Mindy Hammond - Express

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on A Happy 2014 and a New Year's Resolution

OUR columnist looks back over a happy 2014 – and gets into gear for a bumper harvest in years to come.

Published:Sunday, December 28, 2014                        
By MINDY HAMMOND


Mindy looks forward to renovating a new piece of farmland in the new year [SUSAN HELLARD]

How are you doing?

A bit tired? Me too.

But we had a great Christmas Day and yes, they did all get up and help me with the ponies as promised last week – even Richard.

And there was another Christmas miracle, too.

When I came down to breakfast that morning, there on the kitchen table sat Twiglet.

Cats are not allowed on the table, as I frequently explain to them, but this time I made an exception.

Twiglet has been living in the stable, you see, following a serious falling-out with her daughter Frazzle (it was all a bit Jeremy Kyle).

This was the first time in more than a year that she’d ventured indoors, so we were all delighted – especially her granddaughter, Ketchup.

What a lovely present, having everyone indoors for Christmas. Although the poor tree took a battering when all the cats ganged up and decided it was a giant spiny mouse.

It’s been a very sociable Christmas for the humans, too.

Last night we had 20 people round for dinner and today I’m getting ready for our New Year’s Eve party in the barn.

This has a pirate theme, so I’ve got to create desert islands and a galleon or two.

Most of our friends’ children are old enough to join in with the grown-ups now, so for the first time we’re all celebrating together – though if anyone’s naughty, they’ll be made to walk the plank.

Naturally Willow now wants a pet monkey to sit on her shoulder, which she can then keep for ever.

I need to nip that one in the bud before she convinces Daddy to build a monkey enclosure, and the next time I look we’re running a zoo (that’s how it goes round here).

Anyway, while rushing around creating Treasure Island, we’ve been talking over everything that’s happened in the past 12 months – Izzy’s new school and all her new friends, Willow’s blossoming confidence in the saddle, and how they’ve both grown up so much.

Izzy then brought up the subject of New Year’s resolutions.

She and Willow are both promising to get up early to help in the mornings before school and to look after their ponies so I don’t have to (hmmm, maybe I’ve heard that one before).

Meanwhile, Daddy promises to come outside with us and might even have some riding lessons (watch this space).

As for me? Well, I have a rather special resolution this year.

A few months ago, we bought a patch of land that we believe once belonged to our house.

Now Richard and I are planning, in a small way, to reconnect this place with its farming past.

Although we’ve been harvesting hay for the past few years, we’re now going to expand a bit.

It may be cider orchards, wheat, even fields of lavender.

We’re still deciding – but whatever happens, I’m sure our resident ghosts will be delighted.

Especially when I learn to drive the tractor properly, without reversing into the barn.

Anyway, that’s all for the far-off future.

Right now I have to get back to assembling treasure chests and checking that nothing strange arrives by courier with “live animal” printed on the box.

Happy New Year from all of us, and – as my late mum would have said – hugs and rainbows to everyone.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/548883/Mindy-Hammond-looks-back-happy-2014

[RedMoon11]

There's a Cold War Going on at Hammond Towers, and Mindy Has Issues With Tissues

Christmas is supposed to be a holiday.

Published:Sun, January 4, 2015   By MINDY HAMMOND
 

Why is it that when men sneeze it is as if there has been an explosion [SUSAN HELLARD]

I’m sure I read that somewhere, possibly in my diary.

But oh, the devastation! The chaos in every room and upon every surface! And guess who has to clear it all up?

Fortunately I have an ally, in the cheering yellow form of the Christmas skip. We get one of these every year and I can’t recommend it highly enough (especially if you’ve bought your husband a motorbike hoist that comes in a box the size of the garden shed). It’s also handy insurance against the Christmas refuse collection, or lack of it (fair enough – binmen deserve holidays too).

But even with the help of my yellow friend in the yard, post-Christmas clearing-up is a task for 10 men. Sadly it has to be done by one Mindy, because everyone else is off sick.

Now why is it, do tell me, that when we ladies sneeze, the sound is a delicate hksnz!, like a grasshopper clearing its throat? Whereas when a man gets the urge, windows are blown out by the force of the explosion. Could it be that they want us to think their colds are far, far more serious than ours?

And the trouble with this kind of behaviour is that it’s highly contagious. It’s no use telling your children to put their hankies over their mouths when they sneeze, throw the tissues straight in the bin, take a paracetamol and soldier on.

Not when they see their father shuffling red-eyed into the kitchen, and sitting with his head in his hands murmuring, “Oooh, I do feel rough.”

He’ll stay like that for a bit, but if no one rushes forward with a fresh mug of Lemsip he’ll tilt his head back, raise a hand as if to silence some trifling objection and then let out the most ear-shattering “Aaaah-CHOOUURRGGH!!!”

This is accompanied by such violent and uncoordinated flappings of the arms and legs that we fear for our own safety, never mind his.

Finally he will drag himself to his feet and trudge silently back to the sickbed, where he will await vegetable soup. Meanwhile, I wander round the house gathering tissues.

Now don’t get me started on those. Oh, it’s too late, I’m off – because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s a soggy heap of man-size yuckiness on the floor. In fact, this year I’m thinking of donning a surgical mask and making them all into a display.

Possibly a snowman sculpture in front of the garage doors. He’ll think the girls have done it to cheer him up – until he’s well enough to get the bike out and then discovers its terrible secret.

Hmmm, I think there’s an evil plan hatching… Perhaps I can start a trend and ladies across the land will construct tissue sculptures to shame their snivelling menfolk.

Then again, I might not. I think I’ve got a cold coming. 


www.express.co.uk/comment/expresscomment/549999/Mindy-Hammond-on-Christmas-colds-and-tissues

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond Spends her weekend doing a bit of DIY

THIS didn’t seem like the best moment to knock down a wall, says our columnist – but maybe it was in the nick of time

Published:Sun, January 11, 2015

                                                                                               [SUSAN HELLARD]     

Isn’t it quiet when the kids go back to school? No more daytime TV or shoes all over the hall, no more cooking three different meals at lunchtime. Richard’s gone off abroad and life is steadily getting back to normal – except it’s very, very cold in our house. Flump the Aga is red in the face, with every oven and hotplate going at full tilt, but even he can’t cope with a hole in the wall.

You see, after many, many months of to-ing and fro-ing with the planning department, we’ve finally started realising our dream: putting an outside door in the kitchen. Doesn’t sound like much, does it? But this house has a way of turning small jobs into civil engineering projects.

When Thomas, who owned the place about 250 years ago, decided to add a new wing in the style of a medieval castle, many alterations were made. I’d always been convinced that one of them was to block in the old kitchen door, and I was sure I could see a change in the colour of the bricks where it must have been. But the planning authorities needed proof before we were allowed to wield the big hammer, so I embarked on a Who Do You Think You Are?-style search for ancient drawings of our home.

Eventually I found one, with the door where I expected to see it, and just before Christmas a team of craftsmen and a very clever engineer came together, scratched their heads and decided that no, the house would not fall down if we reinstated the door, but there would be a lot of work.

We’re very excited by all this, but the draughts are ferocious, the toes are blue and the dogs are holding their ears. Izzy and Willow are lucky to be at school, and Richard is somewhere boiling hot, but I daren’t go and make a warming cuppa in case I bump into a polar bear. The whole house seems to jump with fright each time a hammer hits the wall and – worst of all – the clock is having a hissy fit.

Regular readers will know that in this house, the past makes its presence felt via all sorts of ghostly manifestations. They’re always benign but they can be rather unsettling, and the clock on the kitchen wall is especially attuned to the feelings of previous inhabitants. When there’s any kind of upset, its pendulum (normally motionless) starts a bit of a wobble and its movement (normally silent) begins to tick.

Well, the builders got to work on the wall and what happened? Furious tick-tocks, the pendulum wearing a groove in the wall and the hands standing stock still. This was not a good sign.

“It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?” I said to Dan the builder. “I mean, I know you know what you’re doing, but nothing’s going to go wrong is it?”

“Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine,” he said.

The next morning, more of the hole had been made and a timber had been revealed at the top.

“Turns out it’s not a bad thing we found this,” said Dan.

The old lintel was in pretty good shape, but having been exposed for its early life and then encased in stone for two centuries, it now needed a helping hand, so a special support was put in. When I went back indoors to make coffee for everyone, I thought it seemed quieter.

Then, as I handed them their drinks through the dust sheet, I noticed the clock. The time was right, the ticking was soft and the pendulum was slowing down.

They know, you know.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/551070/Mindy-Hammond-winter-house-restoration 

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Rat Invasion at Hammond Towers

THINGS are far from shipshape this week, as Mindy stands by to repel boarders

Published:Sun, January 18, 2015

[SUSAN HELLARD]

You know that thing about rats leaving a sinking ship? Maybe I should take it as a compliment, in that case, that so many furry new recruits are joining HMS Bollitree.

It all started a week ago when I noticed a mysterious little burrow in Chicken Woods. “Hmm… curious,” I thought. A couple of days later, there were more. And then, when I went to fill up the chicken feeder, what did I find?

A very startled little burglar, looking up at me as though I’d caught him taking a shower after rifling the jewellery box. We both squeaked, and then the little rat shot off back to its home under one of the chicken houses.

“This is a job for Exterminator Man,” I told Sparrow, as we watched Captain the terrier run away in terror.

The trouble is, you see, there’s never just one. When we first moved into this house, it was like Hogwarts for rats, and it took months before that wonderful day when the pest controller tapped on the door, smiling from ear to ear, with a mouse in his hand.

“This is good news,” he told me.

“Eh?” I said.

“If there are mice, there aren’t any rats. Rats drive out mice, y’see.”

So that’s why the cats had been coming home empty-handed and we didn’t get the traditional Christmas vole this year. The rats were back.

Our on-site security team is not, if truth be told, quite up to the job. Satchel is doing his best, patrolling the boundary of Chicken Woods for quarry, and dear old Crusoe – our partially sighted, half-deaf and slightly senile border collie – gets very excited when you shout, “Crusoe, rats!” But then she’ll look at you a moment later as if to ask, “What was that you just said?”

So we wait for the man with the van. In the meantime, the chickens are sharing their home with interlopers and the cockerels are very, very cross. But then all the local wildlife is a bit topsy-turvy just now. After several days of unseasonably mild weather, one of the bats woke up, stretched his wings and flapped about the garden, full of the joys of spring. Then he stopped, the temperature dropped and sadly so did he.

A few bumble bees had the same idea and decided to try a bit of flower-visiting, but all they could find was half a dozen wilting roses.

I do hope that’s that, and everyone else stays firmly asleep till the appropriate time of year. I love our bats, and swarms of happily swooping furry folk give you the most amazing display of, er, aerobatics on a summer’s night. I would miss them terribly, as would Ketchup, who likes to play catch-the-bat for hours on end.

Don’t let anyone tell you that bats are no better than mice with wings. They’re much, much nicer.

A bit like hamsters, really – and as you know, I’ve had one of those for years.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/552163/Mindy-Hammond-rat-invasion

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond Says Goodbye to an Old Household Friend

WITH some top gear installed in the laundry room, it’s time for an old friend to be put out to grass

Published: Sun, January 25, 2015


With some top gear installed in the laundry room, it’s time for an old friend to be put out to grass [SUSAN HELLARD]

With tentative twittering from the birds and a few shoots poking through in the garden, it was clearly time to think about spring cleaning. But first I’d have to deal with the washing machine.

Or rather machines – because when Mr H returns from one of his many trips abroad, he often needs an incredibly quick clothing turnaround.

When we converted the cellar into a laundry room, I had the brilliant idea of plumbing in two washers, side by side. My system worked really well until recently, when one of them developed a digestive problem. The poorly machine has always been the less favoured of the two, as his super-quick cycle still takes almost an hour, by which time his rival has washed, rinsed, spun and sat there sniggering for a good 20 minutes. So while the sales were on, I decided to go shopping.

When I was a girl, there was only one kind of washing machine and everyone had it (unless they were still wrestling with a mangle). It was a twin-tub with a bright blue lid and a habit of walking itself round the kitchen on the spin cycle. But times have changed and now there seems to be a different type for every human being on the planet.

If you spend your life up to here in pony poo, you need serious performance in the laundry department. I was prepared to pay for that, but some of these contraptions cost as much as a fancy motorbike, which would no doubt be pointed out to me. Then I had an idea. As our laundry room is rarely visited by anyone but me (funny, that), appearances weren’t important. So I googled “cosmetically damaged” and bingo! There was my dream machine, with £100 off for a small scratch on its bottom (I wasn’t going to hold that against it – after all, we’ve all been there).

All I had to do now was break the news to Mr Gurgly down in the cellar. We’ve been through a lot, him and me – or at least a lot of Richard’s T-shirts – so there was no way I was sending him to the crusher. Instead, like those poor dear little pit ponies, he’ll be led into the light for the first time in his short life. Then, although he’ll have a bit of a job cantering across the fields, he’ll be given a new home in the barn, where he’ll become the dog bed and pony-rug washer.

With no one to make fun of him, he can take all morning to finish a cycle if he wants, and he’ll have Twiglet, our mostly outdoor short-haired tabby, to curl up on top of him and while away the hours with Radio 4 Extra (she does love a play).

Meanwhile, Mr Snide in the cellar is heading for a rude awakening. His new, state-of-the-art (if slightly bottom-scratched) rival can do a quick wash in 15 minutes.

Some say that’s the fastest time… in the world.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/553585/Mindy-Hammond-new-washing-machine

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Nocturnal Intruder

OUR columnist is foxed by a nocturnal intruder... and the girls are not a pretty picture

Published:Sun, February 1, 2015


SUSAN HELLARD

My dear friend Maggie, who I miss terribly since she moved back home to Ireland, has a legendary stock of sayings inherited from her granny. More than a few of them have rubbed off on me. For instance, whenever someone pulled out a camera at a party, we used to nudge each other and whisper, “Eyes and teeth!”

That was all very well in our twenties, but lately there’s been a strict “no pictures” rule at Hammond Towers, because no one’s eyes or teeth are ready for their close-up.

It all began one night last week. I’d gone to bed early, hoping for that elusive eight hours. Richard was away, so TG and Ketchup kept me company, and I was just drifting off when I heard Blea start her high-pitched barking downstairs. I ignored her for a minute – after all, she sometimes enjoys pulling faces and yapping at Captain for no particular reason. But then Captain joined in, followed by Crusoe. Finally TG pricked up her ears and I had no alternative but to go and see what the fuss was about.

A gale was blowing outdoors as I harrumphed downstairs in my fluffy white dressing gown. And then I heard it too – the unmistakable sound of Mr Fox in the mood for love.

I knew that my little band of brothers and sisters wouldn’t be satisfied until they’d seen him off, so I let them all out to tear across the fields, yapping and barking as they went. Five minutes later they were back, all waggy tails, muddy coats and smiley faces, leaping up at me as if to say, “Wow! Did you see it? Why didn’t you come? Wanna come now? Huh? Huh?”

“Bed, everyone if you don’t mind,” I told them, grabbing a couple of old towels to dry off TG.

Two hours later, I woke again. Same story, same adventure. And then again at 4.30am. So when the alarm went off at six, I felt as though I hadn’t slept at all. Worse still, both girls emerged that morning complaining of toothache. After doling out paracetamol for Iz and Calpol for Willow, booking a visit to the dentist and applying Bonjela to my mouth ulcer (did I mention that?), I consoled myself that tomorrow could only be better.

But no, Mr Fox had enjoyed his adventure so much that he decided to repeat it the next night. And the next. On the third morning I came down, bleary eyed, to find he’d pulled the water bottles off the guinea-pig hutch and given the two little squeakers such a scare that they were still cowering at the back of their bedroom. The girls’ visit to the dentist was only slightly less traumatic (both of them have to go back next week).

Meanwhile, deprived of sleep and having received an accidental head butt from Sparrow, I look as though I’ve been in the ring with Mike Tyson.Still, time heals all – at least if you’re 11 and 14 – and I’m sure that next time Maggie sees Izzy and Wills, she’ll be happy to repeat another of Granny’s sayings: “Ah sure, you’ve teeth like a circus pony – are they yer own?”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/554995/Mindy-Hammond-on-nocturnal-intruder

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on New Fitness Regime at Hammond Towers

THERE'S a new fitness regime at Hammond Towers with a state-of-the-art treadmill – but will Richard keep on track?

Published Sun, February 8, 2015


SUSAN HELLARD

Those new year, new you guilt trips have been taking their toll on the inhabitants of Hammond Towers. The dust has been well and truly unsettled in the area we like to call the “gym”. I put this in inverted commas because, unlike those pristine palaces of health that most people associate with the word, ours is more of a random mishmash of fitness machines and a set of weights.

It’s not exactly purpose-built and plush; there aren’t any chestnut-coloured, strapping young chaps flexing their biceps, or lithe groups of stylish ladies queueing up to do fiendishly difficult spinning classes – surely all that exertion just makes you feel sick? But maybe that’s it. If you feel sick you can’t eat and ergo, you lose weight. Got it.

The whole “gym” thing started a few years ago. Richard decided he should really concentrate on getting a bit fitter, but his running habit came up against a couple of major obstacles, called shin splints. He’d come hobbling home after 10 minutes, miserable and frustrated with a sudden and desperate need for a cup of tea and half a packet of chocolate biscuits, which was just about the worst solution.

So we decided to invest in a machine called a cross trainer, which was great, except Richard was its only friend. And even he eventually agreed, after a rather heated conversation about my lack of enthusiasm for the beast, that there was a reason for its name.

“It’s just a bit, well, unfriendly,” I told him.

“It’s a fitness machine, it’s not supposed to be your best chum.”

“No, I know, but it’s sort of clunky and uncomfortable, and makes you do things that feel unnatural.”

“It’s making your muscles work. You just don’t like pushing yourself.”

“Ooh! I do push myself all the time; haven’t you seen me sliding around in the mud every day, hauling enormous bales of hay bigger than me, and running around like a mad woman? Cheek.”

“But you don’t like exercise.”

“No, I do like exercise, but not when it feels like I’m being bullied. I loved the rowing machine – it was a thoroughly enjoyable way to work out as I could almost envisage sweeping along the Amazon. And I used to do aerobics daily when we first met, if you remember? But that strange implement that makes your legs go one way and your arms go in another is aptly named.”

Then, as luck would have it, Izzy suggested that it would be good to have a machine we could all use – such as the treadmill they had at school. I saw my opportunity.

“Well, I did tell Daddy he should get one of those years ago, so that he could run indoors, on a cushioned surface for his shin splints, but he wasn’t keen.”

The comment was studiously ignored, until...

“If we bought one would you use it?” asked Richard.

“Oh God, yes!”

“Because, if I’m honest, I don’t particularly enjoy using the cross trainer either, and maybe we could part exchange it...”

“What an excellent idea...”

So the gauntlet was thrown down, and for the next week I trawled the internet for a super-duper running-on-the-spot machine. I whittled it down to three and presented my findings to Richard (already knowing which one was by far the best after reading a million and twenty three independent reviews).

With my back-up detective work and insider knowledge, we soon chose the right one for the job, and two sturdy chaps and a large van arrived to commence installation.

Soon afterwards, the enthusiasm began to build. Now even Willow skips over to the barn in her shorts and trainers for “a go” on the running machine.

I thought the treadmill was a resounding success – until I noticed that while the girls were getting fighting fit, daddy dearest was still in jeans and a jumper, and using the gym to catch up on some quiet reading. I suppose with all my equestrian experience I should realise that you can lead a horse to water, but...


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/556503/Mindy-Hammond-new-fitness-regime

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond says It's a Dog's Life Down at Hammond Towers

WITH an excitable, bouncy youngster and a slightly batty old lady to contend with, it’s a dog’s life down at Hammond Towers

Published:Sun, February 15, 2015

It’s a dog’s life down at Hammond Towers                                      SUSAN HELLARD

Regular readers may be aware that a few months ago, I went on a long round trip to the Lake District to pick up a smooth-coated collie pup called Blea. She was bred by Richard’s long-time friend Les, who farms sheep and works his happy band of collies up hill and down dale.

Since Blea’s arrival, she’s settled in very well and understands that cats are family members and are never to be chased. She also knows that chickens aren’t snacks, reeds on the pond aren’t the same as grass and, most importantly, collie puppies don’t float like ducks do.

We knew, from meeting her mother, that Blea would never be a big dog, but she really is surprisingly small and wiry and up until recently would cower at the feet of new people. She looked like an advert for an anti-cruelty charity.

These days, though, she seems much happier, leaping all over visitors (and she’s very bouncy!). Although telling her to sit works instantly, it’s often too late and the victim’s best jeans are already covered in mud. Still, it’s not the worst habit a dog can have – it’s far nicer that she’s more confident with strangers and fortunately, there are very few visitors to our house who aren’t dog-friendly.

We love her to bits and she’s everyone’s friend. In fact, our only ongoing problem with little Bleabot is nothing related to temperament or adorableness. It’s mostly related to her personal hygiene – or lack of it. She can go out for walks lasting hours, play with all the other dogs, have a training lesson with Willow on the vast array of agility apparatus and rummage around in the fields, but for some reason she regularly mistakes her bed for an indoor toilet.

Many years ago, I had a similar problem with Tg, who took for ever to house train, and the honest truth is that it’s just a game of patience.

Blea’s improving, but I think part of the problem is the level of excitability. Tg was like a coiled spring until she was four years old and Blea, although very quiet for a collie, gets overexcited quite often on her blanket.

The other dogs look at her in slight disgust, although they have a nerve – some of them have their own little problems and Blea is trying her very utmost to lend a paw where she can. You see, Crusoe, our beautiful tricoloured collie, is 14 this year and for the past few years we’ve had a recurring problem at the first signs of the cold weather.

She loses weight, loses her coat and generally looks terrible. She’s had the full raft of tests each year, with no result, and we’ve finally accepted that she’s simply getting on in years, although over the past 12 months she began losing her sight, hearing and, well, her marbles.

Now, when she comes for the morning and evening walks, she needs to stay close otherwise she tends to forget where she is, what she was doing and can’t see where anyone has gone. Tg will often stick close by and Crusoe will follow her tail, but Tg is easily distracted and although Captain, the terrier, loves Crusoe, he’s far too interested in trying to get into the dustbin to worry about where she might be.

After all, if he gets home first he’ll get the best spot on their shared bed! So who is it, do you suppose, who sees me searching with a torch, hears me calling and trying desperately to whistle a ridiculously high-pitched note that Crusoe might be able to hear? Little Blea.

She seems to know the problem and will shoot off to find the old lady. Unfortunately, she then shoots back to me far too quickly for Crusoe to keep up. But if I follow her, I’m usually reunited with our slightly confused old dear, who takes a moment then realises it’s me and wags her tail with delight as if to say, “Ooh!

It’s you! How lovely! Are we going somewhere?”

She’ll then happily trot by my side (with the occasional guiding hand on her back) to the warmth of her room and her terrier sleeping partner. She often thinks it’s teatime, even first thing in the morning, and sniffs her bowl rather disappointedly, but the one place she understands is her bed. Meanwhile, once Blea knows she’s reunited us, she’ll rush off to find a stick or a ball for a last-minute game.

So although she may have her little problem – and I had been nervous at the prospect of taking on a working-strain collie – there’s no denying that little Blea is part of the family now. She is one of the most adorable creatures and has become a lifeline for Crusoe.

Clever girl!  


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/557541/Mindy-Hammond-on-dog-life

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Misplaced Vanity

COMING in from the cold, a defrosting spa break sounded just perfect, but the pampering pick-me-up does not quite go to plan

Published: 00:01, Sun, February 22, 2015


Mindy's pampering pick-me-up does not quite go to plan              [SUSAN HELLARD]

If there’s one thing a Mindy really doesn’t like, it’s the cold. So the last few weeks have been somewhat of a trial for me. For a start, having to wear so many layers that I look like a Michelin man, it’s difficult to move, let alone get anything done. So breaking the ice on the drinking troughs and mucking out is even more of a chore than usual. Not to mention having to remove my super-warm, waterproof gloves to change the pony rugs and deal with buckles and clasps morning and night, while Jack Frost’s needle-sharp nails poke me all over. The swine.

But there’s no alternative – the job has to be done and the little poppets need to be kept cosy out in their paddocks.

It all came to a head one particularly cold morning a couple of weeks ago when I shivered back to the kitchen with a bright red face, freezing tootsies and numb fingers, and fought with the dogs over who could get closest to the Aga. Lying on the floor with my feet pressed hard against the hottest oven door, I quite surprised Richard when he came in.

“Blimey! What’s this? Dog yoga?”

Well, we were in a bit of a heap and the three of us had legs in the air…

“No. Defrosting.”

The following morning I saw my friend, Curly, at Willow’s school gates and we agreed that what we needed was an escape to a spa. She had a discount voucher and that was all the persuading I needed. So this week, with a small army of helpers left in charge of the ponies, Mel staying over in charge of kids and smaller creatures and Richard away working, I packed my overnight bag and set off. I’d booked my treatments and we were staying overnight so we could completely relax. Wonderful.

The hotel looked very nice and although the car park was a short hike from the reception, and my room, disappointingly, wasn’t ready when I arrived, I didn’t mind. I left my bag with them and followed directions to the spa (which was in another building, about 50 yards away). Curly had been delayed, so I went for a hot stones massage while I was waiting. For someone like me, with my knotted neck, creaky back and horrible hips, to be massaged with so much heat was absolute bliss.

I made my way back to reception feeling thoroughly pampered and after a few phone calls, my room was pronounced ready. It was a nice room and when Curly arrived, we were joined by our friend Lesley for lunch, then all three of us returned to the spa for more indulgence.

Because of the hard labour I put my hands through every day, they needed some serious TLC, so I’d booked a French manicure with gel nails to go on to my rather stubby fingernails.

The manicurist, however, had other ideas and looked decidedly disgruntled when I didn’t want to pick one of her 50 shades of red.

A hushed conversation followed between three bemused beauticians before a different nail technician appeared and set about trimming my already non-existent nails.

My original request had totally been lost in translation so that instead of ending up with smart, elegant nails, I left with them painted a dreadful pinky orange and clipped back so far I couldn’t even scratch an itch.

To cut a very long story short, the rest of the stay didn’t get much better with a mix-up over champagne, a broken television, a decidedly cold hot breakfast and – just to put the icing firmly on top of the cake – horizontal, gale-force wind at check-out time the following morning.

No matter, I drew myself up to my full 5ft 2ins and set forth, awaking my courageous explorer gene to battle the element, grabbing a complementary guest umbrella on the way out (which blew inside out in moments and tried to end its sorry existence against a wall).

I returned, bedraggled, and handed the umbrella to the receptionist saying, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid this might need a bit of attention.”

She gave me a displeased look.

We then examined our bills and were rather surprised to see: “Spa refreshments, £110.”

“But we only had two cups of tea.”

“£55 for a cup of tea sounds a bit much,” I joked, but the receptionist’s face remained stern.

When I finally set off for home, with rainwater dribbling from hair into eyes, and my stubby fingers gripping the steering wheel, I realised that much as I’d enjoyed spending time with Lesley and Curly, I’d far rather be at home doing dog yoga by the Aga with the smiling faces of my girls and my ponies, breaking nails and getting drenched for a valuable reason rather than misplaced vanity!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/559193/Mindy-Hammond-column-on-misplaced-vanity

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Mindy Hammond on An Eventful Run To The Vet

IT'S TIME for our columnist’s menagerie to get their yearly jabs – but with travel sickness, terror of the vet and cat wars, the fur could be flying

Sun, March 1, 2015


It’s time for our columnist’s menagerie to get their yearly jabs         [SUSAN HELLARD]

The vet’s annual booster visit: ah, how we look forward to it! The cat flap is locked, there’s a mound of food in Twiglet’s bowl in the barn and all fingers are crossed that there will be no escapes before the injections are administered. Obviously, if we didn’t have six dogs and five cats, I’d happily nip to the vet’s. But aside from instantly filling the vet’s waiting room, we have some behavioural issues to contend with…

Boot, our enormous Old English mastiff, weighs in at about 10st and doesn’t like car journeys. When he was younger, I managed to heave him into the back of the Land Rover a couple of times.

But even at 8st, I was lifting well over my own weight, and a travel-sick dog with a tendency to drool at the most relaxed of times is really not the best passenger. After an hour’s round trip, it took me all afternoon to clean the car, and the receptionist at the vet’s was left on her hands and knees trying to salvage the dog accessory carousel that he’d barrelled into.

TG, on the other hand, will hop on to the front seat these days fairly happily (although she categorically will not travel in the back). But the moment she realises we’re at the vet’s, she begins trembling violently, so a home visit is a better scenario for all concerned!

So with many packets of dog and cat treats, the kitchen surgery was opened for business at 10am, and our first task was the capture and containment of Twiglet, our barn-dweller. Picking her up for a cuddle is straightforward – getting her into the house is a problem. The ongoing war with her daughter Frazzle never seems to end and even with Frazzle locked out of the kitchen, low-pitched cat growls could be heard. Poor Twiggy was very on edge throughout her examination, and relieved to be released back to the safety of the barn where Frazzle never dares to tread for fear of aerial attack.

Everyone in the household was pronounced fit and well – even Crusoe who, despite being the equivalent of a 98-year-old lady and needing a guide whenever she comes for a walk, is still full of beans and waggy of tail.

I then fetched dear old Rucksack, our aged ginger Tom, who was our very first pet and has been with us for about 19 years. Rucksack is very vocal and was chatting away to me as I carried him all the way down three flights of stairs, from his usual place on Willow’s bed.

He was once a very heavy creature to carry, but last time the vet came she agreed he was showing signs of his age. So I set up a new Rucksack feeding station in my office on the middle floor, as well as a very high-tech litter box with a special extractor fan built into the lid, and over the past months he’s put on some weight.

The vet couldn’t believe his transformation, as he’d filled out and his coat looked so much better. All was good, then, except for the fact that he used to have the loudest, most wonderful purr, but a couple of years ago it just stopped.

She reassured me that old cats can just forget how to purr and there was nothing to worry about. That was a few weeks ago and life continued as normal, although all members of our human family came down with a dreaded virus.

Typically, Willow’s tonsillitis decided to make a visit and she was bedridden for a few days, with her faithful ginger friend constantly by her side. I nipped upstairs to check on her one evening and was surprised not to see Rucksack on the bed.

She gave me a cheeky grin and rolled back the duvet to reveal her little friend’s head snuggled into her chest, his eyes closed and mouth smiling.

“He loves sleeping like this. He’s my teddy bear.”

As she gave him a cuddle, a low rumbling came from under the covers.

“Willow, listen – he’s purring!”

We both grinned and as the seconds ticked by, it was as though his memory kicked back in. His purr grew louder until he was back to his old volume. We were all so happy for him.

Just last night, Richard was sitting with his feet up when Rucksack hopped on to his outstretched legs and draped himself like a leopard on a branch, his head flat on Richard’s knees. And with his gorgeous, smiling face and tightly shut eyes, he purred and purred until they both drifted off to sleep.

I’ve said it before: sometimes love really is the best medicine.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/560620/Mindy-Hammond-on-eventful-run-to-the-vet

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Newborn bunnies cause a bit of trouble at Hammond Towers

A BABY BUNNY has our columnist worried this week, but at least the rabbits at Hammond Towers are well cared for by a four-legged friend

By MINDY HAMMOND                                     Published: Sun, March 8, 2015

A baby bunny has our columnist worried this week                        SUSAN HELLARD

Last week there were yells of “White rabbits! White rabbits!” to welcome in the new month. Although it’s mostly greyish-brown ones around these parts, hopping around and bringing their babies out from dark burrows to look at the world, then scampering back in again at the first hint of danger. It’s a tough life being a baby in the wild when you’re small, vulnerable and, well, not to put too fine a point on it: edible.

Unfortunately, there was at least one doe who decided spring had sprung early this year. It was over a month ago and I was on the evening school run. At 6pm, it was already pitch black as I drove along the lanes, but then I noticed something in the road ahead and slowed to a crawl. There, completely bewildered and totally unsure which way to go, was the tiniest baby rabbit. He floundered for a moment then hopped back into the hedge, but I couldn’t understand it. It was incredibly cold (late January) and although I understand rabbits can breed from January to August, this baby had to be over three weeks old to be that developed and where was Mummy Bunny?

I carried on to school, hoping the little thing would be OK, and thankfully there was no sign of it on the return trip so I hoped he’d found his way home. But would you believe it? The next day, at exactly the same time and same place, there he was again, and I made up my mind to leave early on the third day to wait and watch. If this was an orphan, it wasn’t going to survive long – temperatures of -7°C were forecast and the lane can get quite busy – so I was worried. Yes, I know it’s just a rabbit and they have a 90 per cent mortality rate as babies, but still! The next day I parked up and waited, but no baby rabbit appeared and I haven’t seen him since. I doubt he survived, but I also doubt I would’ve been able to catch him even if he was an orphan and it was better that nature decided his fate in the end.

No more baby bunnies were seen and I started to think that something odd had happened. Much as we missed the lovely call of the owls last year, when they were really low on numbers, at least it gave the baby bunnies and rodents a bit of a fighting chance. Whereas this year, with the night

air filled with hoots and calls, fluffy, ground-dwelling, dusk-scampering mothers are nervous. With a nest full of screaming, hungry kids, there’s only one solution – you daren’t take them above ground in the daylight, so evening exercise and supper alfresco should bring a welcome bit of peace, but instead it’s fraught with danger.

We have several areas of rabbit habitation: down in the dingle, in the far field behind the haylage bales and under Rosie the donkey’s field shelter, which is the most successful burrow. Not only is it a completely brilliant bit of home building (please note: the females dig the burrows), but it also has fantastic access to all amenities. Rosie is always supplied with hay in her field and her shelter is very conducive to bunnies in bad weather.

With a quick dash along the well- covered hedge line, the rabbits can also arrive at Max’s field shelter, then nip underneath and emerge in Chicken Woods where corn and chicken pellets are plentiful (a good source of everything for baby bunnies). The only downside with the plan is Rosie’s tendency to play, which is more like an aggressive attack as she brays very loudly with her head close to the ground and gallops at her target.

But this year, the field shelter bunnies have found they don’t need to make the long journey to Chicken Woods any more because Kitty, our lovely black-and-white gypsy cob, has turned out to be the epitome of an earth mother. Not only is she the one horse on the farm who doesn’t mind sharing her hay with the irritating goats (and she literally kisses Sparrow the Labrador good morning), she also loves rabbits.

She has enormous, hairy feet that could squish a bunny in a second but lucky for them, she delicately tiptoes around the little treasures instead. In fact, they are so ridiculously at home with her, they sit on the hay right in front of her nose as she chomps, her face an expression of complete bliss. The babies aren’t even worried when she has a little “yee-ha!” around her paddock, which, being a youngster, she sometimes decides to do.

I wonder if only that poor little rabbit in the lane had been born closer to us, it might have found a safe haven with caring Kitty, but I suppose her crèche facilities are stretched as it is.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/562094/Mindy-Hammond-column-on-newborn-bunnies

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Mindy Hammond on Chilly Childhood Bedtimes

OUR columnist remembers chilly childhood bedtimes and reminds the girls that living in an old house brings new adventures

Published: Sun, March 15, 2015


Our columnist remembers chilly childhood bedtimes and reminds the girls that living in an old house [SUSAN HELLARD]
 
When I was little, I went to my tiny bedroom every night in brushed-cotton pyjamas and thick, knitted bed socks. I’d throw back the candlewick bedspread and heave out the tightly tucked sheet and blanket from the mattress, before leaping between freezing-cold sheets and wriggling as quickly as possible to try and warm my patch. Then I’d snuggle into my pink brushed-cotton pillowcase with little bunnies, pull the faded pinky-orange bedspread up to my chin and, quite often, pull a few more tufts from it before drifting off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that I would wake with only my nose numbed with cold and lots of ice to break off the window pane (which always tasted slightly metallic).

The vast majority of my friends had the same experience at bedtime – unless, of course, their parents were super-modern, wealthy and could afford replacement windows or that new thing: double glazing. Our old neighbours were a bit modern. The dad was an architect and they moved because he was designing and building a house for them near the coast. We thought that was incredibly exciting but nowhere near as incredible as the house itself, which had an external wall almost completely made of glass so they could enjoy the views. I remember thinking that surely, it couldn’t be safe. After all, it should be bricks, otherwise wouldn’t the house collapse?

We were invited to visit for a weekend and although it was spring, the wind was howling when we arrived. As I smiled and waved at my friends standing on the other side of the downstairs window, my heart sank. I just knew it was going to be freezing in there. Too many windows, too many draughts. But to my utter amazement, it was like walking into a summer’s day. The kids were in T-shirts and walking around the vast, open-plan sitting room in their bare feet. I had no idea how the house was warm, but I was delighted to take off three layers. When night-time came, it all went a little bit wonky, though. As a family, we were used to draughts and a bit of a breeze, but the super-modern house was sealed tight against the elements. Although it was great not to be shivering when you climbed into bed (and they had quilts, not blankets!), we all admitted on the way home that we found it stuffy and were desperate for extra glasses of water through the night.

Some things never change. Although we have wooden window frames instead of metal and our house is grander than my childhood home, even

in the gentlest breeze many of them allow the air through. An increase in wind speed causes a good rattle, particularly on the top floor where Izzy and Willow have their rooms. Willow isn’t bothered at all, but Izzy gets exasperated:

“It’s so cold in my room and the noise of those windows! How am I supposed to get to sleep?”I have pointed out that it’s not actually that cold – after all, she does have two radiators in her room. But I conceded that the rattling was a bit much, so we wedged strips of cardboard into the gaps and it died down to a mild rumble.

“Ah, that’s better. But why can’t we live in a modern house? This place is so ancient,” Izzy harrumphed.

“Yeah, it is, but weirdly that’s what’ll make it more wonderful as you get older.”

“Oh right, like when we can’t get out because the electrics have blown and the gate won’t open, or when the broadband stops working and there’s no internet for a week, or when the boiler stops working because the oil delivery didn’t come?”

Izzy rolled her eyes and said, “Good times.”

I couldn’t help myself.

“Mmmm… the electrics blew the gates, so you couldn’t get to school, so you had an unexpected day at home in your pyjamas.

The internet didn’t work, so we played board games and all watched a movie together on the laptop in a power cut. When the boiler broke down, we all camped in front of the wood burner in sleeping bags then spent the night eating sweets and crisps and arguing over who had most cats on them.”

“Oooh yeah,” she smiled.

“If we lived in a modern house, none of those things would happen. It might seem that things are a bit inconvenient, but you’ll look back and remember the fun times we had.”

Willow had been listening at the door and said, “I don’t care. I love our house.”

“You’d love a barn if you could sleep near Rocky with a cat on your head,” her sister sniped.Willow just grinned and said, “Yep, and the dogs too! I doubt they’d cope with the indoor icicles, though!”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/563678/Mindy-Hammond-chilly-childhood-bedtimes
 

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Mindy Hammond on The Winds of Change

SPRING has sprung at Hammond Towers but can our columnist’s equine collection cope with the winds of change?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:Sun, Mar 22, 2015


                                                                                             SUSAN HELLARD

Why won’t spring make up its mind? The other day we managed rain, hail, sun, rain, snow and sun again. It was just too weird and very confusing. The daffs were out and wondering why they’d bothered, and to watch the congregation of crocuses bowing their heads as they were pelted with ice pellets was sad.

It must take a fair bit of effort to heave out of the bulb and through the mud – only to be bullied by the cruel weather.

While the trees were battered around by the high winds, I couldn’t help worry for all those feathered nest-builders who’d just done the foundation work on their new homes – all that twig gathering and flights to the barn to gather clumps of trimmed TG hair (I leave it in there after the groomer’s been and they’re very grateful, as it’s just like wool).

Then one big storm and it’s all gone. Blackbirds seem to be particularly annoyed – they’re fighting and screeching at each other and bickering over territory all the time. I can’t help wonder what it would be like on a human building site if a half-built house tumbled to the ground overnight.

OK, maybe the foreman wouldn’t beat up the builder next door to try and steal his house – he’d be more likely to call the insurance company. Honestly, these birds should plan ahead and get cover for that sort of thing. Although they may have problems arguing about acts of God…

As you can imagine, I’m not a great lover of gale-force winds. It makes everything just a bit more difficult. There’s hay and twigs everywhere, plus it terrifies the bantams when they suddenly become involuntarily airborne.

But worse than that, horses hate wind. Next time you’re in the countryside and it’s blowing a gale, look at horses in a field. Their bottoms will be facing into the breeze and I doubt they’ll look happy.

Like other people’s equine collectives, our horses and ponies aren’t ones for denying themselves the comfort of a stable, so as soon as they sense the weather may be turning they go into Mindy Alert.

It’s as though they all have walkie-talkies hidden under their manes. One of them sniffs the air, looks to the Welsh mountains, assesses the impending weather situation, then surreptitiously gives the command, “Code Red. I repeat, Code Red. Scramble Mindy Alert,” and then it starts.

Max trots to his gate and begins marching to and fro along its length. Moments later, Kitty sees this and streaks across her paddock then does a sliding stop at her field gate, where she remains motionless, her black head with its wide white blaze like a beacon turned as she stares towards the house.

Meanwhile, Finn has already set off from the farthest corner of his enormous field to his most prominent position.

He comes to a steady halt in the corner of his territory, to be joined by Rocky. He’ll have been cantering around his own paddock in a vain attempt at drawing attention to himself. He stops the other side of the fence and looks on in awe as Finn comes to a halt, stands square and clears his throat.

Then just when he assesses that the time is absolutely right, he turns his head housewards and lets out the loudest neigh you ever heard. And waits.

Finn will allow a minute then neigh again, a little louder, a little longer, and this will go on for a long time with his neighs gradually becoming more frustrated, until he hears the familiar crunch of wellies on gravel. At which point Finn will put in an almighty neigh as if to say, “Where do you think you’ve been?” Then Max will join in with, “Exactly, quite right. Me first.”

Meanwhile, through the whole exercise, Musca has continued grazing.

He’s the last to be brought in and although he and Finn share a field, I quite often have to put Finn to bed then go back out and find his little friend as Finn stares worriedly across the fields from his stable door.

Musca will stand out under a tree in a soaking-wet rug with driving rain turning his tail into a dripping clump and his forelock dribbling water down his long face while all his friends are in their stable rugs munching hay. It’s not that little Musca doesn’t want to come in – he loves his stable.

No, I think the poor little chap hasn’t been provided with one of those special horse walkie-talkies.

Because he’s the only pony with a foreign passport, I’m afraid even after all these years, he still hasn’t really grasped the neighing lingo. So instead of joining the fray, he stands like a little grey crocus battered by the elements, accepting his fate until I go rescue him. Poor little sausage!

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/564976/Richard-Hammond-s-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-on-the-winds-of-change

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Mindy Hammond on Keeping Up With Technology

SHOULD our columnist be keeping up with the times with an up-to-the-minute smartphone – her girls certainly think so...

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, Mar 29, 2015


Should our columnist be keeping up with the times with an up-to-the-minute smartphone?

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the most technologically minded person. Yes, I can work my phone, although I’m always surprised when someone points out a new function I didn’t know existed – why don’t they give you a manual?

And although I can find my way around the laptop, there are lots of things that I daren’t even look at in case I can’t get back to the familiar home screen.

But just when you feel a little bit confident with your gadgetry, they bring out something new.

I’ve just heard about these new smartw@tches, which look like they belong on an episode of Star Trek. Apparently, they can work like tablets – does that mean they can cure headaches? I must admit I was quite interested until I heard that they only work when connected to mobile phones.

So let me get this straight – in order for your smartw@tch to work like your mobile phone, your other phone still has to be carried in your pocket/handbag in addition to wearing an enormous watch?

Sorry, but isn’t that simply doubling the amount of things you have to carry with you all the time? We’re obsessed with having our phones with us constantly as it is, and now there’s another thing to run back in and fetch when you’re halfway down the road.

Worse than that, have you seen the size of the text on these things? I realise I’m getting on a bit and don’t have the pin-sharp eyesight of a teenager, but I’m very much not alone and these days I have to reach for my reading glasses just to make out text messages.

If I had one of those smartw@tches, I’d have to wear glasses constantly.

And I bet that they will all have the same alert sound when messages comes through.

Can you imagine all those twentysomethings with their super-cool new watches doing a weird breakdance-type move as they look at their watch while fumbling for their pocket-enclosed phone? There will be new smartw@tch-imposed injuries, as cricked necks and wrenched shoulders become the plague of the young.

Do they heat up like my phone does when it’s on charge sometimes? Will there be wrist burns? All these things should be considered. The smartphone squint may become an international phenomenon, with young girls heading for Botox even earlier for correctional injections. On balance, I think I’ll just carry my glasses with me alongside my phone.

The smartw@tch issue made me wonder just what else will happen over the coming years.

My girls are still bewildered that the mobile phone wasn’t even invented until I was their age, and can’t imagine a world without the internet or computers. They even find CDs a bit odd. I remember seeing my first CD on Tomorrow’s World but thinking it was unbelievable and far too space age to ever become a reality.

Is it just that I’m getting old and resisting change because nothing stays the same for long enough, so my weary brain is just too full of stuff to fit any more information into it?

The girls made fun of me over the watch thing.

“They’re really cool and who wears a watch these days to tell the time?”

“Erm, I do”

“Yeah, but nobody our age does.”

I hadn’t realised it before, but they’re right. Kids don’t wear watches as much because the time is on their phone, so they have a free wrist space. How clever that the phone manufacturers managed to replace the need for wearing a watch with a phone and then decided that to go along with that phone you should have a watch.

Hmmm…

A few days ago, we saw a self-driving car on TV. I was expecting the girls to find it as exciting as the watch-phone-tablet, but they were outraged.

It wasn’t what I expected at all. Even more curiously, when we were out on a shopping trip recently, I was amazed by their reaction when they saw old-fashioned portable record players for sale in a funky clothes shop,

“Oh wow! They’re so cool!” exclaimed Izzy.

It turns out the turntable is back in style.

So the incredible downloading of tunes via the internet isn’t as fashionable as an old-fashioned 45rpm record; self-driving cars are impressing nobody in our household; and watches are coming back in style, even if it is with a bulky device in your pocket to make them work.

At this rate, there will be a rush on ponies and traps within a few years, and by the time I’m in my dotage the barter system will be back. I can’t wait. Anyone got an abacus?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/566553/Mindy-Hammond-on-modern-technology

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Voting For Britain's First National Bird

EVERYONE is all aflutter at Hammond Towers as they vote on which feathered friend should become Britain’s first national bird

PUBLISHED: Sun, Apr 5, 2015


The Hammonds vote on which feathered friend should become Britain’s first national bird [ SUSAN HELLARD]
 
On the way home from the morning school drop-off, I regularly tune in to Radio 4 (unless it’s very political, then I switch to Radio 4 Extra for Round The Horne or something funny), which is a welcome relief to the ear-blasting 45 minutes Izzy subjects us to at 7.30am.

I know I must be getting old when the wailing of certain artistes genuinely heralds the onslaught of a thumping headache.

So I was breathing a sigh of relief, listening to the authoritative yet soothing voice of John Humphrys and smiling at the gambolling lambs in the fields, when he started to discuss something that really caught my attention – the vote for the British national bird.

What a welcome change from bickering politicians and what a debate opened in the Hammond household that evening. There were 10 on the short list for members of the public to cast their vote, but which bird would we go for?

“Oh My God, I love puffins. They’re so cute!” exclaimed Izzy.

Willow rolled her eyes slightly and instantly decided on the barn owl: “Because they’re really rare and I love the noise they make.”

Richard, on the other hand, went for the hen harrier. I was confused – did he even know what a hen harrier was?

“No, but it sounds cool.”

Typical.

My friend Mel was in the kitchen at the time and her vote went for the robin.

Me? Well, I was torn. I’ve made no secret of my love for barn owls – I’m quite passionate about them – but then I wavered.

“I know blackbirds don’t look very exciting, but everyone both hears and sees them, and their song at dusk is just so British.”

How should we vote? Well, perhaps we should make sure the birds don’t disappear to other countries when the weather turns a bit chilly.

After all, if they want to be our national bird, they really should stick it out shoulder to shoulder with us through fair weather and fowl (sorry), and crack on with organising their campaigns. I had visions of all the candidates with coloured rosettes, visiting gardens up and down the country with their manifestos recorded in song.

Well, perhaps not the puffin – he may have to start an internet campaign (on Twitter!).

Wrens are very sweet and incredibly hardy, blue tits are just cute, but both would have to make an awful lot of noise to make themselves heard in the voting. Meanwhile, we have to work hard to spot a beautiful kingfisher, but should that make it a stronger candidate?

I hate to cause controversy, but my sources tell me that there’s something a bit underhand going on with a few of the candidates. I feel it’s my duty to let you know a couple of the nominees already hold positions of influence.

The mute swan is already the national bird of Denmark and the blackbird has been crowned the national bird of Sweden. Perhaps they’re just well-travelled and incredibly popular?

Even so, it’s a slight worry that a Danish swan or a Swedish blackbird might flutter up to the podium to receive the crown.

Red kites, however, are undoubtedly British.

In the Middle Ages, they were protected by the Crown as they kept the streets clean with their scavenging activities. But then things went badly wrong and for centuries the people of the UK persecuted them almost to extinction. In fact,

by the 19th century they were only saved by the generosity and determination of a handful of landowners in Wales, who set up their own unofficial protection programme. Despite their efforts, there were fewer than 20 pairs in the entire UK as recently as 1960.

Thankfully, they’re now highly protected and well on the road to recovery, but perhaps making the kite the national bird would increase awareness of the catastrophic effect we can have on our wildlife?

As you can tell, I’ve really taken this quite seriously and I’m really confused. It’s up there with voting in the general election – everyone has good points, but at the end of the day you just go with the one who personally appeals to you the most.

I’m not terribly keen on any politicians, but I am very keen on barn owls. They’re simply magical, so they get my vote, although I do feel guilty about the red kite.

I wonder which politician will announce the winner and whether, rather like dog owners, they will look strangely like the bird that wins?

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/568137/Mindy-Hammond-column-Britain-s-first-national-bird

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Mindy Hammond on Children's Pets

A CUNNING fox has our columnist concerned this week, but can she outwit the predator and save the family’s much-loved guinea pigs?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Apr 12, 2015


Willow fell in love with the idea of guinea pigs, then I finally cracked around her ninth birthday [SUSAN HELLARD]

The thing about guinea pigs is you can’t just have one, you must have two, and if they’re a lady guinea pig and a gentleman guinea pig you’ll soon have between six and nine! I managed to resist the begging for a year when Willow fell in love with the idea of them, then I finally cracked around her ninth birthday.

To her absolute delight, the biggest hutch in the world was presented to her, followed by a long car journey to choose her new pets. They’ve always been a funny little pair, Smudge and Splodge, living as they have in their deluxe hutch with its pitched roof upstairs and ramp down to a ground-floor run.

They’d spend hours in their big playpen nibbling at the grass like mini lawnmowers. But just as dawn was breaking last Friday, I noticed something was awry at guinea pig palace… they weren’t home.

Not so much as a sign saying “back in 10 minutes” or a note for the milkman. They’d just upped and left! Thankfully, Captain, TG, Blea and Sparrow were otherwise occupied and I only had the near-sighted Crusoe to worry about in terms of sniffing out potential guinea pig for breakfast, so I set about looking for the errant rodents.

Within moments, they appeared from the hedge and scurried over to me making a tremendous amount of squeaking and chirping. I rattled the feed bowl and Splodge followed it into the downstairs run, but Smudge, who has been known to nip occasionally, was busy munching on the grass behind the house.

Unbelievably, I managed to grab him and quickly return him to his friend. On inspecting the hutch, I couldn’t understand what had happened. I knew the hutch was closed properly the night before because I’d fed them (as usual).

The only thing I could imagine was that somehow the metal toggles that hold the door shut had been turned, but by who? It was only when I returned to the kitchen and passed the rabbit’s hutch that the mystery unravelled.

Pumpkin’s water bottle was on the floor, knocked off the outside of the hutch, and the smell of fox was unmistakable. My guess was the guinea pigs escaped a sticky end by moments, as I doubt there are many foxes who would leave the scene of the crime empty-handed.

Later that day both of the little squeakers seemed none the worse for their adventure, and I tightened the toggles on the doors just to give them a little extra security. Sadly, on Sunday morning Willow came running over to me at the yard.

“Something’s wrong with Smudge. Quick!” I dropped everything and joined her at the hutch. Poor little Smudge was lifeless, and his little friend was very worried.

“Oh Wills, I’m so sorry,” I told her as she lifted his little body up, sobbing her heart out. “But he’s only three. Why has he died?”

“I don’t know darling, perhaps he had a heart attack.” We dug a grave for him by the stables and said a few words over his little shrouded body, but I worried. Perhaps I hadn’t beaten the fox after all and something had happened just before I found them.

Smudge was the braver of the two; he would’ve put up a fight, and a visit from a fox would explain what had happened two days before. With the rain pouring down and Willow indoors with a cup of hot chocolate, snuggled up to Daddy watching TV, I fetched my drill and set about fixing the hutch.

An hour later I’d replaced all the hinges and changed the closing mechanism; I’d also fitted stops on the inside so there was no way a fox could push the door inwards.

Splodge doesn’t seem to miss his friend too much, in fact, he seems delighted to have the place to himself. He’s already changed the bedroom around and is eating well, not that Willow would notice the difference. Despite her sadness, she quickly recovered and I’m still feeding, cleaning and checking on the little chap.

I don’t mind though; he’s actually become far friendlier and we’ve started a daily cuddle routine. He’ll need to get used to me though – as I’m the only female he’s ever coming into contact with. Willow may be his owner, but I’m definitely his housekeeper...

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/569441/Mindy-Hammond-children-s-pets

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond: While Izzy wants to shop till she drops, our columnist has other ideas

THERE'S a shopping expedition in the offing and while Izzy wants to shop till she drops, our columnist has other ideas

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, Apr 19, 2015


While Izzy wants to shop till she drops, our columnist has other ideas [SUSAN HELLARD]

There comes a time in every mother’s life when she feels the seemingly endless days of daily nappy-changing and sthingy-feeding are finally over.

We then move on to that liberating first journey when we don’t need to fill the car with baby bottles and pre-prepared food, special sthingys and Tupperware, bibs and changes of clothes, and of course, that cumbersome pushchair. It’s a glorious moment when you know with certainty your child will manage to walk without falling over, running into a lamppost or disappearing under a clothes rail. But let’s be honest, don’t we all miss the fact that a pushchair can also double up as a handy shopping trolley...

If only someone would design a pull-along shopping trolley that was a bit funky, I’m sure they’d make a fortune. Yes, I know people have tried, but like adults using push-along scooters, shopping trolleys always have a touch of the Ena Sharples about them.

So I can quite understand why some ladies decide to buy prams for their beloved pooches – it’s not only an excuse to enjoy all the benefits of pushchair/acceptable shopping trolley ownership, if we ever give in to Izzy’s constant pleading for a long-haired Chihuahua, it could also be a ready-made limo. Izzy would love it. When the girls were little, on an almost daily basis they’d try to get Captain the terrier to be ferried around in a pram. But he resolutely refused to stay put even for a moment (although the hat and dress that the girls had dressed him in probably didn’t help matters).

Instead, the only option is to come home after a shopping expedition with aching shoulders and sore feet and, sadly, I know there’s one on the horizon. My wardrobe is almost bare because nearly every garment I own has migrated north to Izzy’s room, and the only way to avoid being seen in public wearing clothes from the 80s will be a serious restocking expedition. Neither of us are keen.

Me, because I absolutely loathe shopping, and Izzy because she absolutely loves it and, therefore, I’m the worst possible person to drag along. She likes to spend hours meticulously studying every clothes rail, trying everything on then coming away with just a pair of socks. Although I admire her tenacity to get it right, I often feel myself steadily declining into a pool of weariness, while trying to keep a smile on my face.

Willow has inherited my approach to clothes buying. If she finds a pair of jeans that fit her, she gets a blue pair and a black pair, and when she outgrows them I just grab the same jeans in the next size up, and she’s more than happy to rifle through Izzy’s castoffs when she needs a “new” top. The only time we spend any time shopping is for school shoes and horsey gear.

Apart from that, she’s very low maintenance. Well, at the moment. Obviously by the time she hits 14, I may be having a nervous breakdown stopping her from wearing truly outrageous outfits and dyeing her hair green.

Unfortunately, the shopping expedition seems to suddenly involve more than just shopping for clothes. I really wasn’t expecting the sudden pleading that Izzy must have a manicure!

Apparently, “everyone else” gets theirs done! I’m sorry, but in whose world is this? I have noticed that nail bars (I think that’s what they’re called) have popped up everywhere, and they do seem quite busy, but it’s all a bit alien to me. I mean, yes, if you’re about to walk down the aisle or you have a very special occasion where your hands need to look immaculate, but apparently 14 year olds are quite into the whole beauty parlour experience. God save us!

So by the time you’ve kitted out your teenager in various outfits, walked till you’re exhausted, suffered a banging headache, driven home and finally cleared away the dustbin full of bags and tissue paper generated from your purchases, all you want to do is slump into a cosy armchair with a nice cup of tea.

It’s not really surprising that exasperation hits as your other half strolls in and cheerily asks, “Good time? What’s for tea then?”

He genuinely has no idea why you’re not smiling from ear to ear, kissing him softly on the cheek and reaching for your pinny...

Bring back Tupperware and nappies, I say!

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/571059/Mindy-Hammond-on-shopping-expedition

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond: Willow Comes to the Rescue of an Inquisitive Dog

WHEN an inquisitive dog pokes his nose into a badger sett, it takes brave Willow to come to his rescue – much to our columnist’s concern

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Apr 26, 2015


When an inquisitive dog pokes his nose into a badger sett, it takes Willow to come to his rescue [SUSAN HELLARD]

Once upon a time, there was a very happy family of black-and-white furry creatures who lived in a very complicated home underground. It had been carefully constructed many, many generations before them by their legendary ancestors, and the family lived there quietly and happily with plenty of food and a stream nearby for fresh water.

Then one day, everything changed…

How do I know everything changed? Because now these black-and-white furry beings have turned their backs on the quiet, self-contained existence they once enjoyed.

They’ve obviously been working out at their underground gym and have been slurping protein shakes, listening to gangster rap and sauntering around with backwards-facing baseball caps and bandanas around their heads. I can imagine them with menacing, war-mongering expressions and even gold teeth in their jowls.

Every night they dare each other to go a little bit further, be a bit more daring and see if they can eventually be rulers of all the countryside.

Who knows where the leader of the gang sits? In some elaborate throne of bones in the epicentre of the tunnels or far away in his own personal headquarters? I picture him constantly on the internet, Skypeing his orders to his minions with intimidating growls.

Or maybe it’s a harmless-looking, wise, matriarchal old lady in a tattered shawl with spectacles balanced on her nose and a faltering yet commanding voice. We may never know but one thing’s for sure – orders are coming from somewhere and the youth are obedient.

Herefordshire is under siege and I suspect the surrounding counties are too. Badger bandits are taking their revenge for invasions of their homes and war has been declared. Inquisitive terriers, once tolerated for innocently poking their noses

in badgers’ burrows, are now deviously enticed deep inside the tunnels till all light is gone and their sense of direction is lost. Trapped and terrified, they’re left to the mercy of the fiendish bandits who attack without conscience.

Terriers are disappearing in alarming numbers and owners are fearful. Even Captain, our strangely claustrophobic little Jack Russell, ventured inside one of the badger holes in the dingle just last week. Luckily, Willow spotted his rear end disappearing inside and darted after him, yelling, “Captain! Captain!” but whatever intriguing scent was down there proved too much to resist and, unusually, he didn’t immediately return to her.

Bravely, she leaned into the entrance of the badger sett and stretched her arm down until she felt the end of his tail.

The tunnel had narrowed and he was wedged in, wriggling to push forwards (a huge mistake!), so Willow grabbed his rear-end stump and hauled him out. He emerged covered in red mud and very grateful for the rescue.

When she told me what had happened, I gave her a stern warning: “Well done for rescuing him and for noticing what happened, but promise me now to keep the dogs away from the dingle and never, ever put your arm into a badger sett again.”

“But I had to – he was stuck and he was trying to go further in!”

“I understand, and you saved him, and everything worked out for the very best, but you were both lucky. It could’ve gone very differently. There will be cubs down there and protective mothers. Badgers are dangerous and very aggressive.”

“They could’ve killed him!” And they undoubtedly would have if Captain had ventured too deep, and we both knew without immediate action we may have lost Captain for ever that day. But luckily, he was fine, if a little reddish-brown and in need of many cuddles.

It’s a tricky one – while badgers have as much a right to their existence as any other creature, they are also a problem.

With Crusoe the collie’s fading eyesight and deafness, every evening walk is fraught with peril. And as the young badgers come closer and closer to the house – right to the front door some evenings – her safety is in jeopardy. We all know that should an attack happen, the other dogs’ instinct to run to her aid would be irresistible and the results could be truly catastrophic.

If only they would just stop their silly teenage badger ways and do as their parents did – enjoy the peaceful harmony with those around them. Then we would all be happy. Now why has Izzy shut her bedroom door? Who said she could use marker pen all over those Converse trainers? Rebellion is a rite of passage for teenagers of every species, I guess…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/572581/Mindy-Hammond-on-inquisitive-dog

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Celebrating Her 50th Birthday In Style

A 50TH birthday should be celebrated in style – but the big question for our columnist is which style?

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, May 3, 2015


Our columnist is getting prepared for a birthday celebration in style  [SUSAN HELLARD]

Well I resisted for ages, but finally have given in and decided to go ahead with a big birthday bash to celebrate my 50th. In fact, by the time you read this column, it’ll all be over and I suspect I’ll be nursing a major hangover along with about 100 friends.

The hardest part was deciding on a theme. Had I known our pirates New Year party was going to be such a success, I would’ve saved that one. I honestly didn’t expect every single person to dress up – some of the swashbuckling was out of this world.

My 50th has gone through several phases. First there was fur and feather, which I thought was a great idea as obviously I love all things furred and feathered. But the kids thought it was an absolutely rubbish idea, so halfway through designing the invitation that one hit the bin.

Then, after chatting with friends about the best ball we ever went to, I decided to copy its Moulin Rouge theme. But even after designing the most brilliant invitation (all red and gold and pictures of saucy ladies), I knew it wouldn’t work, although Richard was clearly rather disappointed.

“What do you mean, ‘It won’t work’? You’ve all got great outfits hidden away ready to go and you know all the chaps approve!” he moaned.

“Yes, I know, but there’s one really big problem. When we went to the Moulin Rouge ball, it was December. It’s one thing to dash across a dark car park in a corset and frilly skirt, but it’s quite another to parade about in the May sunshine!

“But it’ll be dark inside. Oh go on, Mind…”

“Nope. Sorry, back to the drawing board.”

The following day, my lovely friend Helsy popped over and together we hashed out a few ideas. After both agreeing the new highlight of our weekend was watching Poldark on a Sunday night, we had a fantastic idea: a Poldark party. Everyone could come in period dress, either aristocracy or peasant, and I could ride in side-saddle on Max as Demelza. What a laugh!

We spent the next few hours redesigning the invitation and were very excited as Helsy left that evening. It had been settled and all I had to do now was scour the internet for a dress. Hmm… not so simple.

Much as the theme was a good idea, the reality of finding outfits was really tricky. And if a great internet shopper like me was having trouble, I decided sadly, it was another non-starter.

By now, I was getting really worried, the days were ticking by and the invitations needed to go out urgently. But what to do? We were about to leave for our Easter break to Cyprus for a few days when, the night before, I had an epiphany.

“The 70s are back in, so why don’t I theme it as a funk party?” I knew Richard would like this.

“Best idea yet. Yep. Go with that.”

So yet another invitation was quickly done on the computer and we set off for our holiday.

But once settled at our hotel in sunny Cyprus, and with the girls off splashing about in the pool, I looked again at the invitation design. Nope, still not right. What is it about getting older that makes a person so flaming indecisive? By now I was beginning to go off the whole idea. Maybe I should just have a nice bowl of soup in front of Poldark instead. Richard noticed my hangdog expression.

“What’s up?”

“I know this is getting ridiculous, but I still don’t think I’ve got the party idea right. I don’t even like funk that much. And I’m not keen on 70s clothes.”

“Why do you want people to dress up, anyway?”

“Because it puts you in the mood for a party, and I always feel sorry for men all trussed up in black tie.”

“Yes, but some chaps like wearing black tie.”

“But others might like to do something different.”

“OK, so you want to give everyone a chance to dress up and feel great?”

“Yes, and the girls should be allowed to go a bit crazy – go all-out glamour if they want to. Of course, that’s it – Hollywood glamour!”

I fired up the computer, made the invitation look like a clapperboard and put a drawing of Audrey Hepburn in the corner; the whole thing was black and white. Done and dusted.

Soon the RSVPs started flooding in, but there’s still one small problem. Although I’ve directed lots of ladies to fabulous websites for dresses, I’ve yet to find one to fit a 5ft 2in size 4.

I dearly hope that by the time you’re reading this, I have managed to find something, and last night’s outfit isn’t collapsed on the floor looking very much like a deflated Roger Rabbit!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/574240/Mindy-Hammond-50th-birthday-celebration

[RedMoon11]

Richard Hammond Shepherds Home A New Bunch Of Four-Legged Friends For Mindy

RICHARD follows the flock on a trip to the Lakes to see his pal Les, shepherding home a new bunch of four-legged friends for our columnist.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sun, May 10, 2015


Richard shepherds home a new bunch of four-legged friends for Mindy   [SUSAN HELLARD]

Yours truly is to blame. After all, wasn’t it me who drove to the Lake District to collect our collie pup Blea even after telling Richard we absolutely weren’t going to have her? Didn’t I then, a couple of months ago, start yattering on about borrowing a few sheep to eat down a couple of the paddocks? So why was I so surprised when Richard started to hatch a plan to visit his mate Les, legendary shepherd of the Lakes and border collie breeder extraordinaire?

Originally, Richard was simply going to give Les “a hand” with lambing, although in Richard’s experience lambing entails staying up all night in a large barn with a great crowd of hill farmers, several bottles of whisky and a pail of warm water. He thoroughly enjoyed the experience last time, but not so much the banging headache the following day, which was put down to lack of sleep! Although I noticed he never once rose from his bed when we were lambing at home.

Still, with his valuable knowledge of sheep midwifery, he was sure Les would be glad of his help and besides, it would be a great opportunity for Blea to visit her mother and maybe even learn the basics of herding sheep.

I was delighted to see him making plans for the trip, as it’s his favourite place in the world. He and Les would have a great time and I could concentrate on important things at home, such as fixing two of the chicken coops.

I should’ve smelled a rat when, the evening before his departure, Richard asked:

“So is your trailer OK to tow empty?”

“Yes, but why are you asking?”

“Oh, erm, I was wondering if I could borrow it.”

“Yeah, sure, but what for?”

“Oh… I… erm…”

“Riiichaaard?”

“Well, y’know you were talking about sheep the other day? And y’know how Les has lots of sheep?

Well, I was just thinking…”

“Oh! Herdwicks? Great idea. I love them, but have you discussed this with Les? We don’t want to take his best stock and we won’t be wanting any lambs. But we will need a ram, although it’ll have to be unrelated. He may know someone.”

“What… how?”

“So what are they? Shearlings?”

“Huh?”

“OK, I think I need to speak with the organ grinder. Sorry darling, but I’m not sure sheep are your thing.”

After a brief chat with Les, we decided on 10 ewes and a ram he could source from a neighbour.

Before Richard and Blea set off, I packed a care/clean-up bag (for the sometimes car-sick dog) that included five bin liners, two rolls of kitchen towels, three newspapers, disinfectant and two towels, together with a sealed bag of dog food and a plastic bowl. Then I found an old purple nylon collar and with a permanent marker, wrote on the outside “BRIDGE HOTEL, BUTTERMERE” and their phone number. Richard wasn’t too impressed.

“Mindy, I’m not going to lose her.”

“Look, indulge me – it’s just in case.”

“But it’s pink!”

“Well, if I’d known earlier you were planning this, I could’ve got a new tag cut for her collar.”

I let the hotel owner know that Blea was advertised as belonging to the Bridge (just in case) and they set off the following morning on their adventure.

I fixed the chicken coops, mowed the lawns and Richard kept in touch via the payphone at the Bridge. Blea had been on the fells with not only her mother, but also her grandmother and sister, then met up with her father in the valley below. It was a genuinely wonderful reunion – after a couple of hesitations, there was sudden recognition and all the dogs acted as though they’d never been apart. Blea was completely at home and everyone was so delighted to see her that she was totally spoilt (even sitting on laps in the bar).

Now they’re both home safe and sound, along with our new flock of Herdwicks and an incredibly handsome ram called Eddie, after the neighbouring farmer who allowed us to have him.

Les is still up to his neck with lambing, but has promised he’ll come to visit us soon and you never know, maybe we’ll send him home with a pony! Meanwhile, Richard’s made a short film of his trip with Blea and it’s on YouTube. Although thankfully, the ending is for comic effect!



www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/575786/Mindy-Hammond-column-Richard-Hammond-shepherd

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Leaving her daughter's favourite pet friend behind

WILLOW adores her teacher’s pet Tiggy, the cute terrier. But what will happen when she leaves school and leaves her four-legged friend behind?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, May 17, 2015

Mindy Hammond's daughter, Willow leaves her four-legged friend behind [SUSAN HELLARD]

Spring is finally here. Every other field is bursting at the hedgerow with bouncy lambs and their exhausted mothers, calves are out enjoying the spring grass, baby bunnies are literally everywhere, and pheasants and partridges are all over the place.

They’ve obviously developed a new instinct and realised that to fly is to die in shooting season, but if you run you’ll have more fun.

For us, the result of massive spring activity is a prolonged school run. We have to slow down at several points as we pass ever-expanding mares and directionally challenged baby bunnies who dash out of the verge, stop in the middle of the lane and then go into a blind panic. You can see their little brains thinking, “Oooh!

Forwards or back? Forwards or back?” and usually, they decide on back, which is a shame as most drivers assume they’ll carry on going forwards. We, of course, stop and wait for the decision to be made and seriously, some bunnies are incredibly slow decision makers!

Once we arrive at Willow’s school, there will usually be a calf, lambs or piglets to be visited and you can categorically guarantee several families will have new puppies who will have to be cuddled. Then of course, nobody but nobody can ignore the attentions of Tiggy.

You see, there is a wonderful and long-standing tradition at the school: teachers bring their dogs to work. There are terriers, spaniels, Labradors, the occasional Labradoodle (nearly TG’s husband) – in fact, all are welcome, but Tiggy is the queen.

She’s a little tan-and-white, rough-coated terrier with the longest eyelashes you ever saw who greets everyone who visits and particularly adores the children. Mrs A, her owner, is head of classics and since September has been Willow’s form teacher. From day one, all I heard was;

“Yees! I loooove Mrs A!”

Izzy agreed. She has fond memories of Mrs A, too, and we all decided some teachers are so special they influence your life for ever.

Of course, several months on, there have been a few changes – not in Willow’s feelings towards Mrs A but in her ever-increasing love for Tiggy. She, like all the children, has always made a fuss of this much-adored little dog and felt deeply honoured to be allowed to visit Tiggy with her puppies last year, pleading for us to have one.

But her litters are small and they were already spoken for. Besides, we were truly up to quota!

Then there was the cross-country run – Tiggy ran with Willow then Willow carried her and cleaned her off when she was covered in mud. She also often sits on Willow’s lap in class and a few weeks ago, I was early to pick Willow up and watched as she sat deep in conversation with her little friend before they ran about the field together.

On the way home, she started talking about being a leaver next year and of all the things she would miss, just the way Izzy had. Except, of course, she was the last – there would be no occasional visits, no conversations at drop-off, no Mrs A, no… Tiggy.

Richard knows Tiggy (well, everyone knows Tiggy!). He’s met her on many occasions when watching matches over the years and has often commented, “What a lovely little dog.” So when I put my idea to him, he just grinned and said: “Oh, absolutely.”

Then a few weeks ago, I made the binding contract. Tiggy will have a litter of puppies next year and one of them will have Willow’s name on it. There are four of us on the prospective parent list and Mrs A is visiting a possible husband (for Tiggy, obviously) this weekend. Weirdly, I think this most clever of little dogs approves of us, because the strangest thing has happened since we agreed on the puppy.

Tiggy doesn’t just give me a brief “hello” then trot off to her next visitor these days. She puts her front paws gently on to my knee and looks me in the eye with a smile and a waggy tail, which is rather comforting as I feel somehow “approved”.

So next spring, when the lambs, calves, foals, bunnies and fledglings are all around us, we’ll be watching for our own new arrival. And when Willow leaves the school, she’ll have Tiggy’s puppy under her arm, then in the car, the fields, the stables, on the sofa and, probably, in her bed. We’ll have a wonderful little creature to remind us all of wonderful times.

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/577234/Mindy-Hammond-column

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on The Drama of Getting New Shoes for Max the Pony
AFTER Max the pony’s barefoot days in the paddock, it was time for some fancy footwear – but stepping out was never going to be easy...

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, May 24, 2015


'A couple of months ago, I decided it was time to get back on the road together'  [SUSAN HELLARD]

There are very few people who aren’t aware of my great affection for just about all creatures great and small (except rats – not keen on them). I appreciate their welfare takes up quite a lot of my time, although recently poor Max has shifted to the top of the priority list again.

After his long (and very successful) recovery from colic last year, I kept his shoes off as he was just going to be wandering around the paddock for a while. But a couple of months ago, I decided it was time to get back on the road together, so when the farrier came we asked him to put front shoes on the old chap.

Max seemed a bit footsore afterwards and when the farrier revisited, I was in two minds whether we should leave him barefoot, but, bowing to the expert opinion, replacement shoes were put on.

I should’ve cottoned on when Mel phoned me the morning of the farrier’s visit to tell me Max wouldn’t let the farrier catch him. Even when I went into his paddock, Max was a bit hesitant, and was staring at the farrier’s van with a look of trepidation.

But being a biddable sort, he stood quietly until the moment the farrier had finished with him and I went to lead him back out. He was hobbling and clearly uncomfortable. The farrier tried to reassure me and pressure-tested Max’s feet, but even back in the paddock he was shifting his weight from one leg to another and when I went back to check on him an hour later, his hooves were hot.

The farrier was called and we asked him to return immediately to remove the shoes. I also called the vet.

His feet had been cut too short, which sadly happens quite often to native breeds, and he was given painkillers while I began to make pads to fit on the soles of his feet. As you can imagine, it was really upsetting, particularly for poor old Max, and securing pads on horses’ feet isn’t the easiest or quickest of tasks.

Fortunately, I had special sticky bandage in the horse first-aid box and some wadding stuff, but I had to buy gaffer tape to hold them on and then hope Max could bear to stand on one sore front foot while I wrapped up the other.

It took a while, but eventually he had silver slippers on both sore feet. I put extra bedding into his stable up to the door and breathed a sigh of relief.

Unfortunately, next day the slippers looked more like saggy socks, and I was just about to cut wadding and start the cobbling process all over again when I had an idea: nappies!

The wadding would be soft underfoot and the tape that normally fits around a baby’s waist could be taped to his feet. It worked like a dream and with gaffer over the top for waterproofing, I was delighted with my invention, although Max wasn’t too impressed as he didn’t manage to move them one inch during the night.

So began the pony nappy-changing duties, which continued for several weeks. He had to stay in his stable for quite a while but eventually started spending half days outdoors.

A couple of weeks ago, our new farrier came, and after examining Max said he could put some supports on his feet if we could harden them up using a mixture of iodine and sugar brushed on to the bottoms of the feet.

So off I trudged with my bag of Tate & Lyle and hunted in the first-aid kit for the iodine. I found an old coffee mug and poured some sugar in the bottom, then held the plastic bottle of iodine over the top and squeezed. Nothing. I squeezed again – still nothing.

So I squeezed harder, but the dispensing stopper shot out into the mug along with most of the iodine at very high speed and formed a violent handheld tsunami that whooshed back up and out all over my face, hands, arms and legs.

“Willow! Quick! Get some cotton wool and soak it in water!”

Willow was in with her pony giving him a cuddle at the time, and casually asked, “Why?”

“Because I’m covered in iodine and I can’t open my eyes! Quick, before it stains!”

But it was too late. I had ridiculous staining on my face and hands, and looked like I’d put on some very low-budget, splodgy, orangey-brown self tan. Luckily, Izzy’s chemistry knowledge saved the day:

“Starch! That will help!”

I found a wheat and apricot scrub that turned it purple, then washed it away (phew!).

Max is now sporting his special shoes and is definitely feeling better. He’s started going through his trick repertoire every time I enter the stable, even dancing on the spot. I’m just so grateful that feet grow quickly and that I saved that bag of nappies!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/578638/Mindy-Hammond-on-the-drama-of-getting-new-shoes-for-Max-the-pony

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Finding The Perfect Dress For Her Birthday Party

OUR COLUMNIST was looking forward to being the belle of the birthday ball, but would that be possible without that all-important dress?

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED:Sun, May 31, 2015


Will Mindy find the perfect outfit for her large birthday party?

Cake, cake, so much cake!

As regular readers may recall, I recently celebrated a rather large birthday with a rather large party to match. It was an absolutely fabulous evening, surrounded by my dearest friends and family. We partied hard, finally deciding to go to bed at 6am with the sun shining and birds singing in the trees.

I spent most of the evening on the dancefloor, which is a good way of avoiding overdoing it at the bar, although just days before I was seriously wondering whether I’d be spending the night hiding in a corner…

The theme for the party was “Hollywood glamour”, so an opportunity to really dress up. I searched everywhere for a glamorous dress, but couldn’t find exactly the right thing. So in the end, I plumped for a bargain, made-to-measure frock on a website.

Yes, yes, I know it’s risky, but I had to put in a zillion different measurements (wrist, earlobe length etc) so I thought, “What’s the worst that could happen?” But just to be extra safe – and they were bargains, after all – I ordered two styles.

I excitedly tracked my order (all the way from Singapore) and just as I was thinking I’d made a terrible mistake, a week before the party my parcel finally arrived.

I scurried upstairs immediately to try them on. The shade I thought I’d picked on my screen and the real colour had become lost in translation. Plus it had all sorts of spangly bits on the front – great for Strictly Come Dancing but not so great for 5ft-2in me. The second dress was a lovely olive green. Tick. And it was a definite mermaid shape.

But I think the mermaids in Singapore must be much larger in the chest department and clearly never have to sit down. (Mind you, how many times has anyone ever seen a mermaid on a bar stool?)

It was a disaster. And time was running out. That old adage came to haunt me: if something seems too good to be true, it usually is. Those “bargain” internet buys had cost me precious time.

With the clock ticking, Izzy kindly said that the afternoon we’d allocated for buying her party dress could be used for finding a replacement for me and she’d wear one of my old dresses (it’s very handy that we’re the same size), so off to Cheltenham we went. I wasn’t very hopeful but as options were so limited, I agreed.

By 2pm, we were parked and had found a specialist boutique that stocked prom dresses. Unfortunately it turned out that it was an “open by appointment only” place until the summer.

It was so frustrating because we could see rows and rows of glam dresses on the rails ready for the party season but my birthday was a little premature.

I thought I’d struck gold with my next idea, but Izzy just sighed: “No Mother, you can’t wear a bridesmaid’s dress!”

Then I remembered a boutique that I used to visit regularly when we lived in Cheltenham.

I doubted whether they’d have any evening dresses, but it was worth a try. Cue the Hallelujah Chorus! Not only was Sandie the manager still there, but she also whisked me upstairs to a room where hundreds of long dresses were arranged around the walls. We chatted about the days when Izzy was in her pushchair sucking on a bickie peg as we sifted through and found six possibilities.

But my heart sank as one after the other swamped me. Just as I was about to give up, Sandie revealed a very long, mint-green dress.

“This just came in yesterday,” she said. “It’s really small, but it’s worth a try.”

I tried it on and when I walked out of the cubicle, Izzy’s eyes lit up.

“Oh Mummy, that’s lovely!”

I had to admit it was probably the loveliest dress I’d ever worn.

The only trouble was, it was too long and it would be touch and go whether it could be altered in time. Fortunately, the tailor said he’d try.

It wasn’t until I collected the finished dress that I discovered Sandie had unpicked the complicated beading before it was collected as she was worried

it wouldn’t be done in time. It was completely perfect and I really did feel like the belle of the ball. Especially with my two utterly wonderful daughters, who took photos throughout the night, helped to direct traffic, chivvied the caterers and even joined their embarrassing mother throwing shapes on the dancefloor.

Now all we have to do is finish eating the three-foot-square cake.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/580785/Mindy-Hammond-birthday-party

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Saying Goodbye To Her Favourite Cockerel

WAS the music too loud? Did Flynn the cockerel eat a dodgy slice of my birthday cake? We will probably never know, but feathers have been severely ruffled in Chicken Woods.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sunday, June 7, 2015


It wasn’t long before he was gone, so I carried him to a spare chicken house'  [SUSAN HELLARD]

It started a few days ago when Flynn Rider, our cockerel (kindly given to us a few years ago by a friend who couldn’t bear the crowing any longer), wasn’t looking his usual perky self. It was bedtime, so as usual I marched in with my bucket of corn and started herding the ducks and chickens into their various houses.

But although all of his ladies and a few of the young little grey cockerels trotted into Flynn’s house, he remained by the far fence.

I wandered over.

“Hey boy, come on – it’s bedtime.”

But he didn’t move and as I walked closer, I noticed his head was tucked into his chest.

“Flynn?”

Now he’s a big cockerel and I really didn’t want to risk a violent reaction, so I crept closer then nudged him gently with my hand, expecting him to wake up and run off. But no – he just toppled forwards straight on to his head!

I dropped the bucket of corn and scooped him up in my arms, forgetting he is armed with long spurs and a vicious beak.

“Oh big fella, what’s happened?”

He hardly moved and his eyes were shut tight. His neck remained curled around and I could feel his breathing was very shallow. As we inherited old Flynn, we didn’t know his age, but he’d obviously known his hours were numbered and had found himself a place to sit in the sun and drift away.

As the other ducks and chickens helped themselves to the remainders of the corn, I sat with him back in his chosen spot with the warm spring sun on his back and gently stroked his head. I know it sounds silly, but I felt he deserved a good send-off and I told him what a good cockerel he’d been, looking after his ladies and acting the proud father around the chicks. It wasn’t long before he was gone, so I carried him to a spare chicken house and laid him on a bed of hay.

Much as we’ve lost a great many chickens and ducks to foxes on the farm, it’s rare they simply die. And although I have to admit the image of him falling like a felled tree when I found him is actually quite funny, I felt sad about losing him. And it wasn’t until the next day that I realised what an important role he’d played.

First thing in the morning, I opened up the big chicken house to complete confusion and much cantankerous clucking – who should be the leader? Where should they go first? The young cockerels were scrapping amongst themselves and the ladies simply couldn’t decide who should leave the bedroom in the pole position.

In the end, two tried to come out at once and wedged in the doorway while the rest scrambled over their heads – it was poultry pandemonium!

Of course, with no big boss to keep them under control, the wayward young boys were harassing hens from dawn till dusk, only stopping to peck each other and at the food. One of them, a rather rakish young male with frankly too big a comb to know what to do with, decided to have a pop at one of the enormous (and very senior) drakes.

It didn’t go well. He quickly learned that what a Muscovy lacks in agility, he more than makes up for in weight. Exit one slightly squished cockerel. He won’t be doing that again in a hurry.

Bedtime has, over the past few days, become rather a long and arduous task, and I’ve now given up on getting all the young rapscallions under cover – if they won’t cooperate with the cooping-up then they can just take their chances. Meanwhile, Mrs Magoo, Flynn’s favourite wife, is thankfully sitting on a clutch of eggs and she’s been on them for well over a week. So fingers crossed that a Flynn junior will hatch soon and, after a few months, be ready to take over from his dear-departed father.

Of course, he will have to win a few battles with the grey midget boys first and although they may be small, they already have their spurs. Hmmm… perhaps I’ll keep the new boy in training till he’s a bit bigger. The king is dead, good luck to the prince in waiting, but please don’t let him get muddled with the wrong clutch and wind up an omelette!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/582400/Mindy-Hammond-loss-in-Chicken-Woods

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on When Mice Attack The Garden Furniture

EEK! As Mickey and his pals nibble their way through our columnist’s garden furniture, it was time to line up some replacements.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, June 14, 2015


Mindy has to buy new garden furniture before she can enjoy the first summer heathwave [SUSAN HELLARD]

Summer’s here so the garden furniture was heaved out of its hibernation shed, arranged on the lawn and dusted down, ready for the imminent heatwave.

I was so delighted that my ingenious plan to cover the chairs with tarpaulin before locking them in the shed had saved them from bat droppings and nesting spiders. I was sure everyone would be impressed.

However, although the bats and spiders had found different accommodation, unfortunately the mice had obviously viewed the green-coated furniture mountain as an exclusive winter resort, and many families had bagged their own rattan condo and made themselves rather too comfy.

They left the accommodation in a shocking state, beds unmade and, worst of all, the rubbish not emptied, arranged or even assembled but strewn about the place.

The chairs were no longer fit for human posteriors, but would provide a sizable amount of kindling for the bonfire now that the winter holiday season had ended for our rodent population.

With a groan, I settled down to search for replacements, keying in “garden furniture, rattan” into the search window on my computer, but nearly fell off my chair when I saw the cost. I’m sure I’ve furnished a whole room for less. What on earth are these things made of? Is there gold thread woven into the cushions?

Then I realised, like many people, I’ve been using the same furniture for years and although it was probably expensive when we bought it, the numbers were rather lower when the children were little. After a couple of hours hopelessly searching for a bargain, I gave up and went to fetch the girls from school. On the way home, we nipped into our local all-things-for-the-country store for chicken food and a tail bandage (as you do).

But guess what? They also had a huge display of garden furniture between the crow scarers and the ride-on mowers! There was trouble in store, though, in the shape of a swinging, rattan pod chair that was instantly coveted by two Hammond girls who pleaded with me to “have a go”.

Foolishly, I did, and had to admit it was possibly the most comfortable, sleep-enticing thing after a hammock I’d ever settled myself into. What’s more, it was 50 per cent off!

I could see the ladies at the till smirking as I approached.

I sighed, “Tail bandage, a table, six chairs, a parasol and two swinging pods please.”

“Have you brought the lorry?”

“Erm, no, I think we’ll need delivery please.”

“You should know better by now.”

“I know, I’m a fool to myself, thank you.”

Of course, it wasn’t until I arrived home that I realised I’d forgotten the chicken food and had to ask them to throw a couple of bags of pellets on to the truck with the furniture.

The furniture arrived safely a couple of days later and I then realised the reason for the high price tag. Much as they look like rattan, all the chairs and the table are actually woven plastic, so completely weatherproof. How clever and how off-putting for the mice when they next think of booking their winter break.

I have to admit that the pods are quite big, but although they may not be the most attractive garden feature, they are absolutely the most sought-after seats. Nobody has yet managed a quiet swing without being joined by a cat or dog, and whenever we’ve sat outdoors it’s been almost impossible to find a vacant chair.

Ketchup, Twiglet and Rucksack have each claimed chairs at the table, while Frazzle prefers the space between the table stand and table top, and Satchel has pride of place under the parasol that shades his new, enormous, glass-topped wicker bed. Willow, meanwhile, has very carefully trained Blea to put her front paws on to the pod and give her mistress the occasional push to aid a peaceful swing.

All is well with the world. What we need now is for the heatwave to continue, oh, and an ice cream maker.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/583803/Mindy-Hammond-mice-column

[RedMoon11]

School Exams

IT'S NAIL-BITING time for our columnist’s girls as they await their exam results – but will they score top marks?

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sunday, June 21, 2015


Will the Hammond girls score top marks [SUSAN HELLARD]

Parents and children across the land are breathing huge sighs of relief – the dreaded exams are over and summer hols are on the horizon. Or at least, that’s what we’re all telling ourselves. Had your results yet? No? Then like us, you’ll be waiting anxiously for that end-of-term report or, even scarier, the emailed results.

Whatever the outcome, what’s done is done.

As parents, we fret that we should have triple-checked the kids were actually revising in their bedroom – not just chatting on electronic devices. Meanwhile, our children are kicking themselves that they forgot the difference between chevaux and cheveux. Horses? Hair? Aghhh.

All we can do is wait – and occasionally remind each other of the results day with slight trepidation.

In our household, Izzy has taken exams that will determine her GCSE choices, while Willow’s are to help the teachers decide which set she will be in for her final year. Tricky for both and just like every parent we know, the books were out every evening and Richard and I did our very best not to be baffled by everything from Ancient Greek to Pythagoras’ theorem.

To say it’s a challenge is putting it mildly. Did you learn Spanish at school? We didn’t. A smattering of French is as good as you’ll get, I’m afraid, and my Latin leaves a great deal to be desired, so testing Izzy and trying to speak Spanish with any conviction was a little bit daft and several times she had to look at the words to work out what on earth I was trying to say.

I’m assuming her answers were right, but obviously I didn’t have a clue. When I asked her to tell me about where she lived (in Spanish), she could have been telling me her nose was blue. And she burst out laughing on several occasions, which didn’t move things along too smoothly.

So I can’t really get uppity if her exam results are a little bit below par. It was easier with Willow, because although the Ancient Greek was simply impossible for her parents to read, let alone speak, at least Izzy could step in.

The trouble is, although we all want our kids to do well, we all have to find that balance. Nobody wants their child to become over-pressurised, but you can’t let them think it’s all fine and not to worry about their exams because the honest truth is: they should worry a bit! Exams do matter because they dictate that early path and it’s a true horror for any child who genuinely suffers stage fright when sat in the exam room.

There are some who may know the answer to just about every question, but the nerves get to them and their minds go blank, as they panic and scrabble about in their memories for anything vaguely related to the paper in front of them. The clock ticks away as their fevered brows furrow with anxiety.

Lots of us have been in that position at one time or another, and perhaps when the results are in we should all cast our minds back to then. That way, if faced with a disappointing set of marks, we can take a bit of time to find out where it all went wrong.

Was it really lack of effort? Was it panic? Or was it that the information just didn’t stick. After all, one way of learning doesn’t suit everyone, and it’s better to be understanding and encouraging than disappointed and dismissive.

As an adult, I find it absolutely incredible that these children can absorb so much knowledge on so many subjects, when surely they’d rather be outside playing in the sunshine?

Just because we can say, “I remember when I was your age and we had to walk five miles to school and carry books and do homework till we fell asleep then get up and do a paper round before it started all over again,” and, “Nobody helped me with exams and I managed,” does that mean it’s right?

Wouldn’t you rather be a child in a country where, on balmy summer days, you started school at 7am and finished at lunchtime? Perhaps had an exam on one subject monthly and had such encouraging and enthusiastic teachers that every subject was brought to life, making learning an incidental experience?

Leaving all afternoon to just be a child and learn about the world around you through being in it, guided by explorers and adventurers who took you to see incredible things while on mini-expeditions?

Ah yes, if Mindy ruled the world…

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/585392/Mindy-Hammond-column-school-exams

[RedMoon11]

The Appearance of Fantastic Mr Fox

THERE'S a proud newcomer to Chicken Woods – meet Fantastic Mr Fox – but does he pose a threat to our columnist’s feathered friends?

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sunday, June 28, 2015


Does newcomer Fantastic Mr Fox pose a threat to our columnist’s feathered friends? [SUSAN HELLARD]
 
There’s a proud newcomer to Chicken Woods – meet Fantastic Mr Fox –

We’ve had several bloodbaths in Chicken Woods at the hands of hungry vixens in years past. Their courage and determination to feed their cubs has caused them to ignore any sense of decorum (or self-control) and resulted in complete obliteration of every feathered friend.

Many have been attacked and left breathing their last, often in broad daylight. In fact, on three occasions, the only survivor was Nobby our old Muscovy drake, who was just too heavy for a fox to lift and too tough to be killed by a few nips to the neck.

The first time it happened, with the girls weeping over their pet hens and me trying to be brave but shedding tears of despair, I hated the fox. I would’ve happily grabbed the nearest firearm and hunted it myself. But now, many years on,

I’ve made it my business to learn more about the sly old devils.

I had one serious killer-fox tracked by a professional and we discovered that she was another vixen who had travelled about two miles from her cub-filled den to hunt our chickens. But she wasn’t simply indiscriminately killing – she was storing some of her kills in potato crates in a neighbouring farm, like a sort of larder.

There was thought behind her actions and forward meal planning (perhaps she was the Nigella Lawson of foxes?). While in the early tracking stages, the gamekeeper I’d employed first went to the dingle and reported on our enormous dog fox.

“He’s a beauty; a huge fella. But it’s nothing to do with him and you want to leave him be. While there’s a dog fox here causing no trouble, he’ll keep others away.”

He always did and occasionally, on a cold autumn morning, I’d catch glimpses of him trotting home at dawn, the size of an Alsatian and with the deepest russet-red coat. He really was a joy to behold. When winters were really hard, he would very occasionally take one hen, for which he was forgiven.

After all, I couldn’t deny him a meal for his services, particularly when he was so polite about it. But last winter, we didn’t see him. Not once.

Then, about a month ago, my friend Bev came over to give Rocky the pony a bit of exercise and came back with the most astonished look on her face.

“You’re not going to believe this,” she exclaimed. “I was in the big field, and I saw something in the long grass, so we stopped. There, not 20 feet away, was a fox and he didn’t move a muscle.

We had a staring competition for a good 30 seconds, wondering who was going to move first. Oh, and he was so beautiful! Really, really dark.”

“It must be the old dog fox from the dingle,” I said.

“Oh no, he looked like a youngster.”

Then the penny dropped. I noticed a huge explosion in the rabbit population this spring, which I should’ve realised wasn’t just due to their recovery from myxomatosis, but also a sure sign our old boy was no longer hunting.

A new fox wouldn’t dare encroach on his territory, so who was this newcomer with a coat the same hue? Could we dare to hope he’d bequeathed his ancestral home to his son?

Then two weeks ago, the fields were being sprayed to kill off the ridiculous crop of buttercups (pretty to look at but poisonous to ponies). It was about 9.30am and I was in the middle of mucking out when Dan the spraying man came to the stables to refill the water tank.

“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“So many buttercups?”

“No, you must have the tamest fox I’ve ever seen. He just sat and watched me spraying.

Not worried, not scared, just curious.”

I smiled.

“Very dark colour?”

“Yes, really good-looking chap, young but fairly big.”

So this year, it seems, our new boy Barry the Brave is settling into Dad’s old paw prints, but with a major difference.

He has been down to the stables, he has seen the ducks and chickens, although even with a gaping hole in the fence he’s made no attempt to steal them. He has, however, made a determined attempt to get to know us.

Can it be that his generation are growing a little wiser? We have a plentiful supply of food and if he’s a good boy and behaves himself, even befriends us, we’ll look after him. Let’s hope Barry learnt at his father’s shoulder, rather than his mother’s jaw!”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/587061/Mindy-Hammond-column-Fantastic-Mr-Fox

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Mindy on A New Horse At Hammond Towers

WILLOW had grown too big to ride her beloved Rocky, but could she fall in love with a new pony called Romeo?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 5, 2015

'Romeo was amazing and Willow adored him'                                  [SUSAN HELLARD]

There has been great trauma in the Hammond household over the past few weeks. No, not Mr Hammond having a fracas or the house falling down, but the inevitable and undeniable fact that Willow has outgrown her most adored palomino pony, Rocky.

It’s not that she’s too heavy for him – she’s a slight little thing. It’s that her legs have grown longer than mine over the past six months (yes, I know, not terribly difficult) and as a result, she’d been secretly shortening her stirrups to try and kid everyone that there was no issue.

But as she began to look more like a jockey riding a Thelwell than a child on a Welsh pony, even she had to admit it was starting to get a little silly.

The heartbreaking truth is that Rocky is far too good (and young) to be retired in the field; he’s a “go out and do things” creature and he needs to be with a “go out and do things” sort of child whose legs are rather shorter than Willow’s. But we all adore him and the decision to move on could only come from Willow. She took a deep breath on the way home from a shopping trip and announced:

“Mummy, I think I’m too big for Rocky.”

“Well, yes, I think maybe you are.”

“But can we keep him?” she said.

I knew this was coming.

“Baby, it wouldn’t be fair on him. He’d be heartbroken if he saw you riding a different pony. He gives you filthy looks when you’re training Blea and when you rode Max the other day, he was whinnying and running around his field like a pony possessed!”

A sadness fell over her for a while and when we arrived home, I had an idea.

“Have a long, hard think about what you’d like to do, and make sure you’re happy with your decision, then we’ll talk again. But why don’t you see if there are any ponies advertised that might be right for you?”

As if she needed telling twice! She kidnapped my laptop and searching became an all-encompassing mission.

I found myself drawn into the hours of searching, emailing, calling and note-writing on ponies from the Isle of Wight to Inverness, but the best ones were gone too quickly. Willow grew more frustrated.

So last Saturday morning, I announced, “Today we’re on serious search mode. Every website must be checked hourly – deal?”

“Deal!”

And then we found him: a beautiful dun pony who’d done everything – from dressage to cross-country – and his YouTube video reduced us both to tears. He was clearly adored by his family and I immediately called. It went to voicemail and my heart sank. I called three times that day and then sent a very polite text, but was sure he’d already been sold. Every 10 minutes Willow was asking, “Has the lady called back yet?”

Then on Saturday evening she called: “I’m so sorry, I’m in Ireland. I’ll be back tomorrow and we can talk then.”

It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that we spoke.

“I’m sorry, we’ve been at a pony club competition since 8am! I’ve had 38 calls about the pony and a lady here wants to buy him!”

I had a long chat with her, and the pony really did sound perfect, but there were many people desperate to have him and the yard was four hours’ drive away.

“Is there any chance my daughter could try him tomorrow? I really think he’s going to be perfect.”

She agreed and told the lady at her pony club that if we didn’t have him, she’d have first refusal.

It actually took four and a half hours to drive there, but was really worth it. Romeo was amazing and Willow adored him. They walked, trotted, cantered and jumped and after I’d agreed the sale and paid the deposit, we sat back in the car and Willow burst into tears.

“Oh no! Wills, what’s wrong?”

Then she looked at me.

“Thank you so much, Mummy. I don’t think

I’ve ever been so happy in all my life.”

Yesterday, we took Rocky to a friend for a bit of schooling and fitness training.

He’ll stay with her for a couple of weeks before meeting his new owner. Both Willow and I shed a few tears, but although it was hard to say goodbye, Willow told me on the way home, “I know I’m doing the right thing and he will be happy, and Romeo is a lot like him. Besides, I’ll still see him, won’t I?”

“Of course you will. And you’ll both have new adventures. But you won’t forget each other.”

A very happy Willow ran into school with a fistful of photos of her new pony this morning. Although sad at saying goodbye, she’s very excited that Romeo will be here by the weekend.

Lucky girl.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/588554/Mindy-Hammond-column-horse-Romeo

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Mindy Hammond on The Hardships Of Booking A Holiday In South Of France

YOU'D think a holiday in the south of France would be just a click away, but things are not always what they seem, as our columnist discovers.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 12, 2015


Mindy finds booking a summer holiday quite challenging              [SUSAN HELLARD]

Arrrgghh! It’s been a week now and nearly all my hair has been ripped from my head. Yes, I realise booking a villa two months before we want to go is cutting it fine, but it’s not as though we’re trying to get to anywhere too exotic. I mean, surely the south of France has villas galore?

As it turns out, no it doesn’t. Well, there are villas available, but you have to be very careful about reading the descriptions, as I’ve discovered. We’re off on our hols with friends, so I was putting in searches asking for properties to sleep eight or nine.

On some websites, an enormous list would appear and banners exclaiming, “389 properties!” But when I started going through the list, I became a bit suspicious. Really, how can a house with three bedrooms sleep nine people? There were even a few one-bedroom apartments claiming they could accommodate eight!

Some properties were described as having a sea view – a few did seem to have a view of the sea, if you were outside one of the bedrooms (possibly balancing on top of the balcony railings), from where you could catch a teeny tiny glimpse of blue in the background.

Then there were “large gardens”. Hmm, perhaps because in our green and pleasant land we think of a garden as having a lawn and some flower beds, this is a little confusing.

Many of the holiday rentals that I imagined having great expanses of lawn instead had sparsely planted rockeries and looked as though the bits of garden were there to soften steps to the driveway, which wouldn’t be great for all those games of footy we’re planning.

I think perhaps I’ve been watching too many period dramas in which a villa in the south of France is a beautiful thing surrounded by greenery, affording wonderful views of the sea with a tennis court to play on and lots of alfresco dining in beautiful surroundings, plus a patisserie just a stroll away and a rusty iron gate leading to the beach.

Sadly, my bubble has been well and truly burst. Not surprisingly, the French Riviera is now chock-a-block with villas, but very few of them seem to retain that good, old-fashioned rustic French charm. Many are on enormous estates, developed so that each one does in fact have a bit of a sea view, but you need a car to fetch your loaf of bread in the morning and could say “hello” to your neighbours from the poolside.

If you fancy a trip to the beach, it might be just a few kilometres away, but the traffic will be a nightmare then you’ll have to pay to have a paddle and fork out even more for somewhere to sit or for a parasol to prevent your children from coming home like overdone streaky rashers.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom, though – I did find several places that ticked enough boxes to be worth a go. Having emailed four, I received replies from two who explained that the house I was interested in wasn’t available, but that there was an alternative (one was a three-bedroom place, the other in the Loire valley in central France!).

I reloaded the web pages for the remaining two and found contact telephone numbers, both with a side note explaining that the agent only spoke French. I could wing it, I was sure, so made the calls, but neither of the numbers would connect. Perhaps it was my mobile phone? I called Vodafone, ready to be cross that there

was some kind of restriction on my outgoing calls. But the nice man at the end of the line was as confused as I was, so he asked me to tell him which numbers I’d been trying to call. Moments later, he told me both numbers didn’t exist!

So I’m left wondering whether the two unbelievably perfect villas with reasonable prices were exactly that – unbelievable. They didn’t really exist! Am I becoming cynical in my old age or could it be that some of the adverts are there to make customers email the site? It seems more than a coincidence that I started receiving spam from la belle France shortly afterwards. Harrumph.

But I did strike gold eventually. I found a lovely villa, the dates were available, I went through the whole booking process, paid my money and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

So all’s well that ends well? Well, not quite. Three days later, I received an email from the owner telling me that although it looked available on the website, the villa was actually already booked. Not good.

I mean, seriously, not at all good. You see, thinking the villa was confirmed, I booked our flights and now can’t change them.

So I’m back on the internet, deflated and disheartened. Why didn’t we just decide on Devon?

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/590023/Mindy-Hammond-holiday-south-of-France

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Mindy Hammond on Counting Sheep
A SURPRISE arrival has our columnist counting sheep and reminds her that life is just like an everyday story of country folk at Ambridge.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, July 19, 2015


A surprise arrival reminds Mindy that life is just like an everyday story of country folk  [SUSAN HELLARD]

I’m sorry to say this, but what on earth has been going on in The Archers? They were talking about bringing in the crop of silage at the end of May. Well, that’s just not right and, to be honest, it sent me into a bit of a momentary tailspin.

The crop hadn’t grown enough here to be anywhere near being cut and also, while we’re on the subject, I thought there had been a disastrous flood in Ambridge, so how did they manage to get all the fields back to normal and producing in such a short space of time? Hmm….

Yes, well, I do catch up with the omnibus edition sometimes whilst mucking out on a Sunday morning, although it’s becoming a bit tedious.

I mean, they all seem to either be huffing and puffing or holding a fête/cricket tea/wedding reception and I don’t know anyone who has time to nip home in their lunch hour and knock up a selection of canapé tasters.

The only reason I mention this is because, as it turns out, The Archers started out as a sort of educational soap opera for farmers in the 1950s, and rumour has it, was first broadcast not a million miles from us.

Of course, those were the days when the landscape was far more regularly populated with dairy cattle and you had to drive slowly if you ventured into the countryside for fear of meeting a herd of cows on their way to milking or a flock of sheep off to be shorn.

We often found our old Ford Escort surrounded by doe-eyed Friesian cows with swollen udders and my dad would smile good-naturedly at the farmer following on behind and make some friendly comment, even though he’d been watching nervously as they squeezed past, worried one would slip on the verge and dent the car.

The cries of, “Aaah, aren’t they lovely,” and, “Oh I wish we had a cow,” coming from the back seats were met with, “The day you buy yourself a farm is the day you get a cow.”

But as time has gone by, and I do actually have room for a cow (theoretically), I now understand it’s not such a practical idea. For one thing, I’ve discovered that any kind of farming isn’t as straightforward as it’s often painted.

We all love to see lambs gambolling in the fields at Easter time, alongside little fluffy ducklings and chicks, but sheep, ducks and hens don’t keep diaries and if they have calendars, some of them aren’t too good at remembering to cross off the days. Last weekend, having listened to a good 15 minutes of The Archers, I set off to empty the muck trailer and went to check on the sheep as usual.

As I counted heads I noticed one of the ewes was lying away from the rest, so decided to investigate. When I walked closer, I could see a damp grey mound next to her. Oh no! Was she injured?

I sprinted towards her and she got up and trotted off, leaving the little mound. Then she stopped and bleated – and the little mound moved. It was an absolutely beautiful little lamb. It clambered unsteadily to its feet, called back to its mother and, confused, trotted towards me.

I was so astonished I just knelt there and gently stroked its soft head for a moment then, realising I shouldn’t be interfering, quickly stepped back and encouraged it to go to Mum. It was the strangest little thing; various colours of grey but with a white nose and a perfectly symmetrical, round, white spot on the back of each ear, about two inches in diameter.

I immediately dashed out for supplies, but nobody had lamb-feeding bottles at this time of year, so I made do with a screw-on teat and a sterilised plastic pop bottle, managed to find some synthetic colostrum (just in case) and returned home with a rather large sack of powdered milk, too.

He’s a week old now and a healthy little chap, despite being denied the usual intervention from humans at his birth – and none of my equipment had to be used.

I’ve called him “Panda” (on account of the ears) but still find myself a bit confused about his family tree. I can only assume that his mother (otherwise known as “Strumpet”) was out on the fells with a gentleman who shouldn’t have been there and under the light of a bedecked Christmas tree, they were overcome with a touch of the romantics.It turns out, unseasonal things aren’t just for Ambridge...


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/591540/Mindy-Hammond-column-counting-sheep