disappear; the memory of baby days, toddler years and so many wonderful moments swelling my heart, knowing there are complicated days ahead for both of them. They may be slipping through my fingers, but I hold a net below that will never let them fall.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/713361/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-children-leaving-home

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Newest Canine in Hammond Towers

IT'S a case of puppy love at Hammond Towers as our columnist’s newest canine, Dimple, falls for a feathered friend...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:Sunday, 2 October 2016


Our columnist’s newest canine, Dimple, falls for a feathered friend                                HELLARD

Mrs Mallard, who returns every year with her sister to raise a family on the moat, has never been worried by our dogs, although she certainly knows the difference between them and the hungry fox who has been making nightly visits over the past couple of weeks.

Unfortunately for us, she quickly realised loud quacking at any time of danger would alert her four-legged friends and cause an eruption of barking (often at 3am), which would wake me and bring us all dashing across the lawn to shoo away our naughty russet friend before her children were too traumatised.

Although I’m more than happy to provide this service, even when it deprives me of sleep, I worry slightly for those ducklings. After all, at some point they’ll have to go off and fend for themselves.

Who will explain to them that a black labrador isn’t always a lovely, friendly creature who trots by when you’re nibbling at the grass, or that a terrier will always sit calmly and wag its tail when you waddle past the end of his nose? Worse yet, the sound of gunfire all about us at certain times of the year will be second nature to them, and although they have nothing to worry about on our ponds, if they fly just a mile in the wrong direction there’s a chance they’ll end up on a menu.

Dimple, the most recent addition to our canine family, is doing very well at learning the house rules, although she is a little terrified of the horses – well, they are rather big to one so small – and she is completely besotted by Ketchup the cat. All she wants to do is play with her fluffy friend or lick her ears, and Ketchup finds her behaviour either completely uncouth or rather annoying, particularly when she’s having a snooze on the sofa and is rudely awakened by a wet muzzle in her eye. She finds a quick smack on the nose only works for a second before Dimple returns and sits patiently before her, tail wagging furiously and eyes staring with unrequited love.

Dimple seems to have taken a few leaves out of Kitty’s book when it comes to picking her friends, but the weirdest of all has to be the budding romance between her and Dink, the peacock. It all started when she was very little, and began toilet training in her puppy pen outside. I noticed Dink’s curiosity getting the better of him as he inched over for a peek at the new arrival.

Every day, he’d walk closer as Dimple sat patiently watching him, her tail wagging. Strangely, although at that time his tail feathers were at their most splendid, he didn’t once display at her (I’ve noticed he’ll display as a form of aggression if he wants to scare off something – rattling his feathers and leaping forward). As the months went by, so he edged closer until at last, one sunny afternoon I looked out of the window to see him lying next to Dimple’s playpen while she licked at the bars. When I went outside to bring her back into the house he was most put out and shot me a look of complete horror when I lifted her off the ground and deprived him of his fluffy white friend.

Since then, their relationship has blossomed. Dimple literally leaps with joy to see him (perhaps he thinks she has vertical take off like him?), and if he misses her morning exercise, he waits by the kitchen door and she stands on her hind legs pawing at the glass until she’s allowed out.

At dusk, he calls by to say “goodnight” before flying up to the roof of the house, where he sleeps. They while away many hours together on the lawn and seem to be the very best of friends. Whenever there’s an unusual noise in the garden, Dimple stands like a pointer, her paw raised and tail straight out behind her, and once the alert is raised by his friend, Dink will immediately stretch his neck up and scan the horizon to seek out danger.

We’ve christened them “peacock and puppy” and decided they’re an unlikely crime-fighting duo. We’ve even invented a theme song for them. Who knows what adventures they might have? “Peacock and puppy, alert all the time, peacock and puppy, they fight crime...”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/715688/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-newest-canine-Hammond-Towers

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A Colourful City Break

A CITY break was just not going to hack it for a pony-mad girl, until our columnist came up with a sneaky – but foolproof – plan. Or did she?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sunday, 9 October 2016


A city break was just not going to hack it for a pony-mad girl                                                   HELLARD

We’ve just about recovered from the summer holidays – the house is finally back in order and normal service has been resumed, yet I sometimes wonder why we bother, because after turning over a new page of the calendar, there it is, looming on the horizon… half term.

Our girls get just over two weeks (lucky them), but as we all know, the weather in the UK will be properly rainy and chilly by the time they break up and the thought of a pair of whingeing teenagers flopping around the place surrounded by detritus has pushed me into action.

Fortunately, Willow has one week sorted. She’s off with her cousin for a break in the sun, but that leaves Izzy home alone and even harder to entertain. The writing is on the wall – I’ll just have to take her somewhere.

And although in my imagination I dream of wandering the streets of Rome or drifting through Venice with my dear daughter, embracing amazing architecture and soaking up the ambience of those beautiful places, at her age a “cultural city break” really doesn’t ignite any sparks. With a heavy heart I’m finding myself browsing the internet seeking “winter sun” for somewhere worthy of dusting off her bikini and painting her toenails.

Stupidly, I thought this would satisfy the craving for activity during the holidays, but as she caught me scrolling through hotel images yesterday she piped up with: “OK, cool, so that’ll be the first week… then we’ll spend the second week in London, yeah?”

“Huh?”

“You know… my art project.

I told you, I need to take photos of city stuff.”

I could feel the dark cloud of disappointment burbling in the recesses of my brain. Willow doesn’t like going to London at the best of times, and dragging her away from valuable time with Romeo the wonder pony would result in a tornado of negative emotion.

There was nothing to offer her in the city – she loathes shopping, hates hustle and bustle and would far rather have a Chinese takeaway at home than visit a West End swanky restaurant (my fault really – the apple never falls far from the tree).

Perhaps we could visit the zoo? No, she’d get upset by seeing animals in captivity and just think back to our African safari and their native habitat, then she’ll start pleading to go back there. Before we know it, the debate will start on the pros and cons of safari parks, zoos, rehabilitation projects and, ultimately, why we haven’t set up a conservation project in Africa yet. “Why doesn’t Daddy do something about it?”

It’s a regular “discussion” in our house, and one we encourage.

Hopefully, one day, we will be able to help make a difference, and in the meantime Richard is always keen to increase awareness whenever he can.

Thankfully, so far, I’ve managed to dissuade certain members of our family from rescuing parrots, ex-circus animals and setting up a “refuge” for weatherworn wallabies when a UK colony was reported to be struggling during one of our harsher winters.

I mean, seriously, if I was ever granted a wild animal licence, can you imagine the effect? Leopards by the lake, giraffes in the geraniums and panthers in the pony paddocks. I’m sure it would control the ever-increasing badger and rabbit population, but on balance I’m quite content keeping the “unusual wildlife” restricted to cockatiel spotting.

None of this helps the problem at hand. I’d completely forgotten about Izzy’s art project and it had to be done. Surely in our great metropolis there would be some answer to entertaining Willow?

I could’ve suggested the Natural History Museum, but on our last visit the girls were slightly horrified at the number of stuffed animals, and when we were evacuated due to a security alert, both proclaimed they never wanted to set foot in there ever again.

Then, a flash of inspiration hit me – riding on Rotten Row. Surely Willow would be enthused? The history, the thrill of cantering along those well-worn tracks as they did in the 18th Century (minus side-saddle, riding habit etc).

“Wills, I’ve had a great idea,” I started. “How’d you fancy riding through Hyde Park with me in half term?”

“Ooh… yeah, cool.

On Romeo?”

“Erm… well, no. I was thinking we could hire a couple of horses from the stables there.”

“Nah. I’d rather take Romeo through the woods here.”

Nuts. Back to the drawing board then.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/718198/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-city-break

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Wallycar's Breakdown

HOT weather left the most reliable of our columnist’s vehicles all hot and bothered so thank heavens for breakdown cover...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, October 16, 2016

  
Hot weather left the most reliable of our columnist’s vehicles all hot and bothered                 HELLARD

This could actually be a very important piece of information that I should share in the name of science...

It happened way back in the summer, when we had that ludicrously hot couple of weeks. The sun was blazing down and tanning the backs of anyone who ventured out of doors for more than 30 minutes and everyone you met would comment, “Ooh! Isn’t it hot?” or, “We mustn’t complain,” as they fanned themselves with their newspaper.

During this time there was a strange outbreak of an automotive nature in these parts, and I’m not so sure there isn’t a connection running through the events that happened in the Herefordshire twilight zone during the summer of 2016.

It all started with a phone call in the dead of night. We’d just returned home from our holidays when a friend called who was driving our Land Rover (and trailer filled with motorbikes) back from France.

“Hello, hello? Have you got breakdown cover? Wallycar has breathed his last on a French motorway.”

Ooer! Thankfully, I had planned for just such an emergency, although bless him, dear 20-year-old Wallycar had bravely hauled the trailer thousands of miles through blistering heat for weeks without a glitch. It was only when he began his journey home he went and blew his water pump.

Hmm, perhaps he prefers the hip and trendy sands of St Tropez to the green and pleasant valleys of the shire? If that was the case his plan failed abysmally and, after being towed to a local garage, he was back on the road within 24 hours – albeit at a whopping cost. Still, dear old Wallycar had done us proud and we didn’t begrudge a penny to set him straight.

A few days later my friend Helsy borrowed the lorry to go to a horse show many miles away; it was a big pony club event and the girls’ teams were in the national finals.

I was surprised to hear from her on the Friday afternoon; she chatted away and then after a couple of minutes casually mentioned they’d had a blowout. Fortunately, it had been one of the inside wheels so she hardly noticed it go, but she was stranded on the side of the road with ponies in the back and not sure what to do.

It was another of those moments when I was grateful I’d taken out specialist breakdown cover. The chaps came, sorted the wheel and they were back on the road within the hour. Although it was fairly warm in the back of the lorry, the ponies didn’t spend too long stationary and they were soon feeling the breeze through the open windows once more.

But you know how things always happen in threes? Well, naturally I was convinced I was going to break down next so I quickly took the car to the local garage and had all the tyres changed. I felt so reassured as I drove home and, having parked with my shiny black tyres in front of the house that Friday night, retired to share a nice glass of vino with Richard in the garden.

A couple of hours later my phone bleeped – it was my sister, she was sitting in the car with her two dogs en route to see friends in Cheshire, except the car wasn’t moving. It was on an exit slip road on the M5 – with a puncture.

This turned out to be somewhat of a nightmare situation. We couldn’t fetch her because a) We had both had a drink, and b) She was waiting for the RAC, who had assured her they’d be there in 40 minutes.

Some hours later, with a car steamed up by hot dog breath and a phone devoid of battery power, she was eventually towed to a local roadside b&b and had to stay there overnight and get the car sorted the following day before continuing on her journey. Had we known it was going to be such a long-winded and inconvenient experience, she would’ve got a taxi to us and had a fun night with me while Richard changed the wheel. Still, I digress.

Here’s my theory: During extended periods of warm, sunny weather be vigilant about your vehicle. Do we, as human beings, get hot and flustered in the heat? Do we burn our tootsies if we go barefoot on hot sand? Could it be possible then, that our cars (and sometimes lorries) burn their tyres on hot tarmac? Poor motors. We don’t even think to squeeze on the smallest dab of aloe vera to soothe the pain!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/720438/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-breakdown-insurance

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Zeus the Missing Lamb

WHEN Zeus, one of the lambs, goes missing, our columnist sets out to look for him – and gets more than she bargained for...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, October 23, 2016


When Zeus, one of the lambs, goes missing, our columnist sets out to look for him                              HELLARD

They seek him here, they seek him there, they seek him every flippin’ where. No, I’m not talking about Brad Pitt, or even the Scarlet Pimpernel, but the elusive creature known as Zeus, our nomad ram lamb.

Despite many efforts, he simply refuses to mix with the other sheep (well, he’s entirely convinced he isn’t one of their number – in Zeus’s brain he’s far more likely to be a dog/human mixture wearing an astrackan coat) and this makes the day’s chores take twice as long as they should.

We visit the sheep every day to check all’s well and although in the summertime they really don’t need any extra grub as they’re full up on grass, we always take a small bucket of feed with us. Past experience has taught us to keep them in the habit of running towards a rattling bucket. This makes moving or shearing time much easier (and means Mel and I don’t need to do our sheep dog impersonations to get them moving).

By the time we’ve said good morning to the male sheep en route to the muck heap, the ladies are already waiting by their gate, eagerly anticipating a treat (although for Elywn and Porridge, the two Ryland sheep, only horse treats will do). Fortunately, we rarely discover a serious problem on the daily rounds, although when there is an issue, being vigilant really pays off.

Sheep are notorious drama queens and will revel in walking about on three legs, keeling over and delivering an Oscar-winning death scene when there’s nothing more serious than a thorn in their toe.

Still, after checking the majority of the sheep population there remains the elusive Zeus to be found. Will he be under one of his favourite trees, nestled in the back of the nettle patch, or hidden in one of the hedgerows? One thing is for sure, if you can’t see him, he doesn’t want to be seen, and with so many other jobs to be done it is a teensy bit irritating to be on a lamb hunt, though I have to admit he is a bit of a comedian.

A few days ago I spent a good half hour driving up and down – I called him, rattled the bucket, climbed through brambles and on the edge of despair, finally, I sat down on the old rocking chair in the dingle to gather my thoughts.

No sooner had my bottom touched the seat than Zeus leapt out from behind the oak tree. He looked so pleased with himself, I could’ve sworn there was a twinkle in his eye.

“Zeus! Where have you been?” I asked him as I rubbed his white head.

Strangely, he didn’t tell me, but instead rubbed his head into the palm of my hand and showed very clearly that he’d been cavorting in long grass somewhere, as his black woolly body was full of burrs. We had a little chat and I left him munching on the grass.

The following morning, I noticed he was waiting for me next to the muck heap, which I thought was rather sweet.

I climbed out of my little truck and dropped down the back of the tipping bed as usual, ready for me to press the button on the dashboard for the hydraulic arm to rise and deposit the contents. But as I went to walk back to the cab, Zeus came bounding over at such speed, leaping across the long grass, I couldn’t help but laugh.

He slowed to a trot and after stopping beside me, pressed his head into my hand. I scratched his ears and head as usual, but this didn’t seem to satisfy him. He pushed his head harder, so

I tickled his ears a bit more, and then something changed slightly in the game; he didn’t do a friendly push, he did more of a butt against my hand. Not once, not twice but about four times in succession, lifting his front legs off the ground to put extra force behind the last two.

“Hey, easy boy.” I told him sternly, “I’m not playing ram games with you,” and resumed walking back towards the cab.

But he didn’t care, his blood was up and the next thing I knew he came charging after me, and the little swine butted me in, well, the butt!

I turned to scold him, but quickly realised he was stepping back a couple of paces in preparation for another ram raid on my rear end!

I ran for the cab, hurled myself on to the driver’s seat and closed the door with Zeus at my heels. I scurried away with my foot to the floor and muck trailing along behind me.

In the side mirror, just a few feet back was Zeus, chasing me as fast as his legs would carry him and occasionally leaping in the air mid-gallop. What in the world? Well, you know what they say, once a sheep gets an idea in its head…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/722966/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-missing-lamb-Zeus

[RedMoon11]

Showing Off Cutting-Edge Talents

WITH the girls’ eyebrows to be shaped and Richard’s locks to be chopped, our multitasking columnist shows off cutting-edge talents...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sunday, Oct 30, 2016


Our multitasking columnist shows off cutting-edge talents

There was a time when the evening ritual for the girls was bottle, bath, bed. By 7pm Richard and I could sit down for supper and catch up on the day.

Currently, I’m often on the school run at 7pm, driving over hill and dale to fetch my little angels, weary from their day of learning and ready to moan about whatever culinary delight their mother has cooked up for them when they get home.

Then there’s homework and we can’t blame our children for feeling dismayed at the hours of extra brain strain they’re forced to endure night after night. When you’ve spent the last 10 hours cramming your brain, scribbling like the wind to keep up with the teacher’s wise words and rounding the whole thing off with a couple of hours on a hockey pitch, the last thing you fancy is a few hours’ more torture even if it is in the comfort of your own home.

I commiserate with any father of teenage girls. Forgetting the hormones, the mood swings and all the other teenage horrors, there’s also the day-to-day living with them, so evenings are far from relaxed.

The second the girls are home, they race upstairs and change out of their school uniforms. For Izzy this means throwing on an extra large Cookie Monster T-shirt and a pair of shocking-pink, sheepskin-lined slippers, and for Willow a pair of ridiculously billowy, wide-legged trousers in a blue elephant print accompanied by a sports bra-style crop top.

Poor Richard often arrives home to find the girls scuffing about the kitchen making themselves hot chocolate, while I’m dashing about in dirty jodhpurs completing phase two of supper (nobody seems to eat the same thing in our house, so several meals often have to be prepared). No sooner have I cleared away the dishes than the demands start.

“Have you washed my blue wool top?”

“Oh, the ‘handwash only’ one? No, not yet.”

“But I need it tomorrow!”

“OK, OK I’ll do it now.”

Washing completed, I return to the kitchen to be met by:

“Has Romeo been clipped?”

“Huh? Oh no, but it’ll be done this week.”

“Did you order him a new rug?”

“No. He doesn’t need one.”

“Yes he does. Remember you said that blue one isn’t waterproof anymore.”

“Oh. I did, didn’t I. OK I’ll do it now.”

Straight to 20 minutes of searching on the internet for a rug for wonder pony, during which Richard enters the fray.

“Have you seen the key to the barn – it isn’t on the hook?”

“It should be.”

“Well, I can’t see it.”

“Hang on…”

(Finds the key on the hook beneath other keys.)

Just as I resume my seat in the kitchen.

“Are we having a fire in the sitting room tonight?”

“Yep, sure. I’ll go and fetch some wood.”

Having fetched wood, lit the fires (one in the sitting room and one in the hall), I return to the business of finding a rug for Romeo then Willow reappears.

“Mummy, will you sort out my eyebrows?”

“Just a sec, let me finish this. OK, here goes.”

Then Izzy arrives.

“Oh, can you do mine, too?”

“What is this? Mindy’s beauty parlour?”

Richard saunters in.

“Oh, here you all are. While you’re in the mood, I was going to ask if you can cut my hair – it’s grown like mad and the hairdresser is on holiday and we’re filming this week.”

“Of course, sir. Take a number and a seat in the waiting room. Cup of tea? Coffee?”

I found my scissors and comb, we said “goodnight” to our beautifully eyebrowed daughters and I set about trimming his locks.

It was nearly 10pm, none of the dogs had been for their last walk yet and Ketchup was miaowing at me for food.

I ran upstairs and poured more cat food into the communal feeding bowl before returning to my “customer”.

“Do you ever think it was easier when the girls were little?” he asked.

I thought for a moment.

“No, not really. It was just different and although we managed to get to bed earlier, I rarely had an uninterrupted night’s sleep.”

“Mmm... still, it would be nice, just once to get to bed before midnight.”

Whoever said life gets easier as your children get older?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/725502/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-multitasking

[RedMoon11]

Mindy is Getting Her Menagerie Ready for the Season at Hammond Towers

AS WINTER draws in for all of us, our columnist gets her menagerie ready for the season at Hammond Towers.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 6 November 2016


As winter draws in for all of us, our columnist gets her menagerie ready for the season    SUSAN HELLARD

Struggling pensioners often suffer in our British winters. Despite being part of the generation who reaches for vests and jumpers when it gets chilly, people can’t really be expected to watch TV in several woolly layers and an overcoat with a cat as a lap warmer. And if we’re to believe some of the long range forecasts, serious snowfall may be heading our way.

There are few of us over the age of 45 who escape the occasional ache or pain brought on by cold, damp weather and as the nights draw in and the temperature drops, we need to prepare.

If you have as many animals as we do, there are inevitably some getting on in years and whatever species they may be, their needs must be addressed well in advance. So this week winter preparations started in earnest.

Most of our ponies were all sorted, although there was a slight pony predicament. Dear old Megan, who is semi-retired, has been back with us since the summer, enjoying the freedom of her paddock and a field shelter to pop into when the mood takes her. However, this situation couldn’t continue, she needed a stable and although there was a spare one, it had been used as a hay store for the past few years.

Where oh where would Meggie go?

We wracked our brains until a light bulb pinged on and… tadaah! Storage was solved by a flat-pack mobile field shelter behind the stables. Within two days Megan will be in a lovely room of her own between Max and Musca.

The sheep are pretty much self-sufficient in cold weather, although ours move to a field with a big shelter in it (because they’re spoilt) and Zeus will go wherever he pleases, which is currently the Dingle shed where he enjoys playing with the rocking chair (don’t ask).

Indoors, the dog’s room is under refurbishment and a new heater is on order. I’ve also ordered myself a new mop and bucket.

Relieved to have everything under control, I was quite pleased with myself the other night as I sat with the girls watching TV.

Rucksack, our 20-year-old ginger tom, had just asked to be let out of the front door when, seconds later, I heard a blood-curdling yowl from outside. I dashed out and found him sprawled across the ground. I scooped him up and carefully laid him on a blanket in the sitting room.

We were all desperately worried about him as he seemed very disorientated and lay quietly for a long time. After staying with him for several hours, he seemed to regain his composure, if still a little wobbly. But the following few days showed further deterioration and yesterday I took him to the vet, very worried the end was nigh.

Sure enough, he had an irregular heartbeat, had an issue with his lungs and was presenting symptoms of either shock or anaemia. I waited nervously in the surgery for the result of blood tests. I wasn’t going to leave him, whatever happened.

To the vet’s great surprise his liver and kidneys were in perfect working order, in fact, most of the blood results were fine, except chronic anaemia. Having worried his collapse was due to a fall which caused an internal injury, we now think the collapse was due to anaemia.

Although there was a possibility of something more sinister somewhere, I declined the offer of further diagnostics as anaesthetic for a cat with a dodgy ticker wasn’t ideal. Instead, I asked if we could just treat the symptoms and not worry too much about the cause. The vet agreed, suggesting she treat Rucksack with a course of steroids.

“As long as you understand this isn’t a cure?”

“Oh I know. We just want to give him the best shot he can have. He’s been such a fit, happy, healthy cat until a couple of months ago. I know he’s a bag of bones at the moment but we can’t give up on him just because he’s old!”

So – Rucksack on steroids. Local fighting moggies beware – the Schwarzenegger of the feline world is about to be born, with more vim and vigour than ever before!

Rucksack is on super-high protein, super- calorie food, too, and it made me think of all those who struggle to keep warm and healthy in the winter. British Bake Off? Why? Where’s the competition for the tastiest, mass-produced superfoods for dispatch to our old folk. They don’t need cake; they need care.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/728290/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-winter-season

[RedMoon11]

Her Muscovy Duck's Fearsome Mothering instincts

AS TALONS fly and the squawking reaches fever pitch, our columnist’s Muscovy duck develops some fearsome mothering instincts...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 13 November 2016


Our columnist’s Muscovy duck develops some fearsome mothering instincts... HELLARD

Well, here we are in November and winter is starting to set in. Although the leaves have been falling like crazy and a few of our chickens expelled most of their feathers overnight, it turns out their big moult wasn’t in preparation for snow flurries. And after giving myself an aching back and spending a small fortune on extra bedding, I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered.

Perhaps making everyone snuggly was a daft move, particularly in the eyes of one of our lady ducks, who clearly believed spring was in the air and managed to hatch three ducklings in the last week of October! She obviously noticed I was collecting eggs the moment they were laid and hid her little clutch well.

Just as I was thinking that I’d escaped any increase in this year’s number, one sunny morning a couple of weeks ago I met the new arrivals. A cheeping sound attracting a crowd of hen-shaped well-wishers around one of the duck houses intrigued me and when I opened the nesting box, an incredibly protective grey and white duck hissed as she gathered a fluffy duckling under her wing.

My quickly formed plan of bringing Mummy and babies into a warmer environment under the heat lamp were quickly dashed. There’s pit bull blood running through that duck – she’s gone completely savage! After several lunges at my hand and arms, I admitted defeat and stuffed her house with hay and straw.

The little ones would need soaked chick crumbs to eat and water to drink but after watching and waiting all day, it was clear Mummy dearest wasn’t ready to take them out of doors, so I gingerly placed a bowl of duckling food inside the door.

The result was terrifying! Hannibal duck threw herself forwards, talons flying and beak snapping as she threw the food across her bedroom and squawked as only a Muscovy duck can. Her babes were alarmed, I was alarmed and the clucking hens who’d been eagerly awaiting a peek at the new arrivals went running for sanctuary.

Those poor ducklings! She didn’t spare a thought for their safety as she attacked, and cheeps of alarm came from behind her as they were knocked over and trodden on. But it’s incredible how tough those little balls of fluff can be, as I discovered later that day when I managed a peek to check everyone survived.

I soon resorted to throwing in handfuls of dampened feed and managed to sneakily slide a bowl of water through the door. But I worry that after a few weeks of exposure to their violent mother, we’ll find ourselves with a nasty gang of attack ducks. So I’ve put an enclosure around their house and cordoned off the area.

Unfortunately, the hens’ mothering instinct simply gets the better of them and every morning they come running from their houses straight to the maternity area, ignoring their breakfast and instead perching on the roof of the enclosure and straining their necks to see into Hannibal duck’s dark nest.

It only takes a few minutes before a great noise starts, hens flap off in all directions and a grey and white beak can be seen at her entrance making a horrible Hannibal Lecter noise as it vibrates to her wind-sucking.

I’m just thankful she only hatched three, and at least we needn’t worry about rats or crows trying to steal them – we’re more likely to find any predators beheaded and their heads pinned to the inside walls as trophies!

Having set up the “warm zone” for the new family, I was miffed it was yet another waste of time and space. Then I noticed four of our hens had copied their friends and ejected all their feathers; worse still, a ground frost had been predicted for a few nights in a row.

Now four of our baldy hens are reclining in the stable under the warm glow of a heat lamp. They may have worried they were being slow-roasted at first, but a few days on and they’re now beginning to enjoy their “spa” break. They have a dust bath, a hay bed and a splash pool, together with piles of food.

It’s the ultimate hen party!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/730495/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-mothering-instinct

[RedMoon11]

The Mercy of Delayed Transport

DURING her daughters’ half-term break, Mindy finds herself at the mercy of delayed transport. Who said travelling was glamorous?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:Sunday, 20 November 2016


Who said travelling was glamorous?

There I was, looking forward to an exotic holiday with Izzy at half term while her little sister enjoyed a week in Greece with their cousin, when Iz admitted she’d rather meet up with friends in London than spend a week with me in the sun.

After all, that would be boring! I suppose, compared to the company of other 16 year olds, she had a point, but I could have wept as I cancelled the hotel booking and waved farewell to a longed-for week off.

Never mind, at least half term meant time off from three hours of driving the school run every day, and perhaps a little lie in?

The day soon arrived for Willow’s departure and after a couple of false starts we met up with Daddy dearest in London. We’d originally planned to take the train to Kent where Willow’s aunt and uncle live, ready for their 3am start the following day. But as Richard’s brother was driving home from the city, he suggested we brought Willow to him and they drive back together.

We ordered a taxi. This was a bad idea.

It was 4.30pm (rush hour). By 6pm we still hadn’t crossed the Thames and our lady cab driver was trying every back street and shortcut she could think of, but to no avail. She was so upset she turned the meter off while apologising at our slow progress and squeezing through lanes of traffic.

Finally, we arranged to meet Uncle Nick at Canary Wharf at 7.30pm and left Willow chatting away to him in high excitement at their week in the sun.

After we waved them off, I turned to Richard:

“Why didn’t you say it was Canary Wharf?”

“Didn’t think. Why?”

“Erm, river taxi?”

“Oh yeah, oops.”

We wandered over to the nearest pier, hopped on to a boat and enjoyed a restful jaunt along the river, arriving back in west London in just 40 minutes without a single traffic jam.

My week didn’t work out quite as restfully as I’d hoped. The school run was replaced by other driving duties; the parties, the trips and the shopping excursions with Izzy left my feet aching, eyes weary from driving and purse empty.

At least she seemed to enjoy herself even though, like us, she missed her little sister. We all stayed in London the night before Willow returned to Gatwick so that Iz could come with me to greet her before a welcome home supper.

However, a couple of hours before we were due to catch the Gatwick Express a text pinged through from Uncle Nick: “Plane delayed a couple of hours. Been struck by lightning. We’ll keep you informed.”

The plane was then further delayed and at 5pm the bombshell was dropped: “Plane not taking off now until tomorrow.”

Oh no! Their new flight time meant landing at Gatwick at 8.30am the following day, but Izzy had to get home. I packed her off to the station, but she arrived to find her debit card wouldn’t work – it had been cloned and most of her money gone!

I’d given her extra cash so she just scraped together enough for a ticket and a cup of tea. But she’d missed her train, was jolted by a fellow passenger and spent an hour sipping a dribble of brown liquid while nursing a scalded hand.

Next morning, I was out the door by 6am, but on arrival at the station found my train cancelled! Two changes and half an hour late, I finally arrived at Gatwick South Terminal. They’d arrive at the North Terminal so I hopped on the shuttle, but their flight wasn’t displayed on the arrivals board.

Hmm… strange. I had a look on the internet. “diverted to Gatwick North” Eeek! I sprinted back to the shuttle, skidding to a halt at the right arrivals gate just as their flight landed, an expectant grin across my face – for almost an hour! (bags delayed). By the time the weary travellers emerged, they’d really had enough.

With minutes to spare, Willow and I ran to catch our prebooked train home and soon our little family was happily reunited.

Planes, trains, and automobiles... I’ll stick to my pony thanks.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/733259/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-delayed-transport

[RedMoon11]

Her Dog's Friendship With An Extremely Prickly Customer

UNUSUAL friendships can spring up and our columnist’s dog Boot has become best buddies with an extremely prickly customer...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 27 November 2016


Our columnist’s dog Boot has become best buddies with an extremely prickly customer

The nights are getting chillier and the creatures of the forest are quickly gathering their supplies and stuffing their furry faces to lay on extra pounds before the freezing cold weather strips their larders bare.

Our wild rabbit colony abandons its burrows in the dingle every night to forage through Chicken Woods and chomp through pounds of corn before hopping around the lawn in front of the house where the trees still protect patches of grass from frost.

Meanwhile, Boot’s favourite spiky friend had been making nocturnal calls to him, and several trips outdoors in my dressing gown over the past weeks to end these visits had become rather tiresome. Then after over a week of uninterrupted sleep, I assumed his little pal had finally decided it was time to hibernate.

A ridiculous amount of unusual-sounding barking at 4am changed my mind. “Oh, not again,” I moaned as I trudged off to investigate, expecting to find Boot barking away at his poor (and probably deaf by now) little friend.

But neither were to be seen anywhere.

“Boot. Boot?”, I called but no dog appeared from inside the big shed.

Eventually a smiling, slobbery face appeared. “What’s all the fuss about, big fella?” I asked.

He galumphed towards me with his tail wagging and I gave him a cuddle as I shone the torch around the yard.

There was nothing to be seen anywhere so I gave him a piece of cheese (his favourite snack) and went straight back to bed.

The next morning, as I was doing my chores before the school run, I could hear our giant hound barking again.

I assumed he was making himself heard to the tractor drivers in the neighbouring farmyard as they loaded potatoes. When I returned an hour and a half later, Boot was still barking.

I decided to investigate and found Charlie in the yard with some chaps who had arrived to collect a couple of motorbikes for servicing.

As he saw me approach, Charlie told me,

“I don’t know what’s going on with Boot in there – he’s been making that noise all morning.”

“Weird. I’ll go and have a look.”I turned on the torch on my phone and crept over to the arched doorway in his shed, “Boot? Boot, what are you up to?” I asked softly as I approached.

The second he heard me, he bounced out and sprang around, playing like an overgrown pup. He was so excited, he was fit to pop!

He gave me a very girlie high-pitched yap and glanced from me to the inside of his kennel. There was clearly something in there he wanted to share. I took a deep breath.

The inside of Boot’s house is not a place anyone would choose to visit. I squatted down and crawled in. Shining the torch on to his bed, I could see three half-eaten bones, a deflated netball, a half-chewed hockey ball and a shredded towel but, thankfully, nothing unusual until I turned the light towards his heater.

As Boot shoved his nose into my rear end, trying to get in with me, I managed to hold fast and couldn’t help but smile.

There, happily snuffling in the corner of his home, was his spiky friend. He’d obviously carried her indoors as there’s no way she could’ve climbed over the 10in-high lip of his door. She wasn’t remotely nervous.

In fact, she seemed perfectly content but Boot’s kennel wasn’t an appropriate home for her.

I gave Boot lots of praise and told him how clever he was as I fetched a scoop and a pair of gloves. Mrs Tiggywinkle didn’t even roll up as I carried her over to the hedgerow (well, she is quite used to being carried).

There were lots of fallen leaves and plenty of slugs about so I was sure she’d be happy.

I thought that was the last of our furry callers but last night, the dogs started up again. Investigating, I realised there was a fox barking at the front of the house. Weird.

The sound stopped and I went back to the kitchen to be greeted by a louder foxy yap.

I opened the back door and to my disbelief, there he was. A beautiful young chap, sitting right next to the shrubbery.

As he saw me, he disappeared into the hedge – closely followed by our enormous Maine Coon cat, Satchel.I guess it’s true what they say – family you can’t choose but friends...


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/735561/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-dog-friendship

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Health and safety measures

WE all moan about seemingly silly health and safety measures, but as our columnist learns this week, they are there for a reason…

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 4 December 2016


Health and safety measures are there for a reason, as Mindy finds out this week    SUSAN HELLARD

Statistics show that the vast majority of accidents happen in the home. Worse yet, almost one in three road traffic accidents happen within a mile of home (perhaps we should all be extra careful at the beginning and end of our journeys!).

Health and safety has become big business, even though it can be a bit of a joke at times. Remember the conker crisis of 2011 when a number of schools banned the game for fear of serious injury?

Despite this, at Izzy and Willow’s old school, the children continue to take the Herefordshire bull for a walk with a bit of baling twine through the ring in his nose (not necessarily at the same time as the school inspector’s visit).

Sadly, tree-climbing was eventually banned after a child suffered a rather nasty fracture.

The pupils were unanimously outraged, and from that day forward ensured their proud traditions of gate vaulting, stream paddling and hurtling down snow-covered slopes on empty feedbags were carefully concealed from any persons likely to wear a high-vis jacket or own a rule book.

Accidents happen, and even though every parent throughout the centuries may warn their child of the dangers of playing with anything from a baby dinosaur to a penknife, ultimately, we all learn from our own mistakes, whether we are young or old.

Every day, I seem to have a new bruise or scratch but I couldn’t really compete with Charlie (our man for all seasons) the other day.

He never complains but like many of us, Charlie suffers with a bad back and at times, the pair of us are discreetly putting a hand to the small of our backs as we’re talking or moving around the place slightly lopsided.

Well, if you work through it, eventually your muscles warm up and everything’s all right until you stop, then your back seizes again.

Charlie likes a challenge and so with the bit between his teeth, he decided to take the sheets of ply board down from their home, resting across a couple of ceiling beams in the barn. He had a plan for that ply – to make a floor under the hay store and once an idea gets into his head he won’t rest till it’s done.

So with his trusty tractor parked alongside he began the tricky business of manoeuvring the 6ft by 4ft enemy.

Moments later, there was a bit of a kerfuffle and a slightly ashen man limped from the scene. One of the sheets had slipped and hit the top of his foot. But surely, he was wearing his steel toecapped work boots?

Aah, no. There were said boots, abandoned beside the wood store completely devoid of any foot, sneering as Charlie tried to impersonate a man whose welly-clad feet were pain-free.

I said nothing for a while. It hadn’t been the best of days; we’d lost a sheep that morning and although we all know they’re very good at dying for no apparent reason, this was one of our homebred lambs and we were both very upset to lose one so young.

An hour or so later, I decided to broach the subject of the limp. “How’s your foot?”

“Oh, it’s fine.”

“Have you looked at it?”

“No. But it’s fine.”

“Hmm, I think you should go home.

In fact as head of health and safety, I’m telling you to go home. If I see you still here in half an hour, there’ll be trouble.”

Thankfully, Charlie did go home and as there was rain in the air, I decided to get the horses in a little bit early.

I was just doing a final sweep of the yard when Sparrow flushed a pheasant from the side of the stables.

The bird flew up, hitting its head on the guttering above the stable door. While he flapped with panic, Sparrow sprang after her prey; leaping backwards to seize him in the air and using my feet as springboards and wellies as stilts!

“Oohh! Sparrow!!”

I hobbled back to the house, scraped and sore.

Yesterday I ordered Charlie’s Christmas present – steel toecapped wellies.

While I was at it, I ordered a pair for me too, and a sign that reads, “Protective footwear must be worn at all times.”

You’re never too old to learn, but we’re both too young to go lame!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/738332/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-health-safety-measures

[RedMoon11]

A Hi-tech Christmas

WITH even the tiniest tots showing off their high-tech wizardry, our columnist wonders if technology could be taking over Christmas.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Dec 11, 2016


Our columnist wonders if technology could be taking over Christmas          HELLARD

Unless you’ve been stuck in the depths of the Amazonian rainforest or trekking to the North Pole, you can’t fail to notice Christmas is almost upon us. TV advertising has been so crazy, it feels as though it’s been imminent for months already.

We’ve had a bouncing boxer dog, a very busy Mrs Christmas and some serious breakdancing to name just a few of the ads urging us to spend our hard-earned cash, yet the ones that confuse our kids the most are those proclaiming the fabulous “hits of the 50s”, “Elvis Presley’s greatest hits” or “Michael Bublé’s best”.

“Why do they make these? I mean seriously, who buys CDs?” they ask.

“Lots of people,” I tell them. “Not everyone in the world is as internet-savvy as you are.”

“Yes they are. Everyone we know downloads stuff… even you don’t buy CDs any more.”

Even me? That hurt. Although I can’t deny the CD Richard bought me last year has never been opened, mostly because the times when I actually have the chance to listen to music are when the girls are in the car, so naturally we listen to their stuff, downloaded on to their phones and bluetoothed to the car stereo.

Occasionally, they even play an “oldie” from the Noughties!

Then I realised, it’s no wonder we all struggle at Christmas when everyone’s busy downloading their favourite music and movies the minute they’re released. It’s all very well advertising to us, but for all we know Aunt Maud has already downloaded every episode of Downton Abbey and watched it twice.

As for the latest Robbie Williams album? We’ll know every track by heart before anything disc-like has a chance of being tied up with a bow by an industrious elf!

There is always the cookery book, although I must admit, I’ve donated most of mine to charity shops after realising there were only a handful of recipes I ever used in any of them. I tend to search the internet for inspiration and as much as I love a full bookshelf, an overspilling one is not a thing of beauty.

Even tonight, when Izzy came running down into the cellar in a panic because I’d put her games kit in the wash (not realising she’d left her necklace and bracelet in the pocket), I didn’t look for the instruction manual to work out how to unlock the door mid cycle, I went straight to the internet.

Are we being taken over do you think? What will the homes of our grandchildren be like in years to come? Will books be stored in ancient glass-encased shelves in a strange building known as “the library”, occasionally visited by small groups of school children on one of their rare outings – away from their “alternative reality” headset, normally in classroom mode for four hours a day?

Will cars all drive themselves and the shopping be ordered by a voice in a tube who opens and closes the curtains, sets the temperature control in the house and stores your every thought?

My great granny was terrified by the first electric iron, so perhaps it’s no surprise the thought of an electronically controlled world scares the hell out of some of us. When I moaned to the girls that my iPhone never comes with any instructions they laughed.

“You don’t need instructions – it’s obvious how they work.”

“Well, to you perhaps, but I suppose your generation learns by experimenting, whereas we were always worried we’d press the wrong button and mess the thing up so it would never work again.”

“But that won’t happen – haven’t you noticed, even toddlers know how to use mobile phones; it’s just automatic.”

They’re right. That’s why we all have to ask the kids to set up new electronics.

At least I know what to give the babies and toddlers we know this Christmas – all those high-tech gadgets we found so difficult to unwrap last year we didn’t even attempt the challenge of making them work.

Hand them to a group of toddlers and I’m sure there will be drones dropping rusks from overhead within moments, nursery rhymes blaring in every room and Peppa Pig magically streamed on to anything with a screen for the whole of Christmas and not a single parent able to stop the chaos.

Note to Santa: any little ones visiting us get a cuddly toy please.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/741182/The-Grand-Tour-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-columnChristmas-technology

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Her big Christmas present

THE girls may be struggling to come up with Christmas gift ideas, but our columnist has her “big” present well and truly covered.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Dec 18, 2016


Our columnist has her “big” present well and truly covered                                      SUSAN HELLARD

The countdown is on. Rudolph is getting his super-strength vitamins and extra oats (and probably doing several hours a day on the treadmill for good measure) before the sound of that jingling harness wakes him on Christmas Eve.

Extra carrots will be waiting for his breather at Bollitree, together with a pile of the sweetest hay and, of course, a mince pie and a glass of something for the big man himself.

If, like me, you weren’t quite organised enough to buy all your Christmas presents on Black Friday, you too will be feeling panic rising.

Persuading our two girls to write their Christmas lists became an absolute nightmare. You’d think they’d be thrilled – after all, I can’t remember even being given the option of making a list when I was a child.

We would drop very big hints about what we’d really, desperately like, then spend weeks wondering whether our wishes would come true. Our girls are looking forward to seeing friends and family, but they’re more interested in having fun than receiving presents, which is kind of heartwarming in these days of materialism.

Of course, it’s not as though they need very much – they each have a TV, phone and some cool trainers, so I suppose they have everything a teenage girl could want. One day, Willow announced that she’d rather like a donkey foal to appear under the tree on December 25.

“Aww, can you imagine Rosie with a baby?” she said. “Oh, she’d love it!”

I thought for a moment. Not only was it a really inappropriate Christmas present, there were also some timing issues for poor Rosie!

“Come on, Wills,” I said. “You really need to give me a few serious clues for presents or you’ll be getting a bag of nuts and an orange.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” Then she asked me where my list was: “You know Daddy will need help.”

That’s easy, I said: slippers, a hairdryer and a pair of warm, waterproof, mucking-out gloves.

She seemed incredulous that there wasn’t a “big” present in there.

“Don’t worry about that,” I assured her.

“It’s all covered.”

Her eyes lit up. “Really? What is it?”

I told her she’d have to wait and see.

A few days later, I finally received the call I’d been waiting for from my lovely contact, Bob.

“Well, it’s ready – stripes and all,” he said. I was so excited. Having decided against a horse lorry as my 50th birthday present, its replacement had taken 18 months to arrive and I could have burst.

The next week, an enormous lorry pulled up in the lane. The sound of my new baby could be heard grumbling down the ramp and then, bathed in bright December sunshine, her striped snub nose peered through the front gates.

My car was here. And it was really, truly and absolutely mine.

I fell in love so long ago and although there were many suggested alternatives, I held fast. If I were to have my own, personal vehicle it needed to have four seats, otherwise it simply wouldn’t be practical. But it also had to be special.

I’d given Bob instructions on exactly how the stripes should look and, as she drove towards me, I very nearly shed a tear. He’d done a great job. Obviously, as a horse-loving girl, a horsey car is a given, and the most perfect, gorgeous and wonderful car parked in pride of place outside the front door was my new Ford Mustang convertible, white with black Shelby stripes.

The acid test would be the girls, so I took my new baby on her first outing – the school run.

I waited with bated breath outside frosty school gates. The girls sauntered out and looked around, then saw me waving and their eyes popped and jaws dropped. The car was unanimously proclaimed cool and I knew Izzy, Willow, “Hossy” and I were destined to enjoy many fun road trips together.

The timing of Hossy’s arrival is perfect: she’s birthday and Christmas all in one. I couldn’t want for more and every time I look at her, I’m so grateful to Richard. Yet I have one nagging thought.

We all know Rudolph is a speed freak, so I hope he doesn’t get any joy-riding ideas while Santa’s sipping his brandy.

I must remember to check for bits of carrot in the footwell on Christmas morning.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/743381/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-Christmas-present

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Two wonderful New Year surprises

MUM'S the word in Herefordshire as two of our columnist’s friends reveal they are expecting their own New Year surprise.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Tuesday, 3 January 2017 


Mum’s the word in Herefordshire as two of our columnist’s friends reveal they are expecting    HELLARD

Yesterday, I was admiring all our precious Christmas decorations on the tree and couldn’t help but smile at two very special items: Izzy’s pink baby boot and Willow’s old dummy. I was taken back to years gone by when their excitement was so extreme on Christmas Eve it was almost impossible to get them to sleep.

We would hear them giggling and squealing in their bedroom and I would inevitably be woken in the middle of the night by a tug on my arm and a little bleary-eyed child moaning, “Mummy I can’t sleep.”

Well, he won’t come unless you do, I’d tell them, and I’d end up in the bedroom singing or reading in hushed tones until their eyelids finally gave way.

Such wonderful days rush back and fill your heart with the warmest glow; the irreplaceable smell of your children when they’re all bathed and dressed in their romper suits, snuggly and warm from bed.

When those little arms hug you tight and a sloppy kiss is planted on your face, there really is nothing to compare to the wash of love that takes over your entire being.

This Christmas has been one of the most wonderful in our little circle. You see, there’s one among us who had all but given up on her lifelong dream of becoming a mother. After a marriage which had both started and ended with no possibility of children, the years were ticking past very quickly as she embarked on a new relationship.

She was finally happy and feeling truly secure when the question of children came up, but after consulting with doctors it transpired that the complicated health problems of her past had left her with only a 30 per cent chance of conceiving.

Desperate to see if there was any chance of her dreams being realised, she shared her secret with me. It was the very best- kept secret for so very long. Neither of us dared to believe success could be on the cards.

So I am absolutely overjoyed to tell you the lovely Mel is a very happy, healthy and very pregnant lady, with her bundle of joy expected at the end of March. We couldn’t be happier for her and the whole family as we all count down the days.

Mel was off for her 20-week scan just a few weeks back and I was catching up with Bev, who helps us exercise the horses. We chatted about how wonderful we found the news, when she paused, leaning on the wall of the tack room.

“I’m so glad I’ve seen you today,” she said. “You’ve been so busy lately we haven’t caught up for ages and there’s something I need to tell you.”

I was worried. Bev looked serious.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh my gosh – congratulations.”

Then she lifted up her coat, and to my amazement, she was really pregnant. It turned out that she and her husband had been trying for a while and the baby is due in the first week of February.

I hadn’t noticed a thing but was worried in case she shouldn’t really be riding at this stage in the pregnancy. But she was certain she’d only take two weeks off as she did with her two boys. “Your horses are fine,” she reassured me. “But I’ve given up riding anything tricky.”

I could still hardly believe she was pregnant, because with her jacket on she didn’t show at all. So why didn’t she say anything?

Bev smiled. “I would have done but when Mel said she was pregnant, and knowing all her problems, I didn’t want to until we knew everything was OK for her. You know, just in case…” She trailed off.

I couldn’t believe how thoughtful she’d been, keeping her own excitement a secret.

When I told Richard the news he was happily surprised and then laughed.

“Blimey, what are you running there, Bollitree Baby farm?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” I retorted. Then the realisation dawned: “I’d better get knitting.”

“No, don’t. You’ll frighten them into early labour with your weird-shaped monstrosities!”

Well, you know what they say, new year, new baby (although probably not new baby cardy knitted by Mindy). Isn’t that just how this season should be? Filled with love, magic, special gifts and wonderful surprises, and what could be more wonderful than the gift of a child?

So to the lovely Mel, Bev and all those other ladies whose extending waistlines are harbouring a little person, may I wish an especially Happy New Year, and many, many fabulous Christmases to come.

Thank you for sharing life in our busy little corner of Herefordshire. I hope 2017 proves to be better than you imagined possible, and your one special wish comes true, too.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/749537/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-New-Year-surprise 

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Why she sticks with her old hall carpet

DOG proof and mud proof, the old hall carpet has a place in our columnist’s heart – but Richard wants a new one...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, January 8, 2017


Dog proof and mud proof, the old hall carpet has a place in our columnist’s heart       SUSAN HELLARD

Well, that’s that for another year. Tinsel and trees are all away and everyone is steadily returning their houses back to normal and hoping the last of the pine needles will be gone by March.

The mud season traditionally follows Christmas, so when Richard wandered through the door in his wellies clagged with the brown stuff and asked: “When are we going to get a new hall carpet?”

I nearly threw the Hoover at him.

“Erm, have you looked at your feet?” As the words came out of my mouth, five sets of muddy paws came hurtling across the threshold behind him together with four-and-a-half wagging mud-soaked tails (poor Captain only has a stump) and as I laughed, Richard was thrown into confused despair: “Oh, no. Hang on, I’ll…”

He was hopping on one leg as he tried to remove his wellies and save the carpet, then realised he’d left the door open and welcomed far worse doggy damage: “Oh, erm. Ah…” He looked rather guilty as he surveyed the mess.

I sighed: “Don’t worry, it’ll all wipe clean but I think these guys need to go to their room to dry off before they leap on a sofa.”

Shamefaced, he escorted the tribe to their beds, but when he reappeared in the kitchen he looked confused.

“OK, so I understand putting them there to dry off, but they’re just going to be covered in dry mud.”

I dried my hands on the tea towel: “Oh, Richard Hammond, how little you know me.

Come on.”I led the way to the side of the house and the window which looks into the “dog room” (it’s like a cross between a porch and a conservatory).

“Shhh, don’t let them know we’re here,” I whispered to a very puzzled husband.

As we peered in, Richard was astounded to witness the post-walk antics of our strange pack of hounds.

You see, in wet weather each is allocated their own special bath towel for drying purposes, although they’re not very particular about the method used;

Blea digs at hers and shakes it about, Captain rolls on his, Dimple races around with hers in her mouth, treading on it regularly and somersaulting, Sparrow carries hers in her jaws and waits until someone plays “tug of war” and TG just flops on to hers and falls asleep.

“Surely they’re just vandalising and you’re teaching them to destroy stuff?” Richard asked.

“No, you wait. Give it 10 minutes and you’ll see clean, dry dogs and wet muddy towels which I can throw in the wash. They’re so tired after all their messing about they eventually lie down on their bath sheets and dry their tummies and legs to perfection.”

“Well, if you’re so organised and you always put them in there to dry off I’d like to return to my original question – when are we getting a new hall carpet?”

That backfired a bit. How do you explain the value of a decades-old carpet? Yes, it is threadbare in places and for years I’ve been making the excuse that we shouldn’t change it until all building work has been done in the house.

But the real reason for it remaining is quite simple. Despite being old and slightly the wrong shade of green, it was originally expensive stuff and it doesn’t ever stain or move.

Even when the dogs run through the house with muddy paws, followed by the girls in muddy wellies, all I have to do is wait until the mud is dry and whoosh over with the Hoover. Hey presto, it’s all gone and the carpet looks like new. I’ll never find anything like it. Cat hair doesn’t stick to it, pine needles come free – it’s the ultimate in carpet, and more than that, the same stuff covers three flights of stairs and three landings. Can you imagine the price of replacing that lot?

I smiled at my dear husband, and gave him the same reply as last year: “Well, I’ll tell you what, once the mud season is over we’ll address it, but there’s no point doing it now. Let’s wait until then.”

“OK. But we will, won’t we?”

(Mindy translation – “we” means “you.” )

“Of course.”

Richard disappeared to make a cup of tea and I smiled to myself.

Every year we pack away the Christmas things and every year we have the hall carpet conversation.

One day, I suppose, I really will have to change it, but not until the family learns a few towel tricks from the dogs.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/750442/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-old-hall-carpet

[RedMoon11]

Helping those in need

AMID the clamour of bagging a sales bargain, our columnist wonders whether our money would be better spent helping the needy.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Jan 15, 2017


                                                                                               SUSAN HELLARD

Act in haste, repent at leisure, isn’t that how the saying goes? How many of us are guilty of that particular failing, especially when caught up in the excitement of the January sales?

The jeans which look exactly the same as the overpriced ones you fell in love with in December have been reduced by 75 per cent – but there’s a bun fight to grab them and a huge queue for the changing rooms.

As you’re exhausted and the traffic is building with no time to lose, what do you do? Rush to the till with them under your arm and hurry home with your bargain of the century.

It’s only when pulling them on in the privacy of the bedroom that you realise the bargain of the century was a bit of a red herring and there’s a reason for the incredible discount – they were faulty: they’re a strange shape, the zip doesn’t work or there’s an indelible stain on them.

Worse yet, inevitably when you forage in your purse for the receipt, it states in bold print “no returns/refunds on sale items”, which means unless you can remodel your marvellous bargain into something wearable, you’ve just paid a lot of money for landfill.

Why do we do it to ourselves? Although I have to admit that some of us have learnt not to be suckered in over the years. With age comes wisdom and the smart money is kept in the bank account until the exact desired item can be verified, inspected and declared “fit for purpose” before any purchase is made.

A small saving on something you genuinely want or need is far better than a monster saving on the wrong model of washing machine which, as it turns out, has been discontinued because the drawer will leak within a few weeks – yes, I’ve done that, too.

Or there’s the “cream” coffee table which looks identical to the one that was out of stock a few months ago, but it’s only when it arrives that you realise you didn’t notice the “choose colour” box, which defaulted to black, instead of the one shown in the picture.

They’re sneaky, some of these people, and as consumers we should all remember those two little words, “Buyer beware!”

Yet it’s not all doom and gloom, because once the lesson has finally (if rather expensively) been taught and impulse buying become a thing of the past, it’s very satisfying to walk past the “bargains” and shake your head at all those poor souls who are still in the grip of the evil till temptress.

Run away, head for home and have a cuppa while you count all the spare change you’ve saved instead of feeling depressed over that pair of cashmere socks. They weren’t 100 per cent cashmere, they were a polyester blend in the wrong box.

Obviously, bagging a bargain makes us feel good, so there’s an understandable reason for chasing the discounts, but as we’re into a new year why not keep up the Christmas tradition of “goodwill to all men” and instead of spending money on things we don’t need, send the cash to those for whom a few pounds may mean the difference between life and death?

If the desire to feel good about yourself is so keen, surely the best way to satisfy it would be to save a life?

I know we’re all bombarded by advertising for good causes, and sadly, some of the charities have made dreadful mistakes in their tenacity to fill the coffers, but for the victims the problems remain.

We shouldn’t be put off – you can always give anonymously, or donate clothing, give to the charity shop instead of selling on eBay. Do you honestly, desperately need £20 for an old chair?

Yet UNICEF, among many, will be so grateful for anything you can give – £25 will provide a measles vaccine for 50 children; £13 a polio vaccine for 100; £39 buys a tetanus vaccine for 1,000 and every vaccine administered is potentially saving a life. We are so caught up in having the latest “thing”, while others have nothing.

The greatest bargain in this year’s sales is a life. Let’s all buy one.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/752868/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-help-needy

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Losing a four-legged friend

IT'S A sad day as Mindy says goodbye to a four-legged friend and recalls how she was by Richard’s bedside after his horrific car crash.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 22 January 2017


It’s a sad day as Mindy says goodbye to a four-legged friend                              HELLARD

This is a gap that can never be filled; a woolly bear whose hugs can never be replaced. Our darling TG is with us no more.

She was the naughtiest, fluffiest pup, who took months to house-train and chewed through all four legs of the kitchen table along with all six chairs. She wouldn’t walk on the lead; she simply bounced with that irrepressible smile plastered all over her face. Never did a dog embrace life as she did.

The moment she arrived in the house, she made a beeline for the girls and instantly adored them. It was as though she walked in, saw them and decided they were her responsibility.

She watched them grow and was always there whenever they needed a hug or a friend to confide in. TG adored every living creature who shared her life and mothered everything from kittens to lambs. Every new arrival had an instant friend and the cats would all rub round her and snuggle up with her to sleep.

After Richard had his accident, TG was with him when he was recovering, always desperate to lie next to his bed, her tail wagging incessantly and often waking him while he was trying to sleep. She couldn’t help herself – her joy at being reunited had to be demonstrated.

Tidgers had always been car sick (ironic as she was the Top Gear dog) and on days when she was needed in the studio, I would drive her the three to four hours from home while she sat in the passenger seat and drooled on my lap.

Yet she was such an amazing, devoted girl, she quickly learned hand signals to sit and lie down when she saw a camera, knew she was “at work” and would readily do whatever was asked of her, even sitting in a wind tunnel wearing goggles and a flying helmet.

But TG’s favourite place in the world was home, in the early days running through the fields chasing rabbits and playing with Crusoe the collie, Captain the Jack Russell and Pablo the chocolate poodle.

Pablo left us many years ago and when TG developed spondylosis, we had to curtail some of her activities a little bit, but it wasn’t easy. She’d often whizz through my legs and dash out across the lawn with her friends, ignoring my pleas for her to come back.

As Crusoe grew older, she and TG were happy to trot shoulder to shoulder like a couple of devoted old spinsters catching up on their news on a stroll about the grounds, yet before a paw was placed outside the dog room door there was always the traditional Captain versus TG scrabble. Captain had been her playmate when she was a pup and invented a game of “grab the leg in the doorway”, which TG always lost when she was little.

But as she grew, she realised she could grab him on the back of the neck, a signal to play, and it was like winding up the best toy.

This morning, TG came out with Blea and Captain for a quick wander in the dark before taking up her standard position on the sofa. When I returned from the school run, there she was, waiting as usual by the front door.

She followed me to the kitchen and she waited while I sorted the ponies, then gave her the first batch of medication before she went back to her sleeping position. At lunchtime, she came for her solo stroll, and I noticed she was holding her head low and a bit to the side.

She was more lame on her front leg as I walked towards her and although she was smiling and her tail was wagging as usual, I was worried.

“Oooh Tidge,” I said, “are you a bit sore today my darling?” and gave her the next course of meds when we were back in the kitchen.

When I came back from picking up the girls, there she was as usual at the front door, but tonight she grabbed my sleeve in her mouth and stuck with me like she does when I’ve been away.

She led me to the kitchen and I made a fuss of her, then the evening went on as usual until bedtime. I opened my book, scratched TG on the head and she settled into her basket beside my bed.

But moments later, she was up and pacing, I leapt out of bed and tried to comfort her as she howled in pain. She was sick, she had a sort of seizure and collapsed in my arms. The tail that never, ever stopped wagging, even when she was in pain, lay limp and lifeless, and I knew, to my absolute devastation, that this was the end.

I woke the girls and we called the vet while we sat with our most beloved, gorgeous, woolly bear. Hugged her, kissed her, told her how much we loved her and cried our hearts out. She would always tremble at the sight of the vet, but tonight she was calm, her pain and exhaustion too great.

I have owned many dogs and loved them all, but none have I ever loved like TG.

She was my shadow; she’d whine if I was in a room with the door closed to her (even the loo!), would look me in the eye and always make me smile, she was a clown who could make me laugh out loud, a snuggler who’d never let me sit alone on the sofa, and in latter days the dog whose snoring often forced Richard and I to sleep in separate rooms.

At 1.15am today, I kissed that woolly head for the last time and told her how much I loved her.

We had to say goodbye, we both knew it was time, yet I can’t help feeling completely heartbroken.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/756166/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-losing-family-dog

jamesmayboard.proboards.com/thread/4414/tg-passed-away

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond's Column on Three Minor Incidents

MISLAID glasses, a crocked keyboard and a seriously broken nail – our columnist gets to grips with writing this week’s column...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Jan 29, 2017


Our columnist gets to grips with writing this week’s column                      HELLARD

Catastrophes come in all shapes and sizes – and quite often in threes. You don’t necessarily realise the implications of minor incidents at the time they happen – then there’s a sort of steamroller effect.

For me, it all started one Friday morning a few weeks ago. I woke a little bleary-eyed after a very good dinner party the previous evening, took longer than usual to complete the morning chores and then settled down in front of the laptop to attack my mailbox. Reaching for my glasses to bring the print into focus, I suddenly realised they weren’t where they should be.

Further searching was fruitless, then my memory recalled putting my glasses case into my handbag the night before. But why would I think glasses were necessary for dinner? I’m not so bad in the vision department that I can’t see what’s on my plate before pronging it with a fork.

Thankfully, I always make sure to order two pairs at a time from the opticians, so broke out the spares and sent a hasty email to my host from the night before, explaining the missing goggles must’ve fallen out of my bag.

They were easy to spot in their shocking-pink case, so hopefully he’d find them. There was, however, a rather large fly in the ointment in the shape of three Labradors who were also at the dinner party, together with a very attentive pug. One thing we all know about glasses is their attraction to our canine friends, and nobody could be blamed for potentially chewing the tasty articles (apart from the idiotic guest who left far too tempting dog bait on the dining room floor – that’ll be me!).

No matter, the spares would save the day. And so they did. With slightly uncomfortable dents appearing in my nose, I set to work. Although I couldn’t help but notice a strange anomaly in my word craft. Looking at what was appearing on my screen, I was reminded of a sketch on The Two Ronnies where one letter had been substituted for another, and the resulting script was hilarious. But in my world, there was no substitution, simply a complete disappearance of the letter “a”! How? It had worked perfectly the day before.

I discovered some seriously hard punching with my digit would eventually force the “a” into life, but it made the process of working very laborious.

We were off to a party the following night and friends (to whom we were giving a lift) began to arrive slightly earlier than expected, which was lovely, although put me into a slight tailspin – I hadn’t put the rear seats up in the car and we needed to accommodate too many people to squeeze into the standard configuration. So with a sense of building urgency, I dashed outdoors to clear the crisp packets from the back seats and haul the back row up from the floor.

It was dark and I’d forgotten where the lever was to make everything pop up. While scrabbling and fumbling around the carpet, I finally found what I thought was the lever, but my hand slipped and… crack! Ooh, the pain.

The soreness, the blood. No, I didn’t lose a finger, and yes, it does sound pathetic, but the next time I hear anyone complain they’ve broken a nail, I won’t scoff. I broke a nail, but I managed to break it halfway down the pink bit – all the way across – and it hurt so much it made me feel rather queasy. No matter, with a pack of plasters and some antiseptic it was held together, and still is (sort of), although I won’t be winning any prizes for nursing skills or taking up a job as a hand model any time soon.

The very worst outcome of my various mini catastrophes has been their convergence this morning. This column has taken me an absolute age – have you counted the number of “a”s in this thing? My be-plastered middle digit is too sore to tap and my spare glasses have gone AWOL. What a morning.

So, belated New Year’s resolutions for Mindy go as follows:

1. Visit the opticians and order three pairs of glasses.

2. Replace yet another laptop.

3. Wear protective clothing when assembling car seats.

4. Comb the paddocks for a four leaf clover and hope the luck sticks.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/759076/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-minor-incidents

[RedMoon11]

Burns Night

WITH a natty line in tartan leggings, haggis and poetry, our columnist was waxing lyrical about Burns Night – albeit a tad late...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 5 February 2017


Our columnist was waxing lyrical about Burns Night                                          HELLARD

It’s not quite the right date, I know, and if you’re a Scot you may be appalled. But sometimes logistics get the better of us, so in the Hammond household, Burns Night will be celebrated today, and for the first time in history I’m cooking haggis.

If I’m completely honest, I’m not entirely sure how the experience will go down with the girls – although they’re always willing to try anything new, the inevitable cross-examination started the moment I suggested honouring Robert Burns.

“So what do we do?” Willow asked.

“Well, we eat haggis and neeps and tatties, we have to say a special toast and celebrate Rabbie Burns’ life.”

“But we’re not Scottish,” Izzy commented.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean we can’t join in, and don’t you think it’s rather nice that so many people do the same thing?”

Willow pulled a face and said, “But it’s a bit weird. What is haggis anyway… or that other stuff?”

I took a deep breath and considered my answer: “Haggis is just lamb really, and neeps are turnips, tatties are potatoes, so it’s just a different kind of roast.”

Unfortunately, as I was talking, Izzy was googling away on her laptop.

“Eeewwww! Wills, it’s made in a sheep’s stomach – look.”

“I am not eating that.”

“Oh there are other ways of preparing it.

Don’t worry.”

“But it’s made of lungs!” Izzy groaned.

“Why would you eat lungs?”

“Well, actually it’s meant to be the liver, lungs and heart of a sheep. You have to remember it’s an incredibly old recipe and people ate every bit of meat they could find on an animal in those days – nothing was wasted. But there’s seasoning and onions and things in it too.”

Willow turned a shade paler. “Yeah, well I’d prefer to give it a miss. Can I have pizza?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. I found a company that makes a different version.

It’s made with the kind of meat you like and won’t make your stomach churn, I promise.”

“With a pizza on the side?”

“No, but there will be shortbread on the side.”

Izzy rolled her eyes and said, “That makes everyone feel so much better!”

Maybe not, but the truth is it’s sure to be a fun night (although unfortunately we don’t have a bagpipe player). I’ve sorted all the tartan in the house into outfits for everyone including Daddy dearest, and even the dogs have Hebridean collars so they can feel part of everything.

As Scotch is one of Richard’s favourite tipples I’ve found the most incredible bottle – aged 24 years to mark the occasion. It’s absolutely delicious. (Well, you have to test it, don’t you?)

I know the girls will join in and eat haggis. Because for our Burns Night, we’re having it as a starter, so they need only have a mouthful, and I’ll make a tasty sauce with it, followed by beef and finished off with a traditional – and rather boozy – sherry trifle. Of course, the food isn’t the only prerequisite to a successful Burns Night – after all, the whole point of it is to celebrate the works of the bard himself.

The girls will groan, but I’ve printed off several poems and songs for us to perform, and extra points will be awarded for the best Scottish accent and dramatic performance (I’ve assembled a table of props for their use).

Meanwhile, I know the job of making the speech on the life of Rabbie Burns is going to fall to me. So while Izzy has been locked in her room revising for mock GCSEs, I’ve been studying hard, too, although the accent needs some serious work, and no prizes for guessing what I’ll be reciting.

It’s The Twa Dogs (obviously), which tells the tale of Burns’ own collie Luath meeting up with the well-bred foreign dog Caesar, which sounds as though it may have been a Newfoundland, and the great friendship the two dogs shared despite being at opposite ends of the pedigree list.

While rehearsing out loud during the mucking out, I found myself telling the tale to the dogs. They weren’t terribly impressed, although Sparrow the black Lab brought me a feed scoop as a sort of consolation prize (or maybe she was hinting I should eat something and stop talking).

I hope your Burns Night has been fabulous. Wish me luck on mine – let’s hope the haggis doesn’t explode and ruin my tartan leggings!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/761795/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-Burns-Night

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond's column on a special Valentine's Day

LOVE may make the world go around but what if you don’t have a hot date? Our columnist recalls a February 14th with a difference...

By MINDY HAMMOND
Sunday, February 12, 2017


OUR columnist recalls a February 14th with a difference...

Love may make the world go around but what if you don’t have a hot date?

The inevitable Valentine’s Day has come around again. How are you feeling? Perhaps you’re so confident in your beloved’s habits you already have the vase washed and placed at the front of the cupboard ready for a dozen long-stemmed roses? Or maybe you’ve carefully managed the weeks’ grocery shopping to exclude supper on Tuesday night, safe in the knowledge your sweetheart has booked your favourite restaurant?

If you fall into one of those categories I envy you slightly, for alongside many others I have absolutely no idea what February 14th will bring. Often, my dear husband is abroad, or (perhaps slightly worse) he completely forgets what day it is – at least that’s his excuse!

Occasionally, we’ve had that old chestnut about Valentine’s Day just being a commercial enterprise: “It doesn’t mean anything. I don’t want to buy you flowers because somebody says I must on one particular day, I’d rather buy you flowers on a random day of the year – surely that would mean far more?”

A good argument – if he’d ever bought me flowers “randomly” in his entire life.

Although these days Valentine’s Day is big business for florists, confectioners, greeting card manufacturers etc, Valentine’s messages were sent as early as the Middle Ages, and although chocolate didn’t come to Europe before the 1700s, anyone could pick a bunch of wild flowers even in the Middle Ages and present the apple of their eye with a scented nosegay.

I suppose we all secretly hope somebody will think of us on February 14th, whether we pretend it doesn’t matter or not. Remember that good-looking classmate at school who received more than their fair share of attention on this particular day? Some of us (me included) would congratulate them and “ooh” and “ah” over notes and cards from their admirers and perhaps pretend we’d had a couple ourselves – but we missed the postman that morning.

One of the sadder consequences of this particular festival has to be the depressing effect it inevitably has on those who are newly single. Whether a relationship has ended or they have lost a loved one, there really is nowhere to hide from images of romantic love and swooning couples. Turn on the TV and there’s a love story, go to the cinema and it’ll be full of snuggling couples.

Forget eating out because the restaurants will be full. Perhaps you suggest celebrating being single to a friend instead? Pre-record a truly hilarious film, share an enormous takeaway followed by a catering-size tub of ice cream, and wash it all down with a couple of bottles of seriously nice plonk.

If you’re genuinely at your wits’ end, why not do what I did one Valentine’s Day when feeling totally alone and devoid of romance? I was living alone in my London flat with a border collie and a white German shepherd when I declared February 14th an impromptu decorating day.

I left work early, bought paint on the way home from the local DIY superstore, picked a bunch of daffs from my garden on the way back from walkies with the dogs and broke out the masking tape. As it turns out, you really can decorate a bathroom in one night.

You’ll be amazed how quickly time flies when you have a talking book or some uplifting tunes playing in the background. Better still, you go to bed dog tired and sleep like a brick, then wake to a wonderfully spruced-up new room.

Not only have you occupied yourself through the horror of a lonely Valentine’s Day, you’ve actually achieved something.

After the job was done I placed my daffsin a glass on my windowsill and felt I truly deserved them (I think the dogs agreed).

When friends asked what I had done that evening I evaded questions about my “date” by telling them it was a secret.

I confessed to my close friends soon afterwards, but as for my workmates? Well, to this day none of them would’ve guessed my date was a paintbrush and roller set and the venue – my own bathroom.

So if you have nobody to love, why not love yourself – you know you deserve it. Happy Valentine’s Day.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/765276/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-special-Valentines-Day

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Valentine's Day in Hammond Towers

BLEA was looking her foxy best and dashing Heathcliff had come wooing – but was it a love match made in heaven?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 19 February 2017


We’re all full of chocolate and our homes are festooned with wilting blooms since Valentine’s Day'

Ah we’re all full of chocolate and our homes are festooned with wilting blooms since Valentine’s Day – unless, like me, it didn’t quite pan out the way you hoped and there’s a small pot of snowdrops on the kitchen windowsill and half a Cadbury creme egg waiting for you in the fridge?

The girls are keeping very quiet about what they did or didn’t receive, so you could be excused for thinking that Cupid and his bow took a detour past our home to save his arrows – but there, my dear friend you would be most decidedly wrong. His arrow was indeed sent flying from the bow, of that I am certain. What I’m slightly concerned about is the poor chap’s eyesight.

He has scored two bullseyes, but whether the intention was to promote a love match between two dogs, or two of something else, I’m not sure. Either way he has most definitely caused a great deal of trouble.

It all started a couple of months ago, when our local foxy lothario began calling at the back door and although I thought this a little strange, I decided to live and let live, expecting everything to settle down as quickly as it began.

This surely would’ve been the outcome had it not been for the encouragement from Blea, a black-and-white collie of a smooth-haired variety – she of the angular face and ears inclined to stand upright like a pair of triangles. Now then, what creature could she possibly resemble?

Oh yes, of course, Mr Fox.

When she yapped to be let out in the early evening it honestly didn’t occur to me that she might be calling to her lover (now christened “Heathcliff”). The noise coming from her was so loud it completely drowned out his answering calls from the field.

But over recent weeks the romance has gained considerable ground. Heathcliff’s high-pitched barks can be heard by 6pm some evenings, and once Blea begins her conversation with him, followed by desperately scrabbling at the door I feel rather cruel denying them their “date”. Last week Heathcliff had clearly checked his calendar and realised the night to declare his true love was imminent.

I’d been out to a dinner party and when I drove in through the gates it was past midnight. The air was chilly but not freezing, and the sky filled with stars, illuminated by a bright almost full moon. Ah, the romance of it all...

He must’ve heard the gates open, but it didn’t dampen his ardour one little bit. I know this because as I crept along the driveway (always careful not to upset the rabbits playing on the front lawn), I spotted a pair of orange eyes watching me from just outside the dog room door. Blea was on her hind legs “talking” to him through the window, and he was sitting patiently listening to her on the doorstep!

I stopped the car and turned off the engine, curious to see what would happen next, but he obviously didn’t like his private liaison interrupted, and calmly rose to his feet, glanced over, then trotted slowly towards me.

I had assumed Heathcliff to be the young dog fox whose mother left him in the dingle last spring. After all, he was very bold last summer, whether sitting in the sunshine to watch the hay being harvested or trotting up into the field to greet one of us riding a pony. Of course, he was still a youngster, a beautiful deep russet-brown like his father, but nowhere near dear old Dad’s size. He was rather leggy and immature with a tail far too long and bushy for his body.

The creature whose trot slowed to a steady walk as he neared the car bore no resemblance to the young cub I remembered. He was huge, with a sturdy, well-rounded body and a brush now completely in proportion with the rest of him, but what really took my breath away was the size of his head, nestling in the most ridiculously dense mane. Honestly, dye him blonde and give him a shave, he could be a lion!

Any normal fox would’ve run for cover at the sound of a car, but not Heathcliff. As I shut the car door he began barking in the field not 50 feet from me and as I walked into the house I could hear Blea going berserk. Naturally, I opened the door and watched her race to him.

He comes to woo her every single night. She plays with him in the field for 10 minutes and always comes back when called, panting like fury with the happiest look on her face. It’s absolutely the strangest, sweetest love match, but where will it end?

Well, slightly worryingly there have apparently been successful (if rare) dog-fox matings over the years. However, this has only happened when a relationship has been established prior to the female coming into season. Oh dear!

Should we hear the pitter-patter of little paws, I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, I can’t help but be reminded of that saying: “A bird may love a fish..but where will they live?”

Chez Hammond, probably.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/767728/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-Valentines-Day

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond's column on friend's surprise baby due

IT wasn’t just our columnist minding the bump as her friend’s baby was due. A certain equine was being just as caring...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, February 26, 2017


It wasn’t just our columnist minding the bump as her friend’s baby was due

It’s wonderful to welcome a surprise new life into the world, particularly as spring grows nearer. Lovely Bev, our equine lady extraordinaire, managed to keep her pregnancy hidden from almost all of us right up until the seventh month. In fact, there was only one of our number who we now realise had guessed there was more than an extra jumper under her coat.

An incredibly sensitive and delicate soul among us was on the case very early on and quickly worked out that changes were afoot with the friend he knew so well. While we were completely oblivious to her condition, Finn, our enormous, coloured hunter, knew all along.

Even on days when he was being a bit silly in the early morning on his way out to the paddock, playing “chase me” with his little friend Musca and cantering around with his tail in the air, bucking and rearing and generally larking about, the second Bev appeared with his headcollar on her arm he would switch off. He’d walk calmly towards her and amble back to the yard to stand quietly while she tacked him up.

He’d then wait patiently at the mounting block until Bev was comfortably on his back, not attempting to move off until she gave the signal.

Although admittedly the Friday morning (bin day) hacks have always filled me with a slight feeling of dread, knowing at some point we would inevitably meet the lorry, Bev has always scheduled Fridays as one of her roadwork days. And despite her ever-increasing bump, was, unsurprisingly, setting off down the lane every week completely unnerved astride our 17-hand lump of a horse.

Over the years he’s seen the bin lorry plenty of times, but one new horror at the bottom of the lane terrifies him even from the safety of his field, to such a degree I have to coax him into his stable at night.

He won’t even relax to eat his bowl of feed, constantly looking over the door and snorting at the peculiar noises coming from the strange monster he cannot see (also known as a building site).

However, with Bev on his back he mustered every ounce of courage and walked straight past the builders and their monsters, concentrating on his precious cargo and determined to take care of his friend.

When Bev finally revealed her secret to us and stopped riding – only, I suspect, because she couldn’t physically fit the bump in the saddle, she still insisted on exercising our own oversized baby of a horse.

The only way to do this was to put him on the lunge, which entails attaching a very long lead rope to his bridle, and while standing in the centre of the sand school, encouraging him to work in a 40-metre circle around you.

Sounds simple, but in the past Finn has walked into the school and instantly decided he’s been set loose in a horsey sand pit; belting around like an overfed racehorse, kicking up his heels and generally acting like a loon. Imagine Bev’s surprise when he suddenly completely changed his attitude? She couldn’t hide her amazement when she returned from the school a couple of weeks ago and told me:

“Well, I’ve always said he should’ve been a mare – I can’t believe how sweetly he’s behaving.” Then she explained: “I had to stop for a minute to catch my breath when we were walking down to the school (well, you know how big his stride is) and he stopped dead and just stood there, looking at me with those big, kind eyes, and you know, I swear when we set off walking again he was going slower.”

I know equine therapy is an incredible tool, and it’s believed a horse can sense a human heartbeat within four feet, so perhaps Finn recognised early on that there was more than one heartbeat in Bev, and when she tired, he could hear as well as sense he needed to slow up?

Finn is missing Bev at the moment. She came to see him on Friday and lunged both him and Romeo before setting off home, having commented she was craving a packet of crisps. As she set off, I joked: “Thanks Bev, see you Monday – unless, of course, something happens over the weekend.”

The following day something did happen and I’m delighted to tell you Bev, Andy, Jamie and Ben welcomed the arrival of a beautiful baby girl, Faye Nicole.

I know Finn looks for her car and must be wondering if Bev’s OK, but she’ll be back to see him soon (not any sooner than she should, I hope!) and I think he will be rather proud to know he shares a first initial with his special secret cargo.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/770669/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-surprise-baby-due

[RedMoon11]

Mindy on Man flu and bird flu at the Hammond Towers

IT'S a double whammy as Richard’s severe case of man flu and the threat of bird flu in Chicken Woods puts our columnist in a flap…

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 5 March 2017


It’s a double whammy as Richard’s severe case of man flu and the threat of bird flu in Chicken Woods    HELLARD

There’s been a horror of a thing working it’s way across the UK since just before Christmas. Commuter trains have been half empty and Monday morning roads mysteriously deserted during rush hour as grown men took to their beds, wailing: “The flu. It’s the flu I tell you.”

Conversely, grown women up and down the country will happily confirm that in fact, it isn’t the flu at all but a nasty cold and one from which many of the female population have suffered (if a little less vocally).

Ok, so this particular bug is very unpleasant and goes through several stages of discomfort – a cough, aches and pains, sinus inflammation and finally a nose running so fluent a drop tray would be preferable to a hanky.

Then, just as the patient is beginning to feel they’re almost clear of the darned thing, the aches and pains return together with a feeling of utter despair so extreme it may result in a spike in the annual graph depicting divorce/separation figures for 2017 as couples lose patience with each other while trying to cope with their foul mood swings.

Meanwhile, the latest bird flu incarnation swept in on a wing and a prayer (I suspect a flock of those naughty migratory cheepers who foolishly decided to fly over with their hankies tucked in their breast pockets). As a result, ducks and chickens were being kept under lock and key, as per Defra orders, to keep them out of contact with the wild bird population and thereby avoiding another epidemic.

In Chicken Woods our feathered friends were coping well in their runs, if slightly confused at the dramatic decrease in exercise. Our larger drakes, Eyebrow and Nobby, were also more than a little perturbed at cramped conditions which don’t allow for drying room after a bath – seriously, you can’t run around flapping yourself dry in a three-foot square space.

The hens rebelled by going on full-bore egg strike and the only two creatures who seemed happy with the new living arrangements were Betty and June, our little chubby-cheek bantams.

They loved their new duplex apartment – a recommissioned rabbit hutch with upstairs bedroom and downstairs “garden”, rewarding us daily with a tiny white egg (although you need at least six to make even the smallest omelette).

I’m sure the powers that be have acted in the most sensible way available to them, yet I do feel sorry for the many farmers whose hens were suddenly stripped of their free-range status due to being kept in a restricted area while following Defra’s instructions. Presumably, any eggs could not be sold as free-range, either.

Meanwhile, although our little gang of cluckers and quackers were kept as per the guidelines, we noticed wrens, robins and sparrows nipping through the tiniest holes in the wire and helping themselves to a tasty meal of corn, making rather a joke of our efforts.

They’d grown so accustomed to the routine I actually noticed our wild bird population forming a queue along the fence line on the colder mornings, watching as I mixed warm mash for the hens, their beaks salivating at the thought of scooping up the slops from a warm porridge breakfast.

Unfortunately, with the containment of many grain-fed animals in a concentrated area there’s naturally an increase in the number of feeding stations, so inevitably the alert has been sounded across the local rat population.

They act fast and with a strategy that would impress the highest military minds. Within a week of activating our new housing operation we noticed telltale signs of rat attack – sneaky gaps forming under the duck houses and rat-sized holes in the mud.

We needed to launch our defence, and there was only one man for the job – pest control Mark. He loves a challenge and marched in, bait in hand, to end their shenanigans before we were overrun.

Hopefully, normality will be resumed soon, once Defra sounds the all clear. Meanwhile, the rats are slowly disappearing and our fowl don’t even have so much as a sniffle.

Sadly, indoors the whole place is still strewn with various pain-relieving medications, hot lemon drinks, decongestants and fragrant bath oils, while one big male bird slopes around in his oversized cardie, cuddling a hot-water bottle and seeking the comfort of the sofa and a blankie (once he’s taken delivery of hot lemon and honey). The mood is black, but hopefully it’ll clear soon.

In the meantime, you could say it’s fowl being enclosed outdoors and foul being enclosed indoors.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/773991/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-on-man-flu-and-bird-flu

[RedMoon11]

Mindy on The First Days of Spring at the Hammond Household

FULL of the joys of spring, our columnist tries to persuade her doubting daughters of the delights of wet and windy weather...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Monday, March 13, 2017 


Mindy tries to persuade her doubting daughters of the delights of wet and windy weather    HELLARD

Although we’ve been moaning about the rain and tire of reaching for our coats, there’s something about this time of year that gives us all a bit of a boost. The sun decides to rise a little bit earlier every morning, delivering a hint of spring warmth as she practises for those balmy summer days ahead (we live in hope...).

I’m sure our household isn’t the only one to suffer with “February frustration” and I was very glad to see the back of it. It starts with complaints about the weather and ends with annoyance at disrupted sleep, yet instead of taking a breath and embracing the exciting changes all around them, my fellow Hammonds prefer to whinge under a cloud of gloom. So this year, I decided to see if it was possible to spread a spot of springtime joy.

The first thing to be addressed was the rain. Tricky. Summoning up a positive slant on a grey, wet day isn’t easy, particularly when driving to school through standing water only to deliver your children to a day filled with exams. So instead of avoiding the large expanses of water on our deserted lane, I began driving through them and causing water to cover the whole of the car, much to the shrieks and laughter of the girls.

Gone are the days when they’d rush outside in the pouring rain to play in the flooded ha-ha outside the house, returning in hysterics and covered from head to foot in muddy water.

But water can still be fun, after all, and as Izzy moaned she was sick of every day being wet and miserable, I pointed out that without the rain we wouldn’t have such a beautiful, lush country; no flowers, grass, or trees. Balmy sunshine is wonderful, but without our climate the country wouldn’t look as it does. After a moment’s thought, she agreed.

“Yeah, we are lucky to live here. Our countryside is beautiful.”

I struck while the iron was hot and said, “It really is and I know it feels as though it’s been raining for ever, but you know there have actually only been two days in the past year where it’s rained all day long. It’s not really as bad as you think.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

Willow doesn’t mind the rain so much – she’ll still tack up her pony and gallop around the fields wet through in the deepest of mud, but what she doesn’t relish is being rudely awakened by early morning sunshine, preferring to appear as lunch is served. A bleary-eyed, harrumphing teenager who announces she’s bored as soon as she wakes up doesn’t make the best company

and my joy at the brighter mornings isn’t met with even the slightest glimmer of enthusiasm, particularly when Willow looks out on to what appears to be a bleak landscape dotted with barren trees and empty flower beds.

“It’s all so depressing!” she moaned one Sunday morning, her head in her hands at

the living room window.

But I was in positive mode and said,

“No, actually it isn’t. Come on.”

I handed her a pair of wellies and a coat and coaxed her into the garden, despite a good deal of resistance.

“Why have you brought me out here? I’m cold and it’s raining again.”

“Yes, and you’re bored and whiny, and can’t see the wood for the trees. Come over here!”

As Blea and Captain enjoyed a game of chase through the damp grass, Willow dragged her feet to where I stood, next to the big flowerbed.

“Look,” I said.

“At what?” she shrugged. “It’s just a dead plant!”

“Look again. See these? Buds. They’re everywhere, all around you. These roses aren’t dead, they’re just dormant, waiting for spring to happen to bring them back.”

“They still look dead.”

“I know, but sometimes instead of assuming it’s all doom and gloom, you need to take a second look. When you do, you’ll realise there are so many amazing things happening right under your nose.

I promise you, in a few weeks’ time, all the trees will start to turn green and you’ll be amazed how it seemed to happen overnight. Yet if you paid attention, you could’ve embraced the changes as they happened.”

Obviously, as a teenager she simply smiled and rolled her eyes at me, but I did catch a glimpse of her peering at the budding horse chestnut tree a few days later. And when snowdrops and crocuses began to flower in the garden, both girls commented on their beauty.

As February drew to a close, we knew spring had arrived when we drove to school without the need for headlights, stopping in the woods to allow four fallow deer to cross the road then whooping in celebration 10 minutes later at the first lambs gambolling in the fields.

Hooray! February frustrations are over and it’s time to embrace the marvels of March.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/778477/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-spring-family

[RedMoon11]

Mindy's column on Power cut at Hammond Towers

WHEN there’s a power cut at Hammond Towers our columnist lights the way – even though the girls are horrified there’s no Wi-Fi...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, March 19, 2017


When there’s a power cut at Hammond Towers our columnist lights the way   SUSAN HELLARD

Thankfully, only one poor soul lost their life to Storm Doris in the UK, although I’m sure we all agree even a single fatality is one too many.

We didn’t fare too badly, though. Admittedly the whole place was littered with bits of twig and a couple of slightly larger branches fell in Chicken Woods during the gales, but as I’m hooked to two weather apps on my phone I tend to plan well in advance.

All ponies are safely tucked up before the wind gusts above 30mph and I even time dog walking to fit around the worst of the weather. Well, when you have a Labrador who hates getting wet and a 13-year-old terrier who has to be physically lifted out of bed in the mornings, even on a fine day, trying to coax them out of doors in driving rain would be impossible.

Despite my planning, I was forced to give up and carry Captain back from the bottom field on a particularly windy day as he didn’t want to venture out from under a hedge (much to the amusement of the sheep).

He looked at me in such a pleading way and did his pretend shiver, so I simply had to scoop him up and tuck him inside my coat.

Inevitably, with many trees shedding branches all over Herefordshire, most of Ross-on-Wye suffered a power cut. It started about midday, so when I texted the girls to check what time they needed to be collected from school, I made sure they knew we had no electricity.

Still, they were both happy to leave at 6.30pm instead of taking the option of boarding for a night at a fully powered school (although they did request a Chinese takeaway).

I left home in daylight, but remembered to gather every candle in the house into the kitchen in readiness for our return in the dark, set all the fires burning and took a torch with me, together with keys to the stable yard gates (the only way in or out during a power cut). I also remembered to call the takeaway halfway to school to double-check they had power!

Here’s the bizarre thing – it wasn’t until we pulled up outside the stable yard gates that reality hit my two teenagers.

Willow exclaimed, “Oh God, it’s so dark!”

“Well, yes,” I told her, “we don’t have any electricity.”

Then, as we were walking across the lawn to the house, Izzy suddenly had the most terrifying realisation and said, “Oh my God! Does that mean there’s no Wi-Fi?”

“Yep.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Well, I kind of thought it was a bit strange you wanted to come home. No electric equals no Wi-Fi, no lights, no heating…”Willow moaned, “Ugh, I need to wash my hair! Is there no hot water?”

“Nope.”

I was braced for a tricky night, but instead something utterly wonderful happened. The girls helped light the candles until the kitchen looked completely magical, then with a candlestick each (borrowed from the sitting room mantelpiece) they went off into the dining room and played the piano and sang together by candlelight.

I ran outside to open the yard gates for Richard when he returned home from London, having collected the Chinese takeaway, and we all sat down to a feast, had a wonderful giggle, and a glorious evening, right up to the point where Izzy asked, “So what did you do before there was electricity?”

“Iz!” I was slightly affronted, “I’m not that old.”

Poor Izzy felt really awful and said, “Oh, oh no I didn’t mean it like that. Oh I meant, erm…

Oh, I don’t know. Well, you said you didn’t have mobile phones or computers.”

“I know, but we didn’t ride dinosaurs and spend all day trying to invent the wheel, you cheeky whatsit!”

Although I did tell the girls the story my mum told me about my granny and her “electric” iron. It was plugged into the light socket in the ceiling and apparently my great granny almost had a seizure when she saw the contraption, convinced it was either going to electrocute Granny or set the house on fire.

We all snuggled up in our pyjamas and bed socks that night, except Willow who also put some battery-operated tea lights in the turn-up of her woolly hat and declared that she was a candelabra.

The next morning, just five minutes after we woke, power was resumed. We were all very grateful although it was such a lovely evening, I’m tempted to throw the master switch occasionally – just for fun.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/779625/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-power-cut

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond remembers her late mum on Mother's Day

BITTERSWEET memories of our columnist’s late mother bring back smiles and tears, and the cure to all ills – a nice cup of tea...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Mar 26, 2017


Mindy remembers to her beloved mum on Mother's Day

We may have lost an hour’s sleep but who cares when you’re a mummy?

For today we should all be having a well-earned lie-in, be waited on by our adoring children (and husbands) and be reading this in our dressing gowns while munching through a full English breakfast, or an assortment of jam-filled croissants delivered to us on a tray as we lounge in bed with a nice cup of tea or coffee, a glass of freshly squeezed juice and a big bunch of flowers.

Or perhaps, like me, you’re up with the lark as usual looking forward to cooking the roast and wondering if this is the day you might be given a helping hand – with the mucking out at least. Although as Izzy was at a party last night and Willow tends to get out of bed when the aroma of Yorkshire pudding reaches her bedroom, there’s little point in holding my breath unless a resuscitation unit is nearby. I don’t really mind.

The girls are growing up at such an alarming speed I’m happy simply to have them with me today, and hope they’ll honour the day in years to come.

It’s always a slightly tricky day for me because I lost my darling mum just before Mother’s Day 10 years ago, and I remember vividly asking Richard if he could take the girls into the garden for a little bit because I could feel tears welling up.

I was washing up the lunch things and it was a gloriously sunny day. Just as they disappeared across the lawn I allowed my heartbreak to take over and dropped my head into my hands, sobbing. She had been her normal, active and sprightly self just weeks before, and accepting she had gone was so difficult, so unbelievable.

I cried for some time before reaching for the kitchen roll to wipe my face, attempting to pull myself together before Richard came back with the girls. They’d seen me cry so many times and had made such wonderful gifts for me that year,

I knew it would upset them to see me so sad.

I remember taking a deep breath, blowing my nose and leaning, exhausted, against the sink.

In desperation I said out loud, “Oh Mum, what am I going to do?”

Then a very strange thing happened. The kettle on the worktop a few feet away clicked and began to boil. I glanced at it in astonishment for a moment and then couldn’t help but smile.

“A cup of tea.”

Mum’s first response whenever there was a problem was to make a nice cup of tea. I felt she was there, and in her own way was letting me know. Richard often talks about her as a “mischievous imp”, although it was a side of her character people rarely saw. She was secretly quite naughty – I daren’t repeat what she said when I put the fairy on top of the Christmas tree one year after the loop on the back of its dress broke and I shoved the top of the tree up her skirt, but it was something about making the poor fairy’s eyes water!

At her funeral, she’d left instructions for what piece of music she wished to be played. The last piece being Love Changes Everything by Michael Ball. I had given the CD to the crematorium with instructions, yet as her coffin disappeared behind the curtain what came blaring out? “Lookin’ for some hot stuff baby this evening!”

The poor man who was operating the music quickly changed it to the right tune, but instead of being outraged, and despite the misery of the day, I couldn’t help but smile. You see, Mum and all her old friends would always reminisce about their youth and how they all thought they were “hot stuff” back in the day. It still makes me smile, and she certainly made an exit everyone will remember.

I’ll pick flowers from the garden this morning and place them in the vase next to Mum’s photo in the kitchen which watches over everything I do. No doubt she will miss seeing newborn lambs by the Aga this year, but watching her adored granddaughters grow into such wonderful people must make her heart swell with pride.

Every mother is different, every mother is special, and today is just one of many, many days, when we should think fondly of them. If you happen to be one, I hope there’s a moment when somebody makes you a cup of tea, gives you a bunch of flowers or perhaps even a phone call.

Although, as a mum, aren’t you just proud of your baby anyway, happy simply to know they share your world? After all, that’s what being a mum is all about. Happy Mothers Day.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/782446/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-remembers-late-mother-on-Mothers-Day

[RedMoon11]

The Discovery stuck in the mud

WHEN you’re married to a petrolhead like Richard, what could go wrong when our columnist gets the Discovery stuck in the mud?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 2 April 2017


Our columnist gets the Discovery stuck in the mud

Sheep are not only woolly, but also devious, mischievous and distantly related to Houdini – particularly our (ex pet) lamb Zeus, who I’m convinced is Houdini’s first cousin.

Picture, dear reader, a quiet Saturday morning, the sun was shining, Willow had spent a wonderful couple of hours on Romeo the wonder pony while I whizzed around finishing the mucking out in record speed. Richard had left to pick up Izzy after a party and we were all looking forward to one of those glorious, lazy days.

Just as I was going back to the house my phone rang: “Hi Mindy, I think your sheep are out – they’re in Kate the vet’s garden.”

“Oh no. Sorry. Right, I’ll come and get them.”

I ran to the house and called for Willow to come and help me herd the little wotsits.

We piled into the Discovery and drove down the road, wondering how on earth they managed to escape, and assuming they must be the ewe lambs in the field nearest the lane.

Fortunately, the leader of the pack of escapees was none other than Zeus, which made recapture very simple. So with Willow stationed by the open gate to the field, I walked ahead of Zeus, and simply called him.

He and three other ram lambs trotted behind me and Willow closed the gate behind them. She continued herding them on foot while I came alongside in the car to form a barrier up the hill.

We could see where they’d escaped – the gate at the top of the hill had been pushed over and the sheep had then wandered through the garden of the cottage at the bottom, which was having the hedging replaced, leaving wide gaps.

Sheep safely back with their father, we decided, for speed, to drive home across the fields. We trundled down the slope and towards the crossing place in the dingle.

The sides of this piece of land are rather steep, and at the point where you cross, which is just wide enough for our large tractor to get through, there is a deep ditch on either side which, although covered in brambles and undergrowth, falls away rather sharply into ponds on both sides. It was fairly muddy on the crossing, but I decided to go for it – after all, a Discovery is supposedly the best “off-roader” money can buy.

We drove down to the bottom of the crossing, ascended the other side and then, just two feet from the top, the car inexplicably stopped moving forward and despite my foot on the accelerator, began sliding back to the foot of the muddy slope. Uh oh…

I tried to get going again, but instead of moving forwards, the car began sliding sideways. Willow and I hopped out to inspect the ground, it didn’t look too bad, and so I tried again.

Oh dear, the back end flew out and the front wheel skidded over the precipice. I slammed on the bake and decided it was time to abandon our efforts. I called Richard: “Erm, hello… erm... I might’ve got the Disco a bit stuck.”

He was a little confused but embraces a challenge, so he decided to hop into the Land Rover and rescue the stuck car. I jumped in beside him: “Are you sure this’ll do it? Surely the Discovery is heavier?”

“It’ll be fine – this’ll get traction and it’ll be a simple case of towing it out.”

Hmm… There was one slight problem with the plan. Having reversed the Land Rover to the top of the slope, it didn’t get traction at all, and within moments the wheels were slipping. The handbrake had no effect and the car began sliding downhill – towards the Discovery!

Thankfully, Richard’s vast driving experience came to the fore and somehow he eventually managed to swerve the car out of danger but agreed the rescue mission was best left to Charlie and our beast of a tractor.

An hour or so later we returned to the scene of the crime. We hitched the towing rope to the Discovery and positioned the tractor. Richard sat behind the wheel of the car while Charlie moved forward.

Even with the mighty tractor pulling, the Discovery very nearly came to a sticky end. We all gasped in horror as the whole car slid sideways, heading for the drop – tail first! Thankfully, Charlie kept momentum going and although the wheels of the discovery found gripping the sheer mud impossible, the tractor soon hauled it up on to flat ground and out of danger.

After half an hour with the hosepipe, the car was sparkling again and there, at the top of the hill stood Zeus and his friends watching the whole episode. I couldn’t see their faces, but I suspect they were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes as they plotted their next escape.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/785410/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-Discovery-mud

[RedMoon11]

Mindy on flu and doggy sickness at Hammond Towers

THE girls fall foul of the flu – yet again – then Captain develops doggy sickness, giving our columnist paws for thought...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sun, April 9, 2017


The girls fall foul of the flu – yet again – then Captain develops doggy sickness

The dreaded lurgy has hit the Hammond household yet again. Thankfully, Richard wasn’t home when the germs were at their most contagious, so he managed to escape infection, but poor Izzy was the first to fall. She woke for school as usual, but as she finally appeared at the kitchen table she moaned: “Ugh, I feel awful. What’s going on with my eyes?”

“Oh babe, you sound like you’ve swallowed sandpaper,” I told her. “Ew and they are a bit puffy, aren’t they?”

Izzy looked worryingly at her reflection in the mirror as she reached for her make-up bag, much to Willow’s delight. Over her Coco Pops, she teased: “Haha! You’ll never have enough time or eyeliner to sort that out.”

Izzy pretended to be mortally wounded, and after a bit of fake crying, a hug from me and a warning to Willow not to be mean, breakfast continued and we set off for school. The singing was a little below par that particular morning, and even the dulcet tones of Ed Sheeran couldn’t force a decent note from Izzy and her rasping throat.

When I collected the girls later, the tables had turned slightly. Izzy’s voice had become even huskier, but she didn’t feel ill and was quite enjoying her new vocal range. However, her dear little sister was feeling absolutely done in and went straight to bed the moment she walked through the front door.

Twenty- four hours later Izzy was back to her normal chirpy self, while Willow was confined to bed with an array of medication fending off the horrors of tonsillitis. It was so bad this time, she actually spent two whole days in her bed.

But on the third day she managed to haul herself away from her four “nurse” cats and take up residence in the sitting room, giving me an opportunity to change the bed and persuade her to eat a proper meal.

I’d gone outside to get the ponies in, leaving Willow in front of the TV, watching back-to-back episodes of The Fresh Prince Of Bel Air. (How bizarre the girls are obsessed with a show I watched when I was a teenager.)

It took me a while, as after the ponies there were ducks and chickens to be put to bed, then dogs walked and fed. But when I went to find the dogs, two of them were missing. Weird.

It was so unlike Captain and Blea to miss a walk. I decided to take the others out and look for them later, knowing they were in the house somewhere.

When I returned, it was to cries of distress from Willow: “Something’s happened to Captain!”

I dashed through to the hall where a worried Willow stood cradling our old terrier in her arms.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He fell off the sofa and then started limping.”

“Oh no.”

I sat on the floor and told Willow to put him down so we could watch how he walked. She gently lowered him to the ground and before his paws touched terra firma, he rolled on to his back for a tummy tickle, sorrowful eyes staring into mine: “Aww Captain, come on boy,” I cooed, gently stroking his head.

Willow turned him over on to his feet and I moved away a few paces, but Captain decided to lie down. Then, just as Willow was becoming really concerned about her little friend, I noticed a cheeky expression in his eyes, and his stumpy little tail wagging like fury.

“Come on, Captain, up you get” I chirped.

Willow was aghast.

“Mummy! Don’t be mean, he hurt himself,” she cried, but as I winked at her, our naughty little terrier hopped to his feet and darted off in the direction of the sitting room to join his friend Blea reclining on the sofa. Willow’s mouth fell open as she glanced from Captain to me, and then she grinned: “Oh my goodness! He’s fine. But honestly, he was limping and everything.”

“Hmm… he is a little tinker.”

Then I shot Willow a quizzical stare.

“I wonder which member of this family is giving him ideas.”

“Not me.” She ran after him, and there they stayed for the rest of the day, flopped over each other on the sofa, TV blaring, an array of snacks strewn across the coffee table and a couple of bottles of Lucozade in reserve.

I’ve decided I quite fancy a sick day on the sofa, but first I need to train the dogs to wait on me, and with their track record, I’ll be lucky to be delivered empty crisp packets and punctured plastic bottles. Think I’ll just keep taking the vitamin C.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/789996/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-on-flu-and-doggy-sickness