Mindy Hammond - Express

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Mindy on A Very Hot Summer Day At Hammond Towers

OUR COLUMNIST makes hay while the sun shines, but the members of her menagerie are far from amused by the searing heat.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 26, 2015


Mindy enjoys the sun but the animals are not too happy on the hottest July day on record [SUSAN HELLARD]

Can there be anything more glorious than a British summer’s day? That is, of course, if it’s not raining. A few weeks ago, we thought someone had been fiddling with the Earth’s axis as we suddenly found ourselves enduring the hottest July day on record.

Many of us suddenly decided we didn’t enjoy blistering heat as much as we thought (not when many miles from the coast, in high humidity and with no access to a bikini).

For me, it was a joy-filled day with hasty phone calls to a man with a big tractor and a baling machine. As they say: make hay while the sun shines. I beamed with joy at the weather forecast and watched as our fields received their annual haircut.

There was a good crop, too, and by the end of the day it was all lying in tidy rows drying nicely in the heat, prior to baling and being stored – all the ponies’ meals for the next year!

Unfortunately they weren’t enjoying the weather as much as me. Although all have plenty of shelter from the sun and had each been liberally sprayed with fly deterrent, they were getting very hot. By 3pm, our poor pony Kitty was bathed in sweat and needed a sponge bath.

But after leading her to the stable yard and gently dousing her neck and belly with cool water, I turned to see a collection of heads at the field gates, their eyes looking pleadingly at me and whinnying in desperation to be next.

I was about to nip home for an ice cream but as I headed towards the house, Finn let out the most pitiful, high-pitched whicker and I just couldn’t ignore him. I turned back and one by one, led each of our ponies to their stables to get out of the heat, while I prepared the pony-pampering parlour.

I’ve never seen them more excited about water. Finn spent his bathing time playing with the hosepipe in his mouth and drenching me from head to toe.

And while the water helped immensely in discouraging various flying insects that had fancied a bit of Finn ear-nibbling, Romeo (or Lord Snooty as I’ve started to call him, much to Willow’s disgust) stood haughtily with his nose in the air, almost as though he was thinking, “About time. Why on earth wasn’t I first in line for special treatment? Don’t they know who I am?”

Max, meanwhile, was just as laid-back as usual and half-dozed during his treatment, only coming back to life briefly to be escorted back to his bed, where he promptly rolled until there were shavings stuck to every slightly damp part of his body. He looked like an oversized, horse-shaped, chocolate-cornflake cake.

The only one of them who really wasn’t in the mood for a wash-down was Musca. He was so averse to the idea that he side-stepped right around the post I’d hitched him to while I tried to catch him with the sponge,

“Come on, you’re not Fred Astaire and I’m definitely not Ginger Rogers, so let’s just stand still and get on with it, shall we?” I pleaded with him, but he was determined to dodge the dousing and increased his repertoire with some moonwalking!

“If it upsets you that much, we’ll try another way,” I told him and sneaked into the tack room. He watched me disappear behind the door and, believing the attempted water torture was over, began nibbling at the hay net next to him.

It came as rather a surprise when a large, damp, pink towel was suddenly draped around his neck and although he objected at first, he soon relaxed and began to enjoy all the attention, even though he looked like he was leaving the ring after a rather serious boxing match.

We made a mini-pond for Scout and Chico in their field and treated Rosie the donkey to a head-to-toe makeover.

Soon everyone was as comfortable as they could be, considering they were enduring such a sudden rise in temperature and being forced to stare at fields of food that they weren’t allowed to eat.

Who would’ve thought that within 48 hours, we’d have torrential downpours? Fortunately, our hay wasn’t completely soaked as most of the rain narrowly missed us. But for many it was a disaster and everyone complained about whichever weather forecast they’d been watching.

We all should have known better and when I was wandering through the garden, enjoying that overpowering scent from the grass and flowers, I should have remembered once being told that the smell of flowers, trees and all nature’s plants are increased as they release more oxygen just before rain comes.

“When the scent of the rose is high watch for rain clouds in the sky!”

Stuff the Met Office – where’s that pine cone?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/593309/Mindy-Hammond-hot-summer-day-column

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Mindy Hammond on Rescuing An Abandoned Chick

PLAY IS interrupted at Wimbledon and feathers are ruffled in the henhouse as our columnist goes to the rescue of an abandoned chick.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sunday, August 2, 2015
 

Izzy takes care of the little chick until Mindy tries to find the perfect lamp to keep it alive [SUSAN HELLARD]

Maybe it’s a distant memory to you now, but just a few weeks ago we were all glued to our TVs watching the men’s final at Wimbledon and across the UK a vast number of Britons, old and young, suddenly had a newly awakened interest in tennis.

It happens every year and for us usually heralds the whacking of tennis balls against the yard wall. But this year was different – having brought the RipStiks (articulated skateboards) out of retirement in the barn, the girls decided to invent a new game: RipStik tennis.

How they even manage to stay upright on RipStiks is still a mystery to me, so the thought of playing a game of tennis while in motion was a bit ridiculous. But they soon worked out a few rules of play and were whizzing around the yard in hysterics while wielding tennis rackets.

The game was played without the aid of a net and the main purpose was to hit the ball to each other and return it without falling off or missing. It was quite a thing to watch. Not surprisingly, injury forced the end of play when Izzy managed to stub her big toe so dramatically, it was only the four layers of nail varnish that held the toenail on.

The summer holidays are always dappled with newly invented games and we were sure this would just be the first of many. The trouble is, once one game has been abruptly ended, another soon needs to start and keeping the girls occupied in between is sometimes rather a challenge.

I’d made a hasty retreat to lock up the ducks and chickens, leaving the girls having a heated discussion over what fruit should go into the smoothie maker, when I noticed a commotion in the chicken house. None of the chickens seemed to want to go into their bed, so I went over to see what the problem was.

I threw lots of corn on to the ground floor and a handful tentatively stepped in, but the rest were all of a kerfuffle. Then I remembered Mrs Nobby had decided to sit on eggs in the upstairs nesting box – not just her own duck eggs but a few adopted hen eggs, too. I crept around the back and instantly heard little chirping noises.

When I opened the door, expecting to be met by a beautiful scene of Mummy Duck and babies, I was horrified to see a little grey chick lying on its side about five inches away from the nest, exhausted as it let out desperate little cheeps. It had been totally rejected. I scooped it up in my hands and ran back to the house.

Its little feet were scarily cold and it was still a bit damp, so I could only assume it had recently hatched. What a terrible welcome to the world.

I cuddled it close and ran into the front room where Izzy was lounging on the sofa.

“Iz! Quickly, can you hold this chick as close to you as possible and keep it warm.”

Izzy, in her teens, is not as excited by our regular animal dramas as her sister, who unfortunately had just gone out.

“Huh? What? But I’m watching the tennis.”

“Please. I need to find the heat lamp. It’ll die if we don’t warm it up. Mrs Nobby’s thrown it out of the nest.”

She held out her hands and was instantly besotted.

“Oh, it’s so small – and really cold.”

I left her to be nursemaid while I found the infrared lamp, but couldn’t find a bulb. Twenty minutes later, I dashed back indoors, worried the chick may have deteriorated. “How is it?” I gasped.

“Shhh! Oh, now you’ve woken him up.” Izzy was reclining with the little chick snuggled in the crook of her arm. It was all fluffy and on hearing her voice, it cheeped back briefly then dozed again.

“He does his… a little chat and then a sleep… I’m going to call him Wimble after Wimbledon.”

Wimble is doing extremely well after his perilous start. He has been petted more than any other chick in living history, is carried around from room to room and although he started off with a cardboard box under a heat lamp in the snug, he is now in a guinea pig cage in the cellar at bedtime (he was rather vocal when Izzy tried having him in her room at night).

Last week he was joined by chick number two, who was loved by Mrs Nobby for about 24 hours until, I suppose, she decided his beak was the wrong shape and turfed him out. The pair are the best of friends and have a fluffy teddy bear to snuggle up to. Today, the girls gave number two a name: Don (obvious really). I’m not entirely sure what they’ll call the next one.

Novac? Roger?

I think Djokovic or Federer is a bit of a mouthful.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/594921/Mindy-Hammond-column-tennis-abandoned-chick

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Preparations For The Great British Holiday

COME rain or shine, our columnist has packed a wardrobe for all seasons to cope with the great British holiday.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Aug 9, 2015


Mindy Hammond prepares for a gorgeous mini holiday in Devon                      [SUSAN HELLARD]

You may be aware that I recently had a first world drama trying to book our summer holiday. But while stifling a mini nervous breakdown and searching the internet, I came across an offer for a few nights in Devon.

Worried that the whole south of France idea might fall on its derrière, I decided to hedge my bets and book three nights in the south of Devon as a safety net. I figured I could blindfold the girls, tell them we’re in a tunnel and they might believe we’ve driven to France.

Tomorrow, we leave for a glorious mini break in Salcombe while Richard is filming somewhere glamorous, and I’ve been monitoring the weather closely over the past week. Hmmm… this, I now understand, is why so many of us decide to go abroad.

We’ve had the hottest day on record quickly followed by one of the wettest days for years, so it’s anyone’s guess what may happen. Today was supposed to be a scorcher, so I was rather surprised to find myself running through torrential rain to bring in soaking-wet ponies.

Then an hour later, searching high and low for my sunglasses when the sky cleared and the sun blazed. So when it came to packing, it had to be a wardrobe for all seasons, and I got the girls to pack waterproofs, shorts, T-shirts, swimming costumes, a jumper, a cardigan and a vast selection of footwear – from flip-flops to wellies.

But when I thought about it for a moment, I decided it was actually rather exciting to venture into the unknown. After all, when we fly to the sun, quite often a lot of our time is spent lying around doing nothing because a) it’s too hot to do much and b) we perhaps think if we don’t lie still and lap up the heat, we won’t be able to recall the holiday when we get home.

Travelling in the UK brings a bit of extra jeopardy and every warm, dry day is a special gift, so surely we should embrace the added element of surprise? But I knew I needed to organise some sort of activity for the very real possibility of bad weather and surely, as Salcombe seemed to be one of the most popular destinations in Devon, it would have lots to offer on

a rainy day? Well, there were a couple of things, but most popular by far was going to be the steam train from Dartmouth to Paignton, except there was a problem.

To buy tickets online, you needed to get them seven days in advance, so that wasn’t going to happen. I’d just have to wing it and hope for the best (and a short-ish queue). In my head, I envisage us waking up early, driving to Dartmouth and having an alfresco breakfast before jumping on the ferry, slipping across the Dart and hopping on an incredible steam train for a jaunt to Paignton.

Will it pan out that way? Hmmm… I doubt it.

For starters, Izzy doesn’t particularly like boats and will two girls warm to the idea of a steam train? They would if Richard was with us because I could lean on them to do something he’d enjoy, but for me? I’m not so sure.

The hours are ticking by and I’m nervous that I may have overreached myself; Willow never, ever likes leaving home, even to a dream destination, and since the arrival of Romeo the Wonderpony all I’ve heard is…

“Why do we have to go away? If we go to Devon, that’s three days and I’ll miss Romeo so much!”

Izzy, on the other hand, has other issues since Richard introduced her to a daily fitness regime, so from her there was…

“What about exercise? I can’t go for a run on my own and even if there is a gym at the hotel, someone would need to come with me.”

So, desperate for a quiet life, and for the sake of family harmony, I’ve just announced a deal:

“Wills, when we get home you can ride Romeo, then on Sunday, I’ll take you to your first competition together. And Iz, you have to agree to come with us and support Willow.”

Izzy’s mouth gaped open in horror at the favouritism, but I wasn’t finished yet:

“I’ll come to the gym or go for a run with you while we’re away and Willow has to agree to either come with us, or not complain if she has to watch TV in the room for 45 minutes.”

They both seem happy, which is great, although I realise I’ll be exhausted. Still, thankfully I did eventually book a villa in the south of France, so in a few weeks’ time I can lie in the sun and do nothing (as the true Brit abroad really should) while Daddy takes over at home.

Who am I kidding? Maybe I should just start planning now…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/596500/Mindy-Hammond-column-holiday-preparations

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Cleaning Out the Cupboard Under the Stairs

WHAT was lurking in the cupboard under the stairs? Scissors, screwdrivers... spiders... Time for a tidy-up, vows our intrepid columnist

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, Aug 16, 2015


                                                                                                             SUSAN HELLARD

Every home has one – whether it’s a drawer, a cupboard, or, in my case, both. I’m talking about the bits and bobs place where you store Sellotape, string, random pens, tape measures etc. It all starts when you move into your first home. You’re unpacking the last boxes, then exhaustion and boredom take over. Unsure where to put the weird collection of oddities, you put them in a “spare” drawer. Before you know it, that’s your “handy gadget” place.

I have two. A drawer in the kitchen and, rather embarrassingly, the whole of the cupboard under the stairs. Occasionally I’ll attack the drawer in the kitchen and put it into some vague order – elastic bands around the 50 or so pens and pencils, return tweezers, nail clippers and dog tags to their home in a wooden box, and generally group things like takeaway menus and scissors together – but the cupboard under the stairs? Now that’s a whole new challenge.

If you have any sense, you have converted your under-stairs cupboard to either a wardrobe for coats or possibly a downstairs loo, thereby removing the temptation to hide stuff, but I’m afraid this has never happened in our house. It’s probably because back when plumbing was invented, it occurred to a man with a spanner and a length of copper pipe that this would be a great place to start. Then the electrics were invented and where do you suppose was the first place to install a fuse box? Of course I could have been sensible and left it as the designated important pipe room, but somehow that 4ft square “room” at over-head height (well, for me) was too good a space to leave be. And anyway, there were two shelves waiting to be filled.

But when I reached in for the vacuum cleaner last week and was attacked by the hose of its retired friend before being flattened by the ironing board, I knew the time had come to arm myself with bin bags and a head torch then go forth into the darkness.

Never, ever again!

There were many, many things I discovered on my quest to find the door to the unknown, secret world beneath the stairs: items of clothing (Willow’s, obviously discarded after a stomp in cold weather as there was a pair of thermals, a woolly hat and a pair of gloves); Christmas wrapping paper (I remember that – hastily wrapped present); photograph albums; light fittings (I wondered where I’d put those!); a set of screwdrivers; a box of Grandma’s ornaments (go figure); the leftover party bags from one of the kid’s birthdays; old dog collars and leads; batteries and bulbs galore; car-cleaning equipment; Grandma’s sewing box; a shoeshine box; my electric drill; aerial leads; extension cables; and the rather large entrance to a multistorey mouse city, guarded by a removable stone.

Now, I don’t wish to alarm those of a nervous disposition, but I believe the spider that ran up my arm hitch-hiked from foreign climes in one of Richard’s bags. I have never, ever seen anything quite as big, black and hairy – unless it’s been having a chat with David Attenborough. I shrieked, jumped and almost knocked myself out wrestling with it, and I’m sure it was chuckling to itself as it disappeared back into a crack in the floor while I shuddered in the corner.

After five hours (yes, really), the cupboard’s contents were either in five bin bags in the skip or assembled in the hall. I had also uncovered three vacuum cleaners – two broken – and 372 tea lights, while sneezing to within an inch of my life.

By the end, there was probably a decent enough space for Harry Potter to move in, but then I had to accommodate all the stuff that had come out! So, with one of the six tape measures I’d found, I worked out the size of storage unit I could comfortably fit in and found a shelf unit with wicker baskets that fitted perfectly. It’s all neat and tidy, with carefully sorted drawers: one with batteries, stored in order of size, another with cables etc. The dodgy vacuum cleaners have been skipped and I’ve even managed to fit in a spare storage thingy with empty drawers for spillover stuff.

“Brilliant!” I hear you cry. Well, yes and no. I became distracted by the box of photographs and spent several hours looking through them. I cried a bit, smiled a bit and although the cupboard under the stairs looks fabulous, the front room is strewn with piles of photos, waiting to be put into album. But I know just where I can store them…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/598146/Mindy-Hammond-tidy-up-cupboard

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Mindy Hammond Asks Whether Romeo Has Show Pony Potential

DASHING Romeo has won the hearts of all the family and with his repertoire of tricks, does he have show pony potential, asks our columnist.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Aug 23, 2015


                                                                                        SUSAN HELLARD C/O ARENA

Since Romeo’s arrival, we’ve done so much with him. He’s been down the lanes, seen tractors, vans, cyclists in high-vis jackets, been barked at by dogs and ignored Finn being
a nutter. He’s gone through open fields, been in the arena and been absolutely wonderful. Romeo the wonder pony really hasn’t disappointed and Willow is totally besotted. She’s ridden him every day since the start of the school holidays and her newly awakened enthusiasm for jumping has meant turning one of the paddocks – the one that previously housed Scout and Chico – into a jumping field. This is much to Scout and Chico’s disappointment, as their favourite game was to run along the fence line as Romeo was going through his paces.

Having always had rather chunky types, it’s taken a while to get used to the sight of our new addition, who looks a bit like a dun-coloured mini-thoroughbred, with his long legs and snooty nose – and, of course, his strange habits. All equines seem to have them. Max gives kisses, sings and dances for a treat, and will canter down the lane given half a chance. Kitty has a great fear of being left outdoors and will worry at the gate as soon as she sees any of her friends being brought in. Finn likes to flap his gums when his bridle’s put on and suck his reins, and is bullied mercilessly by his nine-hand-high friend, Musca, who only really likes to be ridden bareback.

But Romeo has the most bizarre collection of habits we’ve ever encountered. Although he’s extremely willing and capable, he looks so aggressive when he’s in the stable. He comes to the door with his ears pricked, but the second you go to him with a treat, the ears go back and he looks for all the world as though he’s going to bite (although he never does), instead soft lips gently take the treat and the ears prick forwards again. When we turn him out into his paddock, he immediately rolls for a few minutes, and does the same when he comes into his stable. He never, ever goes to the loo in his paddock, but saves it until he’s indoors or in the arena, and any pony who dares come too close to his bedroom door is likely to be nipped on the bottom. At bedtime, he always puts a foot in the feed bucket and tips it on to the floor – much to Max’s disgust, who is a very careful eater, to the point of “tidying up”, gathering up his empty bowl in his mouth and depositing it carefully in the “to be washed” corner of his stable.

Romeo’s talents stretch much further, though. He has a very direct way of telling his rider when he’s impatient to get going; crossing his front feet very closely together and rubbing fetlocks against each other. If no notice is taken, he’ll almost bow as he stretches his back (with his front legs still crossed!). As Willow says, it’s a rather strange thing to experience when on his back, but not nearly as strange as the trick he demonstrated the other day while we were putting up jumps.

Willow brought him into the middle of the arena while the poles were being changed, but instead of standing on the comfortable, sandy surface, Romeo saw a pole lying on the floor and decided he should stand his front feet on it. As any pony knows, poles on the floor are for going over, not standing on, which made me wonder if Romeo has secret pony dreams.

Perhaps, in his impressionable youth, he was grazing in a field when the circus came to town and set up next door. Could it be that he was dazzled by the bright lights and dreamt of running away with them to become a star of the big top? He’s certainly learned how to perform a very elegant bow and I sometimes imagine what he’d do if we presented him with a pedestal – a pirouette, perhaps?

We love all his funny ways and he’s settled in perfectly, but tomorrow he has his biggest challenge yet. As you may recall, I’d promised Willow we’d go to her first showjumping competition when we came back from our brief trip to Salcombe, but sadly it was rained off. So tomorrow she and Romeo are showjumping for the first time, around the biggest jumps Willow has ever attempted away from home. She’s very excited and so am I, but mostly I’ll be happy when it’s all over and Romeo has convinced us he really is a saint!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/599658/Mindy-Hammond-Romeo-show-pony-potential

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Eventful Childhood Summer Holidays

LIFE comes full circle for our accident-prone columnist as she has a mishap and recalls the school of hard knocks of her childhood.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sunday, August 30, 2015


Mindy recalls the school of hard knocks of her childhood                                               SUSAN HELLARD

Ah, the summer holidays – blazing sunshine, buckets and spades, and the occasional ear-piercing scream as a small child falls heavily and grazes knees and hands.

Mums and dads of all ages look on with heartfelt sympathy, as the jolly little tyke of moments before is reduced to an inconsolable little heap in its parents arms, little chubby palms being held out to be soothed, while the rest of the holiday is slightly compromised with constant changes of plaster and the slightest bump is likely to inflict a repeat performance.

I know I’m particularly pathetic at these moments and tears often well up in my eyes if I witness such a terrible thing happen to one so small. It’s the look of horror and bewilderment when everything was wonderful just moments before.

Fortunately, these little scrapes, although unpleasant, eventually dwindle in number as the child learns a) better motor skills and balance, and b) taking care when running is a good idea, as to fall over rather hurts and ultimately spoils your fun.

Also, it’s better to avoid at any cost hearing Mum and/or Dad saying, “That’s it. You’re going to hold my hand and walk quietly before you hurt yourself.”

We all learn through experience as there aren’t middle-aged people running haphazardly through city centres and falling on their knees every five minutes with elderly parents parking their Zimmer frames to administer a plaster.

But I seem to be revisiting my childhood somewhat. Regular readers will know I go through chronic accident-prone periods and evidence of injury appears after almost every night out.

Is it something that inadvertently happens when you hit 50? Your brain says, “Right, stuff this being grown-up rubbish – I’m going to have fun!” and your body, being an obedient sort, complies to its best ability but with the sensible “handbrake” that the brain normally applies switched to off.

In the past few weeks, I’ve managed to fall backwards off a sofa, resulting in a sizeable egg on the back of my head and a great deal of hilarity (someone should have pointed out to us that the rocking motion of a sofa on an uneven surface is only funny before it tips on to a stone floor).

Then there was the dinner party that morphed into a dancing-around-the-kitchen 80s disco in the early hours of the morning.

Which is great fun, until your dancing partner treads on a dropped grape, the world goes into slow motion and you both wind up on your backs on the floor! You giggle, get up and carry on, but the next day realise you have a bruise the size of Wales on your back. “No worries,” you think. “It was funny and no bones broken.”

But one of my most embarrassing accidents to date happened last weekend. After organising an impromptu dinner party with eight friends, I was dashing around the kitchen preparing the starter when I realised the ice was running low, so nipped to the freezer with a bucket.

Somehow, I managed to trip on opening the door (although why my brain thought I even needed to take another step, I’ve no idea) and my left eyebrow slammed into the ice-cube drawer.

It hurt a bit, but I ignored it and gathered the ice then continued cooking and enjoying the evening. It wasn’t until the next day that I noticed an unusual ache around my eye and on my way over to the stables I thought it was a bit odd to be able to see the curve of my cheek. By the time I looked in a mirror a couple of hours later, there was a black eye forming.

“Oh, Mindy. Not again,” Izzy sighed (she calls me by my Christian name if she’s telling me off). “You need to put some ice on that – how did you do it anyway?”

“Ah, well, that’s the weirdest thing – it was ice that caused it.” Then I explained and she was completely exasperated,

“Honestly, how do you always manage to hurt yourself at parties?”

After all those years of running around behind her as a toddler and carrying an ever-dwindling supply of plasters, she now finds herself returning the advice she learned and dealing with my injuries. Perhaps Mother Nature decides they need a little practical experience before they gear up to looking after their own children and we’re the guinea pigs.

I really don’t mind, although I’d like to know how long this is going to last. I may need recovery time before Mother Nature looks at her watch and decides it’s Willow’s turn to play nurse!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/601170/Mindy-Hammond-on-eventful-childhood-summer-holidays

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Post Holiday Bakeathon at Hammond Towers

AFTER returning to chilly Britain following a sunshine break, our columnist decides to cook up a storm back home on the range.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sunday, September 6, 2015


Mindy and her daughter Willow decided to have a baking marathon                                                 SUSAN HELLARD

Booo! Home from hols and, although the sun is shining, we’re all feeling a bit chilly. Fortunately, all the animals were desperately pleased to see us and formed a cat and dog blanket on our first night home in front of the TV, which was a toasty homecoming. Yesterday morning I thought I caught a glimpse of sun through the bedroom curtains, so I pulled on my shorts and T-shirt ready to stomp off with the dogs for the morning walk – but, within moments, I retreated back to the Aga and donned my fleece-lined hoodie and warmed my verging-on-purple knees. When Richard burst in after his morning run, he was quite confused.

“I was looking for you over in horse world. You’re a bit slow this morning aren’t you?”

“No, I’m just taking a while to acclimatise. Mindys aren’t as used to this travel malarkey as Richards,” I harrumphed.

He rolled his eyes, “It was only a week in France! You should try coming back from Australia.”

I was sort of expecting this, so waited until I’d handed him his coffee before adding, “Ah, but you see, it turns out I’m very good at acclimatising in the warm, because I’m so used to living in the cold – but once you warm a Mindy up it’s tricky to cool it back down again. You should’ve thought about this and done it in stages.”

He sighed, “Go on, then... tell me.”

“Ah, well, what you should’ve done was start off the holiday at a warmish place like oh, erm... Provence then, after a couple of days, head down to the South of France, spend a week there, then nip to Spain for a couple of days of truly searing heat, before working your way back the way you came, you know, a couple of days in each place ending in Paris. By then, I’d be at resting temperature. Easy really,” I grinned and attempted an eyelash flutter.

“Anyway, back in the real world, are you making breakfast?”

“Yes, just as soon as I’ve found a woolly jumper and my bedsocks.”

Honestly though, isn’t it strange? Before we went away I’d be in a vest top and shorts if the temperature hit 65°F but, having lolled around in 80-plus degrees for a week, 65 feels arctic.

It has even resulted in some rather strange cooking habits.

Izzy had gone to visit her friend (also called Izzy) for the day and, not surprisingly, little sis was bored so, for no apparent reason, we decided to have a bakeathon. I made my first-ever attempt at a quiche, inspired by a conversation with the lovely Helsy, whilst sitting by the pool sipping our wine and gently tanning, (ah the memories); then turned my hand to help Willow make bread (no shortcuts allowed).

We bought fresh yeast and everything, she proved the mixture and watched it rise and everything before, finally, the hand-crafted loaves were put into the oven.

Admittedly, we hadn’t quite realised how time-consuming the whole exercise would be – and didn’t retrieve the loaves from the oven until about 10.30pm, just as Izzy burst in. We all asked her about her day, but she stopped short in her explanation and looked around the kitchen with eyes on stalks and hands on hips.

“Oh, right, I see how it is. Izzy’s not here so we all have a great time do we, Mind?”

She was about to eat the largest of the loaves when we all yelled, “Nooo!” Richard piped up, “Have some of Mummy’s quiche.”

“Oh, right... quiche too, you’ve really missed me then?!” But, to our astonishment, Izzy – who hates cheese and eggs – wolfed down a huge slice of cheese and ham quiche. “Mmm... not bad, mother.”

High praise indeed! Unfortunately, fuelled with baked goodies, she then decided to attack her sister (whom she’d clearly missed) by pinning her to the floor and encouraging TG and Blea to lick her face before starting a water fight, which I was unceremoniously dragged into.

By the time we’d chased the girls up the stairs to bed, there was less than a third of the quiche left, a paddling pool for a kitchen floor and the faint aroma of wet dog.

I sighed and set about the clearing up.

“Well, you should be pleased really,” Richard smirked. “It’s just like being back in France; freshly baked bread, nice and warm – and a pool.”

“Mmmm... except you haven’t been in yet!” I laughed and daringly threw a pint of water at him.

Then I ran and didn’t stop until I found sanctuary under Izzy’s bed.

It’s quite warm under there too, as it turns out.

But there seems to be a rather angry damp bear nearby... I don’t remember seeing any of those in France.


 www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/602750/Mindy-Hammond-column-post-holiday-bake-marathon

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Yoga Holiday

TAKING UP yoga on holiday was a spiritual high for our columnist, but at home her “downward dog” gave paws for thought,

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Sep 13, 2015


Mindy on yoga holiday and “downward dog” gave paw                                           [SUSAN HELLARD]

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a bit slow on the uptake when it comes to new fads – the first time I heard about Zumba (you know, the dancing fitness craze) was when a mum at the girls’ school started to hold early-morning sessions after drop-off. Not that I ever went – I just asked a group of mums where they were going, thinking I was supposed to be at a sporty parent and child event in the theatre.

Then came the big Pilates revolution. On the rare occasions we went to a dinner party, it seemed all the ladies were chatting about their Pilates class and I had to go home and Google it to find out more.

I know yoga has been spoken about for ages.

I remember back in the 70s, a woman called Lyn Marshall had her own TV show. I had a little go once or twice, but found it a bit frustrating because I’m one of those strange people who has never been able to comfortably cross their legs, even as a child. I can sit all day on my bum with my thighs and knees together and lower legs sticking out at right angles.

But when teachers told us to sit down on the floor and cross our legs, I’d spend the whole of the lesson fidgeting because I couldn’t get comfortable, which often resulted in being sent out for not paying attention.

Lately, a few friends have been praising the positive effects of yoga, so while we were on holiday I downloaded a beginners’ session on my computer. I waited until Richard and Izzy had gone off for their run, put a towel on the floor and had a go. It only lasted 20 minutes, but by the end I felt fantastic. It was such a great experience, I repeated it the next day, joined by my friend Helsy (who has actually done quite a bit of yoga, as our friend Lou hosts classes at her house during term time when a local instructor comes over and the girls rock up in their sweat pants after the school run). Helsy immediately recognised the various poses and was straight into it, whereas I was trying to look over my shoulder at the screen and sort my feet out.

She actually resembled the “warrior” pose, while I looked like I was about to perform a wonky cartwheel!

When we returned home, I was determined to keep going with my new hobby, and waited until there was nobody around to set up a space in the sitting room, but it just didn’t go very well. I pressed “play” and concentrated on the lady’s instructions but when I started reaching for the sky, TG thought it was a game, came over all waggy and wanted to join in, so I paused mid-manoeuvre and escorted her from the room. Then I progressed to floor exercises but Ketchup, who had been dozing on the window seat, decided a cuddle was due and trying to do a “downward dog” with a cat’s tail in your face really doesn’t give the best result! We paused and had a quick cuddle then I took her out to the food bowl.

“Third time lucky,” I thought to myself, but I’d just resumed the position when the buzzer went.

“Delivery.”

Oh, knickers! The man was coming in his van and there I was in a vest and shorts and my hair on top of my head pineapple style. By the time I’d signed for the box and heaved it into the hallway, having padded outside in my bare feet, my toes were turning blue, knees were purple and I was ready to pick my exercise towel off the floor and throw it in!

“No,” I told myself, “persevere.” I went back

to the beginning to restart and was just getting back into my yoga zone when Izzy appeared.

“Hey Mindy, what ya doin’?” she said.

I was attempting a downward dog again.

“Inspecting the carpet for stains.”

“Oh, yoga is it? I’ll play!”

She joined me and, as usual, started messing about and being generally daft, making fun of my manoeuvres. Unfortunately she’d left the door open, so within minutes TG had returned and decided my face needed a wash, Sparrow became hyper and had a mad five minutes racing around the room and my downward dog morphed into desperate collapsed dog covered in woolly and black dog.

I’ve come to the conclusion that much as I enjoyed yoga in the south of France on a towel in my bikini, it’s not quite the same in a Herefordshire sitting room with dogs, daughters and damp weather – although I’m thinking of entering us for the Twister championships.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/604230/Richard-Hammond-Mindy-Hammond-yoga-holiday

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An Eventful Camping Trip

OUR columnist heads to the countryside for a camping trip – though next time, she won’t be letting Richard do the packing…

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, September 20, 2015


Mindy heads to the countryside for a camping trip with her family                                                           SUSAN HELLARD

When I was little, a great many of my school friends would disappear at the weekend or for weeks on end during the holidays, with the family car crammed to bursting point with tents, sleeping bags, camping stoves etc as they set off for the coast.

Camping wasn’t something my family ever participated in, and to be honest, I was sometimes just a bit envious of my friends setting off on their regular adventures.

Richard’s family, by comparison, were always off with their enormous tent when he was growing up, and he and his brothers had a great time (although they spent many hours playing cards while listening to the rain hammering down outside).

Even so, he remembers those camping holidays with great fondness, and although we bought a huge tent when the girls were little with plans to have our own camping adventures, the first trial wasn’t a great success, and the idea was swiftly abandoned, as was the tent. Packed away and stored in the back of the barn it has remained, until this weekend.

You see, there’s a sort of annual camping party that happens in deepest Herefordshire hosted by friends of ours and this year we were invited to join the happy throng.

Having spent a whole afternoon digging out the various components of the tent, hanging out sleeping bags in a desperate attempt to air them a bit and packing a kit bag with camping stove, cutlery and other bits and bobs, the Land Rover was packed and ready for departure with a very excited Richard desperate to get going and pitch the tent. Everyone had their role to play, with various families supplying meals, and ours was simple – bring booze!

So Richard and Izzy set off while Willow helped me bring the ponies in and feed and walk the dogs. We knew our house sitter Mel would arrive within the hour, so our final job was to load the bottles. Willow’s face was a picture when I reversed the car up to the barn:

“Mummy! That’s too much, you won’t need that much!”

“Well, actually, I think we will.”

“Well, good luck if the car breaks down, the police are going to think you’ve got a really serious drinking problem!”

Half an hour later, we arrived at the farm, but there wasn’t a soul to be found.

“Hmmm… where do you suppose they are?”

Willow wound down her window, listening for signs of life. But the air was still apart from the bleating of the sheep, with no clues at all. So we drove through the farmyard and when we noticed tyre tracks heading across the fields, we decided to follow them over the hill and then down into a wooded valley.

“There are the lakes!” exclaimed Willow.

A few minutes later we emerged through the mud into the field on the other side and an array of tents and caravans, with a very proud Richard driving in the last of the poles next to our enormous tent. The hog roast was crisping nicely and the “bar” (a trestle table) was anxiously awaiting us alongside a roaring fire.

Within moments the younger kids were flying over the lake on a zip wire and thoroughly enjoying splashing about in freezing-cold water. The teenagers were making their camp with a circle of chairs and breaking off to drive the tractor and trailer to and from the house collecting extra bits and pieces as the grown-ups positioned chairs around the fire, accompanied by seven dogs who’d come for the night.

We had a fabulous time, playing silly games and laughing until our ribs ached, although my heart sank slightly when I realised Richard had brought his precious two-man tent, which he was adamant we sleep in, as he’d volunteered the enormous one for the girls!

Actually, it was hilarious, despite having to share a sleeping bag with the king of snoring, and next morning, muddy and smelling of wood smoke, we all climbed on to the trailer to be tractored up to the farmhouse in the rain, all except Lou, who decided she’d drive her 4x4. But the mud was so deep after a night of rain, she returned to the site on foot a few minutes later, with an awkward grin on her face. “Erm, I’ve had a bit of trouble.”

The car had slid sideways and, rather nervous she might end up in one of the lakes, she abandoned it up against a tree.

So while we all had welcome showers and ate our own body weight in bacon, eggs and beans, the boys were itching to rescue the car and take Richard’s Land Rover for a spot of off-roading.

Later that day after an enormous lunch, we’d been discussing the events of the night before when my friend Markie announced, “It’s all for the kids.” We all laughed. “In a few years’ time the older kids won’t be interested.”

“That’s fine,” he replied. “Then we’ll do it for the dogs.” And I’m sure we will, although I don’t think I’ll let Richard pack the tiny tent next time. I don’t mind a night under canvas, but I’m not sure that I enjoy being a caterpillar and why didn’t he bring any roll mats? My back is killing me!

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/605846/Mindy-Hammond-on-an-eventful-camping-trip

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Keeping Their Old Border Collie Young At Heart

CRUSOE the Border collie isn’t getting any younger but our columnist is making sure she has all the creature comforts to keep her young at heart.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, Sep 27, 2015


'If you are fortunate to share your life with a pet, you’ll appreciate how precious they are'                [SUSAN HELLARD]

If, like us, you are fortunate to share your life with a pet, you’ll appreciate how precious they are and what a huge part in your life they play. I realise we have far more pets than most, but even so they’re all important to us and sadly, quite a few are becoming rather elderly.

The daily dosing of painkillers and supplements to members of our menagerie is quite a science, and only Mel and I know who should have what and when from the indoor and outdoor supply cupboards. Diets have been fine-tuned to help aching joints and reduce the calorie intake for those of our family who are food thieves and need to watch their waistlines (TG, Captain, Blea and a certain pair of naughty goats!). Still, we do our best for all of them, including dear old Rucksack, the ginger tom who’ll soon be celebrating his 20th birthday.

Despite having far fewer teeth than he started with and looking slimmer, he enjoys a wonderful life of indulgence – his own indoor loo, and extra food and water bowls on every floor (well, he forgets where they are otherwise).

But the first nips of autumn air always fill me with fear for the oldies. When the cold, damp weather starts, we all feel it a little bit in our bones, and it’s easy for us to turn the central heating on or grab a jumper. But when you’re an elderly dog whose coat doesn’t moult as efficiently as it once did, and your aches and pains are that of a 98-year-old lady, life suddenly feels a lot more difficult. That’s how Crusoe, our beautiful tricolour Border collie and oldest dog, is feeling.

You can’t, as far as I know, get a hearing aid for a dog, so her world has become silent. And you’d never balance specs on her nose, so there’s no helping her fading eyesight, but worse than these problems is her apparent battiness. Over the past few weeks, she’s started a new and rather alarming habit of hiding whenever she’s outdoors. It started off with the occasional disappearance under a bush, but reached crisis point at the weekend when she managed to squeeze herself through a missing stone in a wall.

Thankfully I spotted her back end being hauled through the tiny gap and managed to pull her out, but had she gone all the way in it would have been almost impossible to retrieve her without the aid of a JCB. I quickly blocked the hole with a slab, but then this morning she squeezed herself into an even smaller space when she got her whole body into the duck house (thankfully the roof lifts off).

I’ve pulled her out of badger setts, fox holes, bushes, trees – you name it, she’s tried it, and she can’t hear you so there’s no point trying to call her name. We all do our best to keep an eye on her and have even tried walking her on a lead, but she’s such a lady that she wouldn’t dream of relieving herself in front of an audience, and she’ll walk a few steps then dig in her heels and give you a pleading look that says, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone for a moment, so kindly release me.”

But she’s sneaky and surprisingly good at finding new places to hide, which is a horror on the evening walk. Every night I spend at least 15 minutes searching for her with my torch under trees and bushes after the others are tucked up in bed. She always gives me a smile and a wag of her tail when I find her, and although I know she can’t hear me, I’m always so relieved. I’ll say, “There you are girl. Come on then, time for bed.”

She can see me smile and feel a warm hug, and I rest a hand on her back to guide her home.

We knew Crusoe had a lump on her tummy, and we also knew it had grown recently. She has a bad back leg, too, but our proud and stoic collie just keeps going without complaint. However there’s a change in her eyes these past few weeks. Yesterday over breakfast with Richard, I knew I had to share my fears, so I took a deep breath and said, “I think Crusoe’s looking for a place to die.”

He looked at me sadly and replied, “Yeah, I know, I’ve been thinking the same thing, poor old girl. Are you going to call the vet?”

“Yes, but only to ask for advice. She’s so regularly checked, and we know there’s no disease although that lump has got bigger.”

“Well, see what the vet says.”

As it turns out, we were right about dear old Crusoe – she has been in great pain due to arthritis in her back and sadly the lump we were concerned about is serious. But it’s not all bad news. The vet agreed that at her time of life, intervention will be too risky, but pain relief might work to make her comfortable. Now the medicine cupboard is fit to burst and we’ve doubled our supply of pill wrap (ham).

We all know she’s on borrowed time, but until then we’re hoping she’ll be pain free and enjoy the time she has left. In the meantime, I’m planning on taking Crusoe for trips to the seaside, to watch hockey matches at school, the occasional drive-through burger, and so many roast dinners!

www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/607609/Mindy-Hammond-on-keeping-their-old-Border-collie-young-at-heart

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Hatching at Hammond Towers

MUM'S the word in the duck house as our columnist hears the patter of webbed feet. But she’s all aflutter about one egg that’s left unhatched.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, October 4, 2015


Splodge, the queen of mummies, hatched another nine ducklings a couple of weeks ago       [SUSAN HELLARD]

Hatching happens every year, so you’d think we’d have sussed the cause of this occurrence and taken steps to avoid it. But once you’re a mummy, you just can’t deny others the opportunity to become a mummy, too.

So Splodge, the queen of mummies, hatched another nine ducklings a couple of weeks ago, and she’s so very proud of her brood. Nobby, the great-great-great-granddaddy extraordinaire, is equally chuffed and is marching around the maternity run hissing at anyone who comes too close and giving fatherly advice to yet another generation.

Having watched the whole sitting and hatching experience closely, two of last year’s babies decided they should also have a go, as did a couple of the older ladies. It seems Splodge has been advising the other members of the ducky mothers institute about child rearing. They’ve awaited her first arrivals before following suit. But now they have – oh dear Lord, they really have!

There we were, thinking it was rather late in the season for ducklings. But alas, we were wrong, and yesterday morning there was a lot of noise coming from the back of the big duck house. I opened the door to free the seven tenants into Chicken Woods and noticed one of the twins squeaking loudly from her nesting box.

Moments later, a fluffy little yellow head popped up under her wing for a look around.

“Oh well done!” I said. “Congratulations, little girl – it’s your first!”

She chirped back with her head held high and a look of extreme pride on her face. Then, just to show me how very well she’d done, the new mother stood and turned 360 degrees. There wasn’t one, or even two, ducklings under her – there were nine. Yikes!

I called Mel, my duck crèche captain, and we set about constructing maternity wing B.

But by the time we’d finished setting it up, our new mother had taken her babes off the nest for a stroll around the now-deserted duck house, leaving one unhatched egg,

There it sat, still warm, among a pile of broken shells and downy feathers, a little life on the verge of entering the world, abandoned to turn cold and perish. Normally I’d hotfoot it to the incubator, but ours is on the blink and I couldn’t trust it to do the job. There were three other new mums sitting, but they were all quite tense and being very young mums, unlikely to accept a strange egg.

Then I remembered Mrs Nobby, a duck who’s had a dreadful summer. She decided to lay her eggs in the hen house and “adopted” chicken eggs, too. But when the only two that hatched were chickens, she was appalled at their strange appearance and threw them out of the nest, so both had to be hand-reared.

They’re now scampering around with the hens, but Mrs Nobby is still determinedly sitting on any egg she can snatch. She’s been there for months and looks close to despair – after all, she’s been doing this for years. She’s not ready to hang up her maternity smock just yet, although she must be wondering why everything seems to be taking so long. So, with a bit of cunning and a lot of distraction (a cap quickly plopped over her head), we sneaked the still-warm duck egg next to her chest as she sat in her box.

“Oh look, you’ve missed one,” we told her as she looked down in surprise then, overjoyed, gently rested her chin on the egg and rolled it under her. Success!

Within the next couple of days, the duckling should hatch and she’ll finally have her long-awaited baby. But we’re not sure how we’ll break the news to her that this really will be her last stay in the maternity area.

Mrs Nobby is simply going to have to accept her new role as dowager duck and go back home to her Casanova of a husband. We’ll somehow have to monitor her movements and take the eggs away before she gets any ideas.

Meanwhile, I have to start making calls to all our friends with ponds who might be interested in some new pets – and remember to look surprised when people talk about the increasing Muscovy population in Herefordshire!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/609232/Mindy-Hammond-on-duck-hatching

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Mindy Hammond on Making Izzy's Dream Birthday Come True

SQUEEZING 10 into a Land Rover, a rugby match and daffodils – our columnist waves a magic wand and makes Izzy’s dream birthday come true.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Oct 11, 2015


Our columnist waves a magic wand and makes Izzy’s dream birthday come true      [HELLARD]

How do you get four elephants in a Mini? Well, obviously, two in the front and two in the back, that’s simple. Unfortunately, it’s not quite so easy to work out how to get nine people plus a driver to a rugby match without the aid of a minibus. But that was the task this weekend, to celebrate Izzy’s 15th birthday.

You see, unlike many teenage girls who might be interested in a slumber party or a glamorous day out, there was only one dream scenario for Izzy, watching her beloved Wales team play at the hallowed Millennium Stadium, and it all started months ago when we were driving out of Cardiff after a shopping trip.

“Iz, look to your left.”

“Huh?” She glanced up from her mobile phone.

“That’s the Millennium Stadium”

“What!”

Her jaw dropped and she slammed her palms against the window.

“Wow!”

She was so emotional, tears rolled down her face (where on earth does she get that from, I wonder?).

“Oh, but that’s where they play… Oh please, can we go?”

And that’s where it all started. Well... sort of.

If you know your rugby history, you’ll know the name William Webb Ellis. You know, the chap who apparently first picked up the ball? Well, my grandad was called Ellis Webb – what a coincidence! And when I was little I spent many weekends with him, learning all about cricket and horses, unless of course he was at Kingsholm, the home of Gloucester rugby.

He loved watching the matches and sometimes would take me for a stroll past the ground to hear the roar of the crowd.

There are so many members of our family that are passionate about the game. Although, if I’m honest, I’m slightly relieved I don’t have boys and have great admiration for any mother who steals herself to watch her son on the pitch. Blimey, it’s a tough sport!

I shouldn’t really have been surprised at Izzy’s birthday request though and I knew I had to deliver. I ordered the tickets and sorted the timings, but then realised we needed a car to accommodate 10 people. Well, there’s only one who can do the job – our old 110 Land Rover, Wallycar!

We all piled in at 10.30 on Sunday morning, Izzy and Aerin wearing dragon heads and Teya a daffodil “hat”, all in their red Wales shirts accompanied by Sarah and Charlie, Hels and Phil, Richard and me, all singing the Welsh national anthem on the way at full blast. Hels and Phil tried to teach us the words while the girls waved and cheered at every car on the motorway (including the Uruguay supporters).

Cardiff was a moving throng of smiling people in red shirts and when we reached the ground and found our seats above the tunnel, we were all proud to stand and join in with Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau (or at least we tried!)

The atmosphere was absolutely incredible and we didn’t hold back on our cheering and singing. Wales had a fabulous win despite the heroic efforts of Uruguay and as we walked back to the car, we all agreed it had been a fantastic day out.

Of course, then we had to face the traffic to get home, but for Izzy, now wearing Teya’s daffodil so the enormous yellow petals were like a ruff around her neck, this was a perfect time to celebrate with every car she saw. As we inched alongside a new vehicle, her head would suddenly pop out of the rear window, a huge grin on her face as she waved and beamed,

“Hiiii! It’s my birthday...”

Even the most frustrated of drivers couldn’t resist smiling at her.

We turned off, got a bit lost, swapped seats at a comfort break, had a “game” of giving each other dead legs for a while (the kids rather unimpressed at their naughty adults) and eventually settled into Izzy’s music blaring through the car stereo, while we all sang and danced in our seats (except Phil, who I think was snoring by then).


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/610712/Mindy-Hammond-column-birthday-party

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Mindy Hammond on Replacing Her Old Laptop

WHEN Lappy the laptop took his last gasp, it was time for our columnist to switch to a smaller, brighter model – but could she make it work?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Oct 18, 2015

It is time for our columnist to switch to a smaller, brighter model – but could she make it work?       [SUSAN HELLARD]

However much I try, in this ever-changing world of technological advances I’m not even vaguely cutting edge. But how many more things are we going to nick from old episodes of Star Trek? First there was the flip phone (don’t tell me a Trekky didn’t design that based on the “beam me up Scotty” gadget).

And now the clever TV can translate voice requests into a programme or film. Whatever next? I’m just thankful cars aren’t flying yet.

But having to travel more than usual recently, I’ve been finding Lappy the laptop a bit cumbersome and rather a heavy load. Last week, having packed my overnight bag, my darling husband appeared with his suit bag, a pair of shoes and several other items.

“Erm, do you think you could take my stuff in the car with you?” he said with a pleading smile. “It’s just that I’m on the bike.”

I sighed, but how could I say no?

I reopened my case and stuffed it to the gills, only then realising that he’d sneaked half his wardrobe into the suit bag!

So picture me walking from a London car park in the pouring rain with a wheelie case having a serious disagreement with the uneven pavement, a handbag over one shoulder and a suit bag over the other with seven hanger hooks digging into my left palm.

Something had to give and I realised Lappy was the heaviest item in the suitcase – but he was an essential, surely? Well, he was, until he decided he didn’t like leaving Herefordshire and having to talk to the London internet.

Apparently Ketchup the cat didn’t like him leaving either, as she’d chewed through the charging cable. Altogether not a good time to be a laptop in a strange city with no power.

I calmed myself, managed as best I could with my phone then borrowed a (superior) laptop and brought the disgraced Lappy home.

My dear husband, feeling a little remorseful at making me cart all his belongings back and forth through the rain, greeted me on his homecoming a few days later with those very special three little words:

“Need another laptop?”

I grinned until I thought my cheeks would explode and replied, “Yes please!!!”

The following day it arrived. A tiny little baby laptop, all shiny and new, so I bought it a Bugs Bunny sticker and a turquoise case, christened it Bugsy then started setting it up.

Now, the thing with modern technology is that, as I may have mentioned, it’s very clever. So to “migrate” (technical term – do keep up) your information from one laptop to the other, you put both computers into migration mode and make sure no passing birds are going to pick up the signal and go in the wrong direction for the winter, then you can choose to migrate information from one to the other via Wi-Fi.

Clever, isn’t it? So I put them both into the mode and sat them alongside each other, apologised to Lappy for giving him a bit of a computer lobotomy and pressed the button.

Things happened and messages popped up to let me know surgery had started – I felt a bit like a modern-day lady Frankenstein:

“I will give him life! Live Bugsy, live my boy.”

More messages – information was starting to move through the ether. Ooh, it was exciting! Then came another message on Lappy’s screen: “Estimated time to completion.”

Oh, fantastic. What would it be? 10 minutes?

No: 327 hours!

Luckily I read the small print, which said I could speed things along with another cable. One snag: the new machine didn’t have requisite socket.

Desperate, I pulled the plug. Would one of them die? Explode? Whimper? No, it seemed not, and I could still see the internet connection and emails on Bugsy. Well, that was fine – I only needed him for emails, after all. Oh, and to write this column.

So I set off for London again with my lovely little friend, and this morning opened his smiling turquoise case and turned him on. Guess what? Nada, nothing, zilch.

It’s now 9.20pm and I’m writing this back home on poor, old, loveable Lappy. Bugsy is in disgrace and until I buy a ton of new adapters and cables, he’s Bugsy of very little brain.

You’ll be relieved to hear that for the moment, I’ve retired from being a trainee Frankenstein!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/611959/Mindy-Hammond-laptop-replacement-columnist

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Mindy Hammond on a Terrifying Pony Accident

AFTER a friend’s brush with disaster on a country lane, our columnist hopes that courtesy between all road users is the way ahead.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Oct 25, 2015


'The whole episode could so easily have ended in a bigger tragedy'                 [SUSAN HELLARD]

Are you sitting comfortably? Cuppa in your hand, and maybe a Hobnob? Brace yourself, dear reader, and prepare for a spot of drama. It all began on a lovely summer’s day just a couple of months ago.

Bev, who helps us exercise the horses, was at the yard with Mel and me, having just returned from a quick trot down the lane on Romeo, Willow’s wonder pony. She looked a bit flustered, which is very unusual for her. What on earth could have happened?

“You know me,” she began, “I always pull into a space if there’s ever any traffic, so vehicles can pass, but today an enormous lorry came hell for leather and didn’t even attempt to slow down!

The lanes are so narrow, he only just skimmed past, even though we were in a gateway. Romeo was good as gold, but it is a worry.”

I agreed: “There are so many children who ride around these lanes, too, and although people assume it’s all nice and quiet for a little pony, when a driver puts their foot down for some reason or a tractor comes hurtling around, imagine how a pony must feel.”

A friend of ours has had so many problems, she now drives the car in front of her children when they ride to act as a sort of shield, even though they don’t go far. I realise it’s inevitable, as cars are so much faster and everyone always seems to be in a rush, plus we don’t expect to see livestock on country roads these days. And although some of us welcome the sight of a horse and rider and give them a slow, wide berth, others see them as a nuisance.

We were discussing the issue when Mel’s phone rang. It was her sister and Mel looked really shaken.

Mel’s lovely mum was driving her little hatchback along a country lane near Mel’s house and a little pony and trap was behind her, being driven by a couple. It was such a gorgeous sunny day and they made a lovely picture. Then she noticed a vintage car coming towards her with the top down.

It was rather large and noisy, and Mel’s mum pulled her car over to the side to let it pass, then glanced in her rear-view mirror. The car kept coming and the little pony was clearly terrified. Mel’s mum watched in horror as the pony began rearing, freaked out and launched itself on to her car. Its front legs burst through her rear window then it scrabbled forwards and hurled itself on to the roof of the car.

The trap was still attached and overturned. Then, as the shaft broke, the pony fell off the roof and into the ditch alongside – before leaping to its feet and galloping off across the fields.

It all happened so quickly that her mum couldn’t do anything to help, and as soon as she managed to get out of her car, her first concern was for the passengers in the trap.

Thankfully, they’d escaped with minor injuries, but when the police arrived and saw the state of Mel’s mum’s car they were more concerned for her. Had the pony not slid off the roof, it could’ve completely collapsed. Or if the pony’s hooves had gone through the windscreen, she could have been killed. As it was, the car was a write-off, but at least she had escaped injury.

Although, not entirely. The whole experience had understandably terrified her and she had been so rigid with fear, she was in pain for some time and an emotional wreck for many days.

The pony had made for home and incredibly hadn’t done itself too much damage, but the whole episode could so easily have ended in a bigger tragedy.

The facts speak for themselves: 60 per cent of fatalities occur on country roads and on average three people die every day on them. The Government’s Think! campaign is highlighting the dangers and on one point, it’s very clear:

“If passing more vulnerable road users such as horse riders, cyclists and walkers, pass wide and slow.”

There is room enough for everyone on our country lanes, be they cyclists, farmers, delivery drivers, ponies or pedestrians – but only if we show respect for one another. One or two minutes of thoughtful courtesy is surely not too much to ask and it will certainly save lives. The British countryside is envied the world over – let’s allow each other to enjoy it.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/613543/Mindy-Hammond-on-a-terrifying-pony-accident

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Mindy Hammond on An Exhausting School-Run

WITH a horse on the loose and traffic hold-ups, would the girls get to school on time – our columnist wasn't sure if they'd trot in before the bell.

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, Nov 1, 2015 | UPDATED: 14:17, Mon, Nov 2, 2015


Would the girls get to school on time – our columnist was hot to trot...                                         [HELLARD]
 
There’s strange weather at the moment, especially when you wake up one morning to a bright sky and the next day at the same time it’s pitch black. That’s how it was one morning this week. The alarm blared and I fumbled in the darkness – surely I must’ve set it for the wrong hour? But no, it was indeed 6.30am and time to get going.

Staggering about in the darkness, I clambered up the stairs to wake my two sleeping angels. “Hey Willow, wake up baby,” I said.

Rucksack stretched out a paw towards me from his snuggly position wrapped in her arms beneath the quilt and gave me a squeaky miaow.

“Morning, Rucksack. Come on Wills, you promised to help with the ponies today. Up you get.”

She stretched and threw one leg out. A good sign – once one leg was free I knew the other would soon follow, so I hurried across the landing to Izzy.

“Wakey wakey, sleepy head. Hey Iz, come on. It’s time to get up.” She moaned.

The mornings, like every home containing schoolchildren, have to be planned with military precision and timed to perfection…

Step one: Kids woken up. Step two: Dogs out and emptied. Step three: Cats fed. Step four: Kettle on and tea made. Step five: Bread in toaster, juice and cereal out, table laid.

Step six: Turn the horses out. Step seven: Willow joins me (amend that to “Willow sometimes joins me to turn the horses out”).

Step eight: Return to the kitchen and hope nobody decides they want scrambled eggs and beans.

Step nine: Into the car by 7.30am for the school run.

Easy – except when there’s a hitch. On this particular day, the hitch was when Willow and I returned to an empty kitchen at 7.10am. I ran to the foot of the stairs.

“Izzy! Iz! Are you up? It’s 7.10am!”

“Yep! Yeah… coming.” She appeared, slightly dishevelled, minutes later.

Never mind, we were still on track and in the car at 7.32am. Although it was only just light enough to see without the aid of a torch or eating a bucketful of carrots. No problem, though – there’s a 10-minute allowance worked into the school run for tractor hold-ups. We drove towards the gate chuckling at Izzy’s forgetfulness.

Then Willow yelled, “Musca’s out!” Both Izzy and I turned to see Finn having a minor nervous breakdown as he ran up and down the fence watching his miniature friend trotting off down the opposite field.

Izzy and I shot off at full tilt towards the stables to get Musca’s head collar, leaving the passenger door open, followed by Willow in close pursuit who went to calm Finn down.

We were on manoeuvres! Izzy reached Musca and caught him and I replaced the fence battery.

Then Willow and I watched in hysterics as Izzy trotted like a show pony, lifting her knees as high as they’d go, trying to avoid the wet dew, and little Musca, thinking he should be doing what she was doing, copied her – they could’ve been contestants in a posh pony show! Kitty and Romeo trotted along their fence-lines just to join the fun and when I caught Max, his eyes were on stalks!

I mean, honestly, first thing in the morning, everyone should be quietly enjoying their breakfast, not trotting about!

Seven minutes later, we were back in the car and on the road, but our 10-minute tractor allowance was almost used up. Izzy couldn’t stop chuckling about her pony-leading style and turned on the heating in an attempt to dry out soaking-wet shoes and tights. Could we still make it to school registration on time?

“Well, we’ve got a good excuse – loose horse!”

Unfortunately, it’s potato harvest time, so we were stuck behind a large tractor and trailer for five miles, and then four pheasants decided to take their time crossing the road, but we managed to arrive at both schools with five minutes to spare.

Willow smiled: “Standard morning, really – last week it was a duckling in the paddock.”

“Oh yeah, I’d forgotten about that.” Then I thought for a moment and said, “Willow, do you think the teachers believe what happens at our house?”

She smiled, patted my hand and replied, “Don’t worry, Mummy, they’re used to you by now.”

Ho-hum.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/615200/Mindy-Hammond-column-exhausting-school-run

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Carving Jack-O' Lanterns

IT WAS plasters at the ready as our columnist’s accident-prone family carve up pumpkins – so would their jack-o’-lanterns be a cut above?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, November 8, 2015


Last week, our old stables were a sea of orange with pumpkins of all shapes and sizes piled up         HELLARD

Pumpkins, pumpkins everywhere and not enough knives sharpened! Last week, our old stables were a sea of orange with pumpkins of all shapes and sizes piled up, awaiting their fate. We were going for broke on the lanterns, mostly due to a last-minute Halloween party plea from Izzy.

The idea was to light every path in the garden with them, hang them from trees and generally make a spooky atmosphere. In her mind’s eye, it looked more like the Kardashians meets the Osbournes in terms of dressing the set, whereas in reality it ended up looking like the result of someone releasing a load of toddlers armed with sharp objects.

We may have sparks of artistry in our midst, but sculpting pumpkins? Have you seen how advanced the designs get?

And before you even start, you have to choose your pumpkin. Obviously, in America they love a pie, so I’m guessing most of the contents of their jack-o’-lanterns are mushed and put under a crust. Although having never eaten pumpkin in my life, I wasn’t brave enough to give it a go.

I had a little look into recipes (after all, there was going to be a lot of orangey mush after we’d attacked the poor defenceless things), but most of them are for canned pumpkin!

The other thing, as it turns out, is that you have to use a really orange pumpkin to make sure it’s actually ripe. But if you’re a novice pumpkin person, how do you even know what it should taste like? Then there was some arguing on an internet forum with a proclamation that the pumpkin is a fruit and then, more specifically, a berry.

That’s a bloomin’ big berry! Imagine if strawberries grew that big? With a pail of cream and a meringue the size of a small dog, puddings would be in a league of their own and Mary Berry would explode with excitement.

So, for the actual carving, which is not for the faint-hearted or those with an attachment to berries. First I assembled four knives and set about sharpening them, then made sure the girls had industrial-strength gloves.

I had considered chain-mail mittens for Willow, as she’s easily distracted and I’d already had a nightmare to equal the one on Elm Street just at the thought of a blade in her hands.

Then I remembered the warnings I’d issued when Richard wanted to buy a glue gun for the toy-horse barn they were constructing together: “I’ve told Willow she can’t have one. That glue is boiling hot and they’re really tricky to use.”

He’d harrumphed and said he’d get one that she could only use under supervision.

One hour later…

“Aaargh! My thumb!”

Richard came running in from the barn and shoved his hand under the cold-water tap.

“OK, OK, so you were right,” he admitted.

“God, that glue’s hot! And it doesn’t go where you want it to.”

I sighed at the time and smiled to myself as I caught sight of Willow rolling on the floor in hysterics. But her father’s unfortunate mishaps over the years are now par for the course – caused by everything from a drill to a cup of tea.

Last Saturday morning, I was mucking out when Richard came over with refreshments and his Border collie Blea. Blea and Sparrow began a game of chase and together performed a sideways leap into the back of Richard’s knees. Hot black tea splashed up all over his face, and there were very cross words and a few red marks under his nose.

I rushed him to the cold-water tap again and managed not to laugh for five minutes.

I gave Mr Hammond a pair of gloves designed for hedge cutting and chainsaw activities, our pumpkins were lined up on a pallet and we commenced carnage. There was no pie and the jury’s out on whether the chickens really enjoyed the mush, but we haven’t had any very orange eggs yet.

I’m guessing that as we hacked away, we looked like the four pedestrians of the apocalypse as I hovered nervously with my tin of plasters. Miraculously, we were unscathed despite Richard singing The First Cut Is The Deepest!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/616884/Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-carve-jack-0-lanterns-Halloween

[RedMoon11]

Mindy on A Sneaky Intruder At Hammond Towers

THE family and menagerie settle down for movie night in front of a roaring fire – until a sneaky intruder leaves a trail of chaos in his wake.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, November 15, 2015


A sneaky intruder leaves a trail of chaos in his wake at Hammond Towers             [HELLARD]

The chimneys are swept, the logs are gathered in and it’s oh so lovely to be snuggled up in front of a roaring fire again.

What’s more, there’s little chance of feeling chilly in our house once Jack Frost has visited. Not because we have hi-tech heating – in fact, it’s extremely low-tech – but due to our large collection of foot and body warmers in the shape of assorted canines and felines, who appreciate the importance of securing a space on their favourite sofa, chair or lap.

Occasionally we manage a film night, and last weekend I was all prepared. The film was paused at the beginning while I fetched popcorn and drinks and called the girls for the start of Jurassic World. Richard, as usual, was in early on the right sofa with Blea snuggled into the cushions next to him.

I quickly bagged my place in the corner of the left sofa and Tg immediately hauled herself on and plonked her front paws and head on my lap, quickly followed by Sparrow, who was convinced there was room for two. She then glanced at the space next to Blea but thought better of it and eventually settled with her favourite chewy treat in front of the fire.

Then there was the sound of a small herd of elephants coming down the stairs, heralding the arrival of Izzy and Willow, closely followed by Captain, with the slower-moving Crusoe bringing up the rear.

Willow threw herself next to a delighted Blea while Captain trembled in anticipation before bouncing on top of her. Meanwhile, Izzy slumped on to the far end of my sofa under the watchful eye of Crusoe, who lay at her feet.

“Right, all ready?” I asked.

A loud miaow told us that Rucksack hadn’t kept up, so he was scooped up by Izzy and settled down for a lap nap.

Aah, contented bliss, everyone warm, cosy and comfortable, the lights were dimmed, the fire was ablaze and the film began.

Blea and Sparrow quite enjoy a film – Blea actually watches and Sparrow enjoys listening to unusual noises. Captain is bored within a minute and starts fidgeting, then plays lap swap for 10 minutes, bouncing from the lap to the floor to the next lap. Crusoe doesn’t quite understand why we’ve all decided to hold this strange silent meeting or why everyone’s looking at the box in the corner with blurry shapes moving on it, so goes back to sleep.

Ketchup suddenly realises I’m easy prey, so dashes over, manoeuvres her way on to my chest, and paddy paws while keeping her face an inch from mine and exaggerating the closed eyes, I-love-you-most expression (always a pleasure).

This particular evening, aware of a few movements occurring around the room, Richard turned the volume up. This unfortunately coincided with Tg’s full-volume snoring (more akin to a donkey braying), so he sighed and turned it up a bit louder. Sparrow had fallen asleep and started to chase a rabbit in her dream, letting out a muffled woof, which startled Blea.

She jumped down, knocking Richard’s arm and spilling his drink, which caused him to harrumph, waking Sparrow, who sat up quickly and met Blea’s startled face. A game? Oh, OK. They began pawing at each other’s faces before Blea was called back to her place and obediently settled down.

All was calm once more…

Perhaps it was the volume being so high or that we were concentrating too hard, but none of us noticed the door ajar or the entrance of our new visitor… until something alerted every animal in the room. Ears pricked, heads turned and eyes darted as we saw a small creature zoom across the carpet, closely followed by Satchel, the overgrown killer cat.

There was a millisecond of complete, stunned silence while everyone computed the scene.

Then all hell let loose. Dogs launched themselves from sofas and laps, cats were flying everywhere, Izzy squealed and Willow dashed after me to try and rescue whatever poor creature was about to meet an extremely sticky end.

It wasn’t hard to discover where he was – the dogs were all sniffing at the cupboard under the stairs and Captain was trying to dig his way in.

The dogs were sent out for a walk while I investigated. Then I remembered the secret mouse house in the back of the cupboard.

Returning to the sitting room, I gave Willow a wink.

“Ahh, poor little mouse.”

“Blimey. You found it then. Was it messy?” Richard asked.

“It’s OK, I cleared everything up. You might not want to go out there for a while.”

Well, in my mind I did clear everything up.

The poor little mouse probably only nipped out for popcorn…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/618320/Mindy-Hammond-on-mouse-in-the-house

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Christmas Catalogues

AS usual, the Christmas run-up has started, and not just in the shops.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sun, Nov 22, 2015


Encyclopedia-sized Christmas catalogues keep being sent to my house      [HELLARD]

While we’re raking up leaves by the ton from the lawn, another tree by-product is being pushed through the letterbox, and it makes me feel rather sad. Every day since the end of October, there seems to be at least one of those house-invading encyclopedia-sized catalogues appearing among the bills and although I’m very careful to put them all into the recycling bin, (catalogues that is, not bills) I can’t help feeling it’s really such a waste.

Some poor tree was cut down in its prime just to wind up in a paper merry-go-round, packaged in plastic, destined for the recycling bin. Yesterday, however, my conscience got the better of me and I decided, as the trees have made the ultimate sacrifice, I should at the very least have a look inside the catalogues – particularly as I had received a week’s worth in one day.

So last night I settled down in front of an old episode of Doc Martin and had a browse through. After all it’s wrong to damn a company’s expensive marketing strategy without testing it first and with Christmas around the corner, you never know if there may be the perfect gift for Aunt Gladys in there somewhere. But no there flippin’ wasn’t. I scoured the pages from gardening gifts to posh nosh, underwear to home interiors and there wasn’t a thing I either needed for myself or would give as a gift.

Yet I sort of felt guilty if I didn’t have a peek inside. So is that how it works, I wonder? Are these companies banking on you reaching that moment of weakness when you’re in a present-buying panic – at the precise time their tome plonks through the letterbox?

Well, I’m afraid it didn’t work. In fact, the only catalogue that I didn’t throw away in disgust at bedtime was the one sent to me from Redwings Horse Sanctuary because it’s one of the charities I choose to support. Naturally, I’m happy to add to its coffers and give the ponies an extra carrot at Christmas.

But this morning what arrives on the doormat? Three more volumes all trying to sell winter woollies and cashmere cardies. Oh good grief, enough already. If a person’s worth buying for, they’re worth the shoe leather and an actual, rather than virtual, trip to the shops.

I have to confess, I’ve succumbed in the past and been rather disappointed with the results of an online-shopping Christmas. Somehow things look bigger, better and all together more gorgeous in the glossy pages. Even the dogs seemed a little disappointed by my online offerings last year.

So now I have a new rule to go and physically seek out presents for my loved ones. It may seem easier to buy a gift ready-wrapped and delivered via online shopping, but it really is important to see what you’re sending first, so I’ve hatched myself a rather cunning plan to save aching arms and exhaustion this year.

I’ve booked a few days in the diary to go “Mindy mini-shopping”. It’s very simple, armed with my mobile phone I peruse the shops and buy any gifts that are easy (and light) to carry, but anything that’s a bit bulky or destined for the postman stays on the shop shelf and poses for a photo.

Then, when I get home all I have to do is search for it online and tick the box for giftwrapping then send it direct to the recipient. Brilliant! After all, when you have horse-mad nieces and nephews whose pony might need a new rug or whose field is lacking in a certain type of jump, it’s a bit tricky to source enough wrapping paper and there isn’t a post office counter big enough to slide that pole under the window.

Yes, I know, you can always send a gift voucher or some money hidden in a card, but if we all did that don’t you think Christmas morning would be rather a sad affair? Imagine your little ones rushing to the foot of the Christmas tree to be greeted by a small pile of envelopes containing gift cards.

Mindy mini-shopping has gone well so far and I have a small pile of presents hidden away but I must wrap and label them quickly, otherwise I’ll go and buy the same things again. Well, you know how it is, there are easy-to-buy-for people and tricky-to-buy-for ones, and what do we all do?

Buy one lot a little stack of gifts apiece and then find we’ve not bought for the tricky-to-buy-things-for people, and there’s just a few days to go before the shops shut. What happens then? Ah yes, that catalogue that came in the post with “next-day delivery”…Oooh! I can almost hear the cry, “Timberrrrrr!” They’ll always get us in the end!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/620251/Mindy-Hammond-Christmas

[RedMoon11]

The Abominable Mud Monster

MUD, mud, glorious mud – why is our intrepid columnist predicting a brown quagmire not a winter wonderland this Christmas?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Nov 29, 2015 


Mindy feels that it's likely to be a brown Christmas, as the abominable mud monster looms…  [SUSAN HELLARD]

Let’s face it: we may be dreaming of a white Christmas, but it’s not going to happen. In fact, it’s much more likely to be a brown Christmas, as the abominable mud monster looms…

Instead of white snow glistening, it will be heavy clay clinging to boots and shoes and splattering our clothing – no matter how careful we try to be. Although you may rarely expose your be-wellied feet to the trauma of traction control on such surfaces, I can assure you it’s a dangerous time of year for country dwellers, dog walkers, ramblers, park visitors and post-Sunday-roast strollers up and down the country.

We dust off our wellies and check for sneaky spiders then set off in blind ignorance of the perils that await. Although that Wellington chap is surely a British hero for his invention, he really should’ve paid a bit more attention to the design of the sole.

Mud is a complicated thing – it lies in wait for the unsuspecting – and has evil partners in crime, having a particularly close working relationship with fallen leaves, concrete and wet grass, plus unmentionable and unpleasant animal by-products. The mud monster is just waiting for us to fall into one of his traps, and every year he rubs his hands together with glee at the prospect of having high points on the mud war scoreboard.

In these parts, the mud battle is in full swing and the monster is scoring well. So far he’s caused me two attempted versions of the splits on wet leaves in Chicken Woods, one full sidewards slump on to the contents of the emptied duck pond and a skid into the opened lid of the recycling bin (damaged forehead, bit of blood and lot of swearing). But his proudest hour came yesterday at a pony club rally at the instructor’s farm.

The day had gone brilliantly, with Willow and Romeo having a great time with the three other pony and rider combinations in their group, thankfully in an indoor arena so we were kept out of the drizzle. Everyone learned lots of new jumping skills and the parents agreed it was well worth the horror of surrendering a Sunday morning lie-in.

By the time we finished, the rain had stopped but the monster had been plotting. We tied Romeo to the trailer and took off his saddle and bridle then I opened the back of the trailer.

“I’ll load him,” volunteered a smiling Willow but for some reason, instead of walking straight up the ramp, he walked off to the side.

She tried again, but his pace quickened as he begin walking away from the trailer.

Then I heard:

“Romeo! No!”

Just a millisecond had passed and although Willow was still holding him, he began to trot across the farmyard. Then to my horror, he began to break into a canter with Willow determinedly running alongside him.

“Willow! Let go! Let go!” I exclaimed.

Thankfully she did as she was told, but her terrified yells of “Mummy! Mummy! Oh Romeo! No!” echoed around the yard as she watched her beloved pony disappear down the lane.

I was already running, my boots skidding every which way.

“Stay there,” I ordered her.

She wanted to run after him, terrified he would disappear, but to chase would be a mistake. As I turned the corner out of the yard, I could see he’d trodden on his lead rope. I walked quietly and waited.

Thankfully he went over to say hello to a pair of thoroughbreds who’d trotted over to their field gate to see what the fuss was about. I scrabbled in my pocket and found a few morsels of horse treats, gave him one and grabbed his rope. By the time I turned him back through the farmyard, my friend Caroline was walking towards me with a scoop full of pony nuts, ready to join my quest.

Willow, still distraught, took a while to gather herself, but relief soon washed over us all as I loaded Romeo into the trailer. We were both splattered in stinky mud from head to toe and the trailer had gone from shiny black to a splashed brown as Caroline reversed it across the slippery yard, skidding in squidgy tracks and dunking in and out of ruts.

Unfortunately it didn’t end there. Because of the trauma, we were delayed getting home and had to have a late lunch at the local pub. I unloaded and sent Wills in to get changed, but I shuffled into a heaving gastro-pub still mud-splattered and a bit whiffy in my wellies.

Results

Willow: Bravery award

Caroline: Driving award

Mindy: Worst turned-out award

Mud monster: 10,000 points and still counting…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/621740/Mindy-Hammond-on-the-abominable-mud-monster

[RedMoon11]

Recapturing the Magic of Christmas

NOW 15-year-old Izzy is too grown-up for Santa and his reindeer, how can our columnist recapture the magic of Christmas?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, December 6, 2015


                                                                                                         [SUSAN HELLARD]

Oh, the excitement! School’s about to finish and we’re all looking forward to Christmas trips. The local panto, visiting Father Christmas or wrapping up warm and venturing out ready for a spot of ice-skating – it’s all happening.

The Olympia Horse Show has become the official beginning-of-Christmas event for us.

The atmosphere is always fantastic and it’s one of those rare occasions when long-suffering dads and husbands of horsey people actually enjoy an equine-themed event.

Meanwhile, back at Hammond Towers, the fires are all lit and the smell of wood smoke in the air makes us all feel Christmassy. This year I had a cunning idea and thought I’d throw a couple of cinnamon sticks and some orange peel on to our fire to make the house smell even more festive. Richard came home late the other night and as he walked into the hall, his face lit up.

“Ooh! Where is it then?” he asked.

“Huh? What?”

“Mulled wine. I could smell it as soon as I came in.”

“Erm, no. You could smell my festive fireplace.”

He looked so downcast, I felt I had to make it up to him. I spent the next hour gathering ingredients (the ones you use just once a year – star anise, anyone?) and making a large saucepan-full.

But did you know that mulled wine has magnetic properties? Within 10 minutes, the kitchen was full of people! The girls were hypnotised by the smell and drifted downstairs in a fog of fruity plonk.

Friends who were on their way home from a shopping trip made a last-minute detour and were soon warming their hands on goblets brimful of the dark liquid (and their bums on the Aga, naturally).

Unfortunately, I had to leave everyone to it and attend to the more pressing matter of buying food for Willow’s pony. On our way, I was chatting about plans for the coming weeks to my 15-year-old daughter Izzy as we drove through the dark lanes.

But then she sighed, “I wish I was still young enough for Father Christmas.”

“You’re never too old for Father Christmas. Next thing you’ll tell me you don’t believe in fairies!”

“Mother. Really.”

“Well, now you’ve just killed a fairy. Quick!

Say it and clap your hands.”

“OK,” she grudgingly agreed and slowly clapped her hands.

“I do believe in fairies, I do believe in fairies… because my mother’s nuts.”

We were driving over the top of the hill and as we turned a corner through the woods, another car sped past with its headlights on full beam.

“Good God! What a lunatic!” I screeched, blinking to try and rid myself of the white spots in my eyes caused by the blazing lights.

Suddenly, I spotted something moving in the trees and slowed to a crawl, turning my hazard lights on.

“Why are we stopping?” Izzy asked.

Moments later, two stags and three hinds leapt into the road not 20 feet in front of us.

They all paused and the stags slowly turned their heads to look at us with an air of regal elegance, while the hinds followed suit nervously. Seconds later, with a single bound, they seemed to fly through the air as they disappeared from the middle of the road into the woods opposite.

“Oh, they’re so beautiful,” Izzy said in a whisper.

I turned off the hazards and drove on slowly, just in case there were more.

“Mmm…” I smiled, “magical.”

“I can’t believe we saw them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen deer in the wild before,” Izzy breathed.

“Well, Christmas is coming and the deer have to practise take-offs and landings somewhere, don’t they?”Izzy sighed, exasperated.

“They were deer, Mum, not reindeer!”

“They’re the reserves,” I said, smugly. “We don’t have enough reindeer in this country and when Rudolph gets tired, someone has to be on standby!”

She was just drawing breath, no doubt about to tear my theory to pieces, when a pheasant flew across the bonnet, causing me to brake sharply as it narrowly missed the windscreen.

“Aaah! My God, what’s happening tonight!”

I smiled and said, “Fairies come in many forms, my dear.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as Izzy shook her head and pronounced slowly, “My mother’s a witch.”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/623333/Mindy-Hammond-on-recapturing-the-magic-of-Christmas

[RedMoon11]

Four-Legged Christmas Carrot Thieves

THE future’s orange as our columnist’s dogs spy and steal a sackful of Christmas carrots – but whose paw prints are all over the theft?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Dec 13, 2015


Whose paw prints are all over the big Christmas carrot theft?                                             [Hellard]

Ooh! It’s almost here and I’m so excited. The cats are clambering on the tree and Frazzle and Ketchup are having a competition to see who can chase a bauble farthest across the living-room floor. Don’t you just love festooning the house with colour? Our kitchen beams are strung with cards (again, more fun for the cats) and there seem to be random rolls of wrapping paper in every room as we all catch secret moments to prepare our gifts.

My Christmas CDs are on repeat and for the first time, Izzy’s compiled a festive playlist on her laptop. So All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey is belting out every couple of hours, which is the cue for the Hammond trio (me and the girls) to stop whatever we’re doing, assemble on the middle landing and do our best Mariah impersonations for a few minutes (I just hope she doesn’t play in the middle of turkey basting).

My logistics are completely shot this year and I’m still racing against time to make sure we see everyone. The car is wheezing and the treads are getting thinner by the day, but it’s always worth the effort. We have new babies in our gang, and the wonder in those beautiful little faces at the sight of their first Christmas takes every parent back to the busy, exciting days when their own were tiny and a new teddy or rattling thing was the most wonderful gift in the world. How things change…

I can’t share where I’ve hidden the girls’ Christmas hoard (obviously), or indeed Richard’s, but lorks, it’s been a challenge. I’ve even moved the angle on the CCTV slightly to keep a close eye on their wanderings. I had a bit of a shock the other day, though, when in the darkness all I could see was white string on the screen. I thought the lens had broken and watched for a few minutes then shrieked as an enormous white spider appeared. It looked like a tarantula, although was probably about the size of a pea.

As usual, I’m having my small nervous breakdown over Christmas lunch preparations and waiting until the last minute to buy veg for fear it’ll be out of date on Christmas Eve, although spuds and carrots we have by the ton. In fact, I’ve had a bit of a problem with them escaping. You see, Sparrow is rather keen on carrots. She steals them from the feed room over at the stables, so the arrival of a sackful in the kitchen porch was too much of a temptation and when Richard came downstairs first the other morning, I knew something had happened. I was having a sneaky extra five minutes in bed when I heard…

“No. No! Out. Go on, out!”

I scrambled to my feet and rushed down the stairs.

“Oh dear. That’s a bit naughty,” I said, trying very hard not to giggle.

“Your well-trained gundog’s been at it again,” Richard sighed, pointing at her open crate door.

“Ah well, it is Christmas!”

There were tell-tale chunks across the kitchen floor and inside her favourite place, on top of her lovely, snuggly bed, amongst the ever-growing pile of old slippers, teddies and dog chews, was a wide scattering of orange sprinkles plus several whole carrots collected and saved for later.

The sack by the back door had a Labrador-nose-sized hole in the net and was no longer bulging with its carroty contents. Instead, it had deflated at the top and looked a bit exhausted from a constant overnight attack. Meanwhile, Sparrow’s pleading eyes looked at me from the other side of the arched window-doors, her tail wagging frantically.

“Ahhh, poor baby. She was just collecting presents for everyone,” I told Richard as I opened the door and gave her a big hug.

“Seriously? You don’t see my dog stealing presents,” he said, patting Blea on the head.

But you see, dogs will be dogs and if there’s one thing we all know, it’s that nobody is perfect, so sometimes it’s better to say nothing rather than incriminate the innocent.

Just a few hours later, His Royal Hammondness had gone outside to “do something in the garage” – wrapping presents perhaps? – leaving the lovely Blea in the kitchen while I cooked lunch. She was very quiet. So quiet, I thought she was asleep.

Then I heard a noise coming from the dog basket under the window and saw Blea nudging the blanket in the corner with her nose.

“What are you hiding in there, little girl?”

Hmmm… Five carrots. Untouched, just carried and hidden. Sparrow looked on with a face that said…

“See? I was led astray, honest!”

Well, we know what Blea’s master’s getting for Christmas, don’t we? In fact, I’ll wrap them up specially with a tag and everything!

Happy Christmas, everyone. May your day be filled with wonder and joy, and with carrots in the saucepan not under the tree…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/625101/Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-dogs-stealing-Christmas-carrots

[RedMoon11]

Richard Hammond's wife, Mindy on Family Christmas

THERE'S never a dull moment at Mindy Hammond’s country pile. Ruby Millington catches up with S Magazine’s favourite columnist as she prepares for the festivities with Richard, the girls – and all her animals...

By UPLOADEXPRESS
PUBLISHED: 03:01, Sun, Dec 20, 2015


I love buying presents. It’s absolutely my favourite thing,” says Mindy, with Nobby the duck

From left: Our columnist with Kitty the horse

“I love buying presents. It’s absolutely my favourite thing,” says Mindy, with Nobby the duck.

When it comes to Christmas, all families develop their own traditions, and the Hammond household – TV presenter Richard, S Magazine columnist Mindy, 15-year-old Izzy, Willow, 12, and their menagerie of animals – has more than a few festive idiosyncrasies.

“Christmas never starts here until Richard stops work,” explains Mindy. “Sometimes he’s working away right up to Christmas, but although I do some secret prep in the meantime, the tree won’t go up until he’s home.”

The tree is chosen well in advance from a nearby Christmas tree farm. “Richard always buys one that’s too big. Our ceilings are nine-feet high but it’s always grazing the top,” says Mindy.

“Our decorations are things we’ve collected over the years including the girls’ baby shoes, their first dummies and things they’ve made at school. Every year the girls can choose a new decoration for the tree so we have a lovely ramshackle mixture, which looks a bit bonkers but has sentimental meaning.


Christmas doesn’t start until Richard stops work'

From left:“Christmas doesn’t start until Richard stops work. The tree won’t go up until he’s home,” says Mindy.

Even on Christmas Eve she takes time out of her busy schedule to muck out the ponies, including Musca

“Usually we put another tree in the barn where we have our Christmas party,” she adds. “But because of the swimming pool, it’s quite warm. When you go to decorate the tree all the needles go whoosh… So this year we’re planting a tree outside, so it will always be there.”

It’s a typically pragmatic Mindy measure. Mindy is so tiny you’d think her nickname was short for minuscule (in fact, her real name is Amanda) and you get the impression that she’s happiest in her habitual uniform of jodhpurs and boots. While she’s not exactly a power dresser – although she scrubs-up envy-inducingly well – it’s clear that she’s not just alarmingly energetic but a great multitasker.

Which is lucky because Mindy clearly has her work cut out for her. With Richard working away much of the time it’s Mindy’s job to hold the fort at home. And when home’s a nine-bedroom country pile with parts dating back to the 1400s, a castle added to the side and acres of land, there’s a lot to keep her busy. There are six dogs and five cats to look after, chickens, ducks, ponies, goats, sheep, a donkey and a peacock, not to mention relentless school runs and, of course, her weekly column to write for S Magazine. You wonder if she ever has time to sleep.

“Well, there have been Christmas Eve parties in the past where I haven’t bothered going to bed because it’s got so late – it’s actually light, so I’ve just stayed up and put the ponies out,” she admits. Even now she’s not exactly going to be getting a Christmas morning lie-in.

“The girls humour me on Christmas Eve because I still put hay and carrots outside for the reindeer and Richard leaves Santa’s whisky and mince pies on a special plate that’s got their names on,” she explains.

“Then in the morning I go out and put bells and horse plop down so it looks like the reindeer have been to the loo. The girls used to wake at 5am but now it’s a little more civilised 7am and we all come downstairs and open our stockings over tea and toast. I time my break to run out to the stables and do the quickest muck-out I can do.”


Mindy, pictured with (from left) Captain, Blea, Crusoe, Sparrow, and TG

From left: Ketchup is one of five cats at Hammond Towers

“I feel sorry for Blea. I don’t think she’ll exactly love her Santa outfit,” says Mindy, pictured with (from left) Captain, Blea, Crusoe, Sparrow, and TG

Like many women, Mindy’s Christmas morning is kitchen-based. The kitchen in question is in what used to be the dairy and now seems to figure as Mindy’s HQ. It’s a cosy space where low ceilings contrast with modern, ultra-white cabinets and where wellies and dog beds figure alongside the white Le Creuset and high-tech appliances.

“The log fires will be going and I’ll be playing some Nat King Cole or Dean Martin, and while I’m cooking everyone else will be drinking. I started making lots of different gins recently – now Richard’s favourite tipple is a glass of champagne with a splash of the strawberry. It’s lethal!”

“If I’m super-organised, I’ll have prepared the vegetables and laid the table on Christmas Eve, but I always find no matter how organised you think you are there’s always a last-minute panic. One year I got the turkey out of the freezer too late and then on Christmas Eve I had to go and find another one,” says Mindy.

“I’m also a terrible over-caterer. I think I used to work a ranch in a previous life and I always cook for about 20 even when there’s just a few of us. I try to tell myself it’s just a big roast but then I have to tick every box – I have to make cheesy leeks and bread sauce and cranberry sauce.

And I always spend ages researching the best Christmas pudding to buy and then no one’s got any room left to eat it. Although after lunch Richard will still eat his weight in chocolate and Turkish Delight during a mixture of telly and board games.”

Of course, the over-catering means the animals all get some turkey, too, although this year Blea the border collie has a different treat in store.

“I feel sorry for her because Willow’s bought her a Santa outfit,” says Mindy. “I don’t think she’ll exactly love it. But she’ll wear it – briefly.”

Last year it was Mindy and Richard’s turn for costumes. “The girls bought both me and Richard onesies that we had to wear nearly all day,” she says. “Richard thought it was brilliant.”

Mindy readily admits that she loves buying presents. “It’s absolutely my favourite thing,” she says. “I have a huge cache of them but they have to be extremely well-hidden, which can be difficult. One year, for example, I bought Richard an old series 1 Land Rover for Christmas and where do you hide that?

This year, though, I have no idea what to buy him because he already has so many cars and motorbikes and watches. His birthday is on the 19th, too, which makes it harder. I might have one inspired idea but I’m never going to have two.”

Is Richard romantic when it comes to presents? “He’s mostly just panicked,” laughs Mindy. “I remember one Christmas everything I opened was either a hat or a bag as if it was some sort of theme. He’s bought me some really lovely pictures over the years, although now we’ve got too many pictures and not enough wall. But the first enormous present I ever had from Richard was very romantic.

He bought me my first horse because he knew it was my dream. It wasn’t a surprise though, because a horse is very personal, you can’t just buy one at random and expect it to work out. But it did have a surprise in the end because it turned out she was in foal.”

While there may not be a equine BOGOF this year, there will be a fair amount of merrymaking over the festive period. “Christmas is the one time we know we’ll all be together because there’s nothing going on work-wise. We can see friends and no one has to get up early for the school run so the pressure is off and it’s quite lovely,” sighs Mindy.

The Hammonds’ Christmas get-together is likely to be a humdinger, too. “We’ve got a barn full of booze,” giggles Mindy. “It’s a building like Fort Knox that I keep stocked up so we don’t have to worry about running out at the last minute because we do have a little party. Well, quite a big party...”

One thing it won’t be is a big celebrity affair. “It’s mostly local people,” says Mindy. “We have great mates surrounding us. We all get together and everyone has kids of similar ages so it all works well.

It’s really cool because we’ve been living round here for so long now that it’s no novelty to see Richard breaking down in the car or shopping at Morrisons and no one makes a fuss. The only time he’ll get a lot of attention is in the summertime when there are lots of tourists round. It’s lovely and we can always go and do the showbizzy thing if we want, but we don’t that much because we really love being here. We have a very, very good life.”

In fact, it looks close to perfect. The only thing that might make Christmas more special is some snow to make it picture-postcard perfect, although maybe that’s not what you wish for when you’re surrounded by treacherous country roads. “Are you kidding?” laughs Mindy. “Have you seen how many Land Rovers we’ve got? I think we’d be OK.”

Mindy’s regular column returns next week.
 
Photographs by Hamish Mitchell

Mindy Hammond behind the scenes on S Magazine shoot
video - bcove.me/o6vyuukt

www.express.co.uk/life-style/life/626948/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-family-Christmas

[RedMoon11]

The Christmas Feast Preparations at Hammond Towers

IT'S canine capers at Hammond Towers as the dogs tuck into their Christmas chews – but what would Blea make of her Santa outfit?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, December 27, 2015


'I have rather a reputation for over-catering, but I surpassed all expectations this year'         HELLARD

Well, wasn’t that lovely? Is your fridge groaning? It’s certainly been an eating marathon in our house. I know
   
I have rather a reputation for over-catering, but I surpassed all expectations this year.

Even Rudolph and his friends were left more carrots than usual (Blea and Sparrow grew rather tired of their new-found diet of stolen orangeness) and Santa himself had not one but two mince pies – although he left half of the second one. He clearly didn’t have a problem with the Scotch, though!

The ponies had so many treats on Christmas morning, they didn’t know where to start. Willow had spent a fortune in the feed shop and they not only had standard horse treats but also carrots, a tube of Polo mints each and apple-flavoured mineral licks.

“I hope you’re going to brush their teeth after that lot!” I told Willow, who was giving Rosie the donkey extra cuddles with her carrots while getting her

Christmas onesie covered in donkey dander.

But Willow was soon running back to the house to give Blea her very special Christmas present. The dogs were all assembled in the kitchen, trembling with excitement. Their noses were keenly trained on the delicious waft of roasting turkey, mixed with the smell of a Hammond favourite breakfast – scrambled eggs on cheese on Marmite on bagel.

They were almost swooning with delight. We carefully left some for each of them and then, while I started the first Christmas dishwasher load, pet present time began.

They all tore into their gift-wrapped dog chews with great excitement, although Sparrow, being a lady, carried hers to her bed and took over 20 minutes to gently tear the paper, while Crusoe preferred a long-drawn-out system of paper shredding to get to hers.

Blea decided to save her chew for later and buried it in the back of her basket.

Willow then called her and while Blea tore open her extra gift, Willow manoeuvred her into a Santa outfit. Poor dog! Although, to be honest, she wore it all day and didn’t seem to mind, and I have to admit that she looks pretty good in red!

The cats all had various catnip toys and Rucksack, who is the worst addict, received a little pillow filled with the magic stuff. He picked it up in his mouth and carried the catnip upstairs to Izzy’s bed, where he drooled over it all day.

Once the wrapping paper mountain had been cleared from the sitting room and the girls went to try out their presents, I began cooking in earnest and, well, I got a bit carried away.

We’re very lucky to have extra cooking appliances, so it felt churlish not to use them.

The trouble is, when you’re very accustomed to cooking a standard Sunday roast, clearly you have to go the extra mile at Christmas – but I think I went several miles!

So we started with pâté and toast, and that was lovely. There were oohs and aahs when the turkey came in, surrounded by devils on horseback. But as Richard began to carve, I set about ferrying in the rest of the trimmings.

There were carrots, roast potatoes, parsnips, leeks, Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, red cabbage, white cabbage with mustard seeds, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, stuffing and curly crispy bacon to name but a few … Oh, and crispy sweet potatoes too.

Eyes widened, jaws dropped and Richard said:“We are never, ever going to do this justice!”

And although we tried, with the odd top button undone to allow a little extra room, eventually the table admitted defeat. So how on earth were we going to cope with pudding?

Well, it was cooked and lit and brought to the table. Unfortunately, I’d surrounded it with mince pies (not the half that Santa had left, by the way), while it was accompanied by brandy butter, brandy sauce and brandy cream.

Everyone groaned!

I looked around the table and noticed that Richard’s eyebrow was raised quizzically.

“Erm, maybe it would be better to save this for teatime,” I suggested.“Oh please God, yes!” exclaimed Richard.

“And let’s make it a late tea, can we?”

As everyone settled down, some for a post-scoff snooze, others for a game of Trivial Pursuit, I returned to my shambolic kitchen and began the annual clingfilm festival.

Opening the door to the fridge on Boxing Day, it was rather a challenge to find the milk, and it took a full five minutes to dig out the butter, which was hiding behind the half-eaten Christmas pud.

Still, at least we won’t need to go to the supermarket for oooh… about two weeks.

Izzy’s already on the treadmill trying to work off those chipolatas and the dogs have gained a few pounds each – what dog doesn’t look forward to its Christmas supper?

Thank you for another wonderful year together. I hope you’ve had a fabulous Christmas and we’ll share many more adventures in 2016!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/628292/Top-Gear-Richard-Hammond-Mindy-Hammond-Christmas

[RedMoon11]

A Possible Egg Thief in Chicken Woods

WERE the hens on a go-slow in Chicken Woods or was there an egg thief about? Our columnist investigates...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sunday, January 3, 2016


Were the hens on a go-slow in Chicken Woods or was there an egg thief about?        [HELLARD]

Oh dear – 2016 has landed and it came in like a lion in these parts. Perhaps we overdid it a bit. I’m not sure, but I was feeling a bit peaky mucking out yesterday morning and my heart sank when the phone rang,

“How are things in horse world?” Came the slightly gravelly tones of Mr H. “Everyone’s up and they’re demanding scrambled eggs, so do you think you could squeeze a few out of the chickens?”

“Yep, I’ll bring you some.”

In reality, though, my heart was sinking.

Chickens go “off lay” in the winter and although there’s usually one or two eggs a day, of late the production line has really slowed – but fingers crossed…

They all flew out of the door with great enthusiasm while I nipped around the back to open the upstairs nesting box.

“Come on girls, you could at least leave one!”

But no, there was nothing to be seen. Then, as if answering my call, Doris, the white hen, popped her head in through the door.

I quickly closed the door, delighted she was on her way to the laying headquarters.

I sighed and went over to free Wimble, Don, Mrs Fluffy Knickers and Baby Bloomers. Wimble and Don were hand-reared when they were rejected by their duck mother during a certain tennis tournament back in the summer, while Baby Bloomers was a gift egg to Mrs Fluffy Knickers, who sat on unfertilised eggs for so long I felt sorry for her and sneaked in an extra.

I’ve still no idea when the three youngsters might start laying, but their dear mother had, as usual, delivered her single, tiny, one-inch-round egg (she’s no bigger than a blackbird covered in fluff with baggy trousers, so you can’t expect a double yolker).

I then made for Poppet’s house. As an ex-battery hen, she lives alone because she isn’t well covered in feathers and if she’s put in with the others they’ll peck at her bare skin. So instead, she’s in her cosy, hay-filled apartment and gives us a beautiful big brown egg every morning. What a treasure!

I looked into my hand at the meagre egg harvest but thought that if I left Doris until the end of mucking out, she’d surely deliver egg number three, and there were at least two already indoors so we could stretch to enough scrambled eggs for the girls (and possibly Richard).

Sparrow the dog was desperately excited at the thought of an eggy treat.

“No, not today girl – these are on order,” I told her and hid them out of reach.

I was just returning to the stables when Sparrow shot off at full speed under Romeo’s gate. I quickly followed, to see her round the corner at full tilt and leap up at the fence.

She was very upset and frantically leaping at the sides of the 10-foot-high fencing around Chicken Woods. At first, I thought there must be a fox in there, but then I looked closer.

“No! Ohh you little…”

Doris had left the nesting box and was happily pecking away at the corn, her work for the day done and order filled, but it was taken by a non-paying customer.

There, in the doorway of the nesting box, was a furry little head, and in his little hands he was rolling a nice, big egg. The swine!

It was too late to be saved, but I beat him to number two. The poor hens hadn’t been so lazy after all – they’d been robbed.

About half an hour later, I returned to the kitchen and a welcome cup of tea. Richard looked at the three (well, two and a bit) eggs.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Well, there would be more if the squirrels weren’t nicking them.”

He sighed, “Just face it – you’ve got rubbish hens. There’s no point making excuses for them.”

“No… really… I…”

“Here we go: Mindy’s tales of the unexpected.”

I glanced in frustration out of the window and there on the walnut tree was a squirrel. He flicked his tail and stared at me as if to say, “Na na na-na na!”

So I opened the door for the dogs and then shouted, “Squirrel!”

Unfortunately, none of them know what that means so they all stood around on the lawn looking confused.

You won that day, you little grey terror, but 2016 will be the year of squirrel wars, I can feel it!

A very happy and wonderful New Year to you. Minus the squirrel.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/628888/Top-Gear-presenter-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-possible-egg-thief

[RedMoon11]

on Her New Year's Resolutions

THERE'S nothing like a hot soak when you’ve been hauling hay in the rain and our columnist ended up making quite a splash at bath-time...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Jan 10, 2016


Our columnist ended up making quite a splash at bath-time...                                        [SUSAN HELLARD]

Yes I know I’m late and I probably should’ve thought of this sooner, but I get so busy with the Christmas preparations that I always shelve a silly thing like a New Year’s resolutions list.

So my resolutions go something like this:

1. Take vitamin C.

2. Check all outdoor clothing for leaks.

3. Bleed radiators monthly.

4. Change tap washers when they start leaking.

The reason for all these new-found rules to live by are very simple. After nursing Richard through a tummy bug just before Christmas, Izzy got a horrible cough and cold and Willow followed with the addition of tonsillitis.

There I was, resting on my laurels, super-proud of my superhuman constitution whilst I did my best Florence Nightingale impersonation. I’d escaped every virus and stormed through Christmas with more energy than a Tasmanian devil on Red Bull.

Everyone made a full recovery and was zingy and bright. Even dear old Crusoe, who had a bit of a drama the week before, enjoyed Christmas with more vigour and excitement than should be expected of any pet in their late nineties.

I was on cloud 10, embracing the slightly longer days and positively skipping to the stables in the morning. Unfortunately, I was so filled with bounciness, I was a bit careless and grabbed the first coat I saw, and my old, very worn wellies.

Still, no matter – it wasn’t raining, after all.

But then it did rain. A lot. Rain doesn’t scare me, though. I was almost tempted to grab a pair of red tights, shove some shiny blue pants over the top and don a cape. Marvellous Mindy shuns the elements; nothing can defeat her! So I continued hauling hay and moving muck while the rain hammered and the wind whipped.

Eventually I marched home and removed all my wet outer garments (I’ve been reading period novels, can you tell?). My socks were dripping wet and within minutes of taking my coat off, the dampness of my neck and shoulders made me shiver slightly. Unusually for me, I decided to have a bath – in the middle of the day!

Well, I thought I deserved a bit of a treat and with the house all quiet again, a sneaky soak to the final chapters of The Count Of Monte Cristo was irresistible.

I gathered together all the equipment – audiobook paused and ready, cup of tea, big fluffy towels and, of course, bubble bath – then ran up the stairs followed by Tg, Captain and Blea to set the bath water running.

The water gushed out and I left it for a few minutes while I fetched some clean clothes. When I returned, I fiddled with the taps and there was the most terrible noise – sort of a low, whistley moan – and the flow was soon reduced to a dribble. My heart sank as the noise grew louder and a pitiful amount of hot water streamed into the bubbles. Then I remembered it had started to make that noise several weeks ago, but I’d forgotten to call the plumber.

Never mind, I could have a shallow bath.

The trouble is I couldn’t accurately gauge the depth of my shallow bubble bath and when I eventually lowered myself in, found that it just covered my legs. I shuffled down and made the most of it and, determined to enjoy my bath, turned on the audiobook.

Ahhh, peace and relaxation at last – except those pipes seemed to be making rather a big noise. And as the water grew ever colder, the noise got louder, to the point that Blea and Captain were turning their heads from side to side, ears pricked as they honed in on the source.

Bath time was over and I reached for my towel, but instead of warm fluffiness I was met with cold lifelessness as the towel rail wasn’t working. Aha! That must be why the pipes were making a noise. So still damp, I dashed downstairs to the toolbox and soon returned with my radiator key to let the air out. It worked perfectly until I got splattered with brown water, so I needed a shower...

That afternoon my back began to ache and I couldn’t get warm. By bedtime, the coughing had started and I’m now tapping this out from my invalid space on the sofa, wearing two jumpers, woolly leggings and furry slippers (thanks Santa), and covered in a thick blanket and four dogs.

The plumbers are banging and clattering upstairs, meanwhile the fire is blazing as I sip my lemon and honey and try to stem the flow from my poor sore nose.

If the flames die down, I can always rekindle them with plenty of used tissues, a pair of red tights, large blue knickers and, oh yes, a cape!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/632452/Mindy-Hammond-column-New-Years-resolutions

[RedMoon11]

A Sunny Winter Break

WHAT could be better than a sunny winter break? But could our columnist persuade her wary daughters to warm to the idea of flying?

By Mindy Hammond
PUBLISHED: Sun, Jan 17, 2016


Could our columnist persuade her wary daughters to jet off to a sunny holiday?

As much as I’m enjoying slightly longer daylight hours this January, when Richard announced we should try to get a week in the sun I jumped off the kitchen stool and did a victory lap around the kitchen. You see, he goes to so many exotic locations to film his shows that the last thing he wants to do is pack another bag – but not this year, apparently. Hooray!

The trouble is, as much as we all love going on holiday, the girls both loathe flying, and Willow gets incredibly homesick and misses the animals within a couple of days. I had to think fast. With just a few weeks until their half term, we needed to get in quick before everything was booked up. Then

I had a brilliant idea of how to sell a sunshine break to the girls. When they came home from school, I sidled up to Willow and Izzy then said…

“I know it bothers you both that you’re not exactly tall, but there are ways to aid growth, you know.”

Willow could smell a rat.

“Please don’t start banging on about standing in horse muck,” she said. “It’s not going to work.”

I was ready to spring: “But vitamin D does!”

Izzy rolled her eyes and said, “Mummy dearest, we spend more time outside than most people, but have you noticed that it’s winter and therefore dark?”

She waved her hand towards the window to reinforce her point.

“True, but in some parts of the world it’s still gloriously sunny and warm.”

“Yes, but we’re not in those parts of the world.”

“We could be.”

“I’m not moving abroad!” exclaimed Willow.

“Oh dear,” I sighed, “nobody’s moving abroad, but we could have a holiday somewhere nice and sunny.”

“Where?”

“Oh, I don’t know, but somewhere that the weather’s guaranteed.”

Izzy looked at Willow suspiciously and said, “She’s talking long-haul.”

“Well, not necessarily.”

Relieved I wasn’t suggesting emigrating, Willow seemed to warm to the idea: “It would be nice to be in the sun for a week instead of rain.”

“But you know I hate flying!” pleaded Izzy.

“She really does,” Willow said, nodding.

“Yes, I know, but Wills – remember that film we were watching the other day?”

Her eyes widened and a very sneaky smile crept across her face as Izzy looked worried. We’d been watching The A-Team and when BA Baracus began resisting the idea of flying (his only fear), the team invented various schemes to trick him on to a plane or helicopter. Willow had commented that he was just like Izzy.

“Iz, what about if we went on a train instead?”

“No, that’s not going to work. We’ll have to fly, but maybe we can blindfold you and play relaxing whale noises through your earphones?”

“Seriously?” Izzy wasn’t impressed

“No, no, I’ve got it,” Willow said excitedly.

“Why don’t you book her into the dentist’s and she could have a tooth out? If she gets knocked out, we can just quickly put her on the plane before she comes round!”

“Oh thanks, Wills, so not only do I have to wake up at 30,000 feet, I’ll also lose a tooth! Thanks mate.”

“I think people would notice us trying to prop you up going through the airport – imagine trying to shuffle a woozy Izzy through the scanner!”

“Could you knock me out, though?” Izzy asked.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

And so it went on. Until we remembered that Izzy did once sleep on a flight back from America when we were all absolutely exhausted. We’d been on three flights in four days and were aching to get home. For the first time in her life, Izzy snuggled down under her blanket and didn’t wake until the plane was touching down at Heathrow.

“That’s it! We’ll have a party the night before we go on holiday,” Izzy said. “We’ll all stay up really late then go straight to the airport. It’s a brilliant plan. Well done, Mum. You book the holiday and I’ll start texting the invites.”

“No, Izzy, wait. I…”

Willow sighed, slowly shook her head and said, “You walked straight into that one.”

Ho hum. Still, we’ll need a holiday to get over the party, I suppose…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/634176/Mindy-Hammond-on-a-sunny-winter-break

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond's Tribute on David Bowie

AS THE world mourns the passing of a musical legend, our columnist pays her own tribute to the starman waiting in the sky...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Jan 24, 2016


Mindy revisits her favourite songs from David Bowie

It’s a couple of weeks since we heard the very sad news about David Bowie and wonderful tributes have been paid to his memory across the globe.

Whether you were old enough to appreciate the first explosion of Space Oddity in 1969 or your memories are mostly linked to your parents’ playlist on iTunes, there can be very few of us whose life hasn’t been touched by such an incredible man.

I was so shocked and upset to hear the news as it broke that dreadful Monday morning, I’m afraid I gave the girls a bit of a shock when they came down for breakfast to find me in tears as I dished out scrambled eggs on toast.

“Mummy, what’s wrong?” Willow asked.

“David Bowie’s died. I’m sorry, I seem to be really upset.”

It was rather confusing to find myself so devastated and for the girls to see me like that. After all, I’d never called myself a “fan” but when Richard appeared and I apologised for being so daft, he explained to the girls: “There were so many times in Mummy’s life when she listened to his music or watched him on TV, it’s a bit of a shock to hear he’s gone.”

I’m sure I wasn’t alone. It really was as though flashes of those moments were being projected in my brain and although I’m the last person to dwell on sadness, I decided to let David Bowie be my hero… just for one day, and embrace the memories.

There were those secret hours of listening to the John Peel radio show underneath the blankets when I first heard Space Oddity, then pleading for months to be allowed to visit a real hairdresser instead of the lady down the road who cut my fringe until it was only an inch long.

Eventually I was granted my wish and walked out with my ginger hair chopped into a Ziggy Stardust cut, much to the annoyance of my parents. At school on Monday morning I was instantly nicknamed David Bowie by the sixth formers, (well, it was an all-girls school) and it stuck for the duration of the hairstyle.

Although more longevity was awarded to my first pet cat, a mangy little black-and-white kitten whose dishevelled fur stuck up on end and was christened “Ziggy”.

Then there was the wonderful day I was given a record player. My prized possession was a copy of Hunky Dory, which I played constantly through my early teens. I had no idea how old it was, I’d found it in a used record store for 50p and it was my first album (apart from

The Jungle Book, which my parents had given me with the record player).

As I thought back on those times, I decided to revisit the songs I once knew so well and entered a search on iTunes. When the first few bars of Changes played I had goose bumps. Each track spun me back to a scene in my bedroom, whether sitting on the windowsill on a summer night staring up at the stars to Eight Line Poem or hugging my legs in a corner to Queen Bitch after a bad day at school.

When Kooks came on, I sobbed my heart out because, you see, although possibly my very favourite, the LP was scratched badly across that track after my sister had barged in and pushed the arm across in anger, so in my head I heard the jumping version. As I listened I heard, for the first time in years, the complete song.

Once I recovered myself, I realised it was no surprise that particular album was so treasured by teenage girls. I imagine teenagers everywhere identified with the lyrics and probably, like me, wished their parents were “a couple of Kooks” too.

Of course Kooks is now on my iTunes playlist. It’ll automatically download on to Izzy’s phone, as will a few others and perhaps she’ll be cheered up on bad days by some of the same songs (although, frankly, she does have rather kooky parents).

When I was a fair few years older than Iz, I started venturing to local nightclubs. Bowie had reinvented himself and we all tore around the floor to Let’s Dance, and my first love, who will remain nameless, used to stare into my eyes to the music of China Girl. The video would always be playing in the background and he used to mime “shhh” in time with the image on screen. I even have a photo somewhere of that often rehearsed moment!

So as it turns out, it’s really no surprise that I, like a great many others, feel we’ve lost somebody very special. I owe him a great deal for helping me survive tough times, bringing me joy and a sense of freedom, then smiling on the wonder of love.

A hero. Not just for one day.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/636032/Mindy-Hammond-tribute-David-Bowie-death

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on her fight against the flood

AS THE Dunkirk spirit prevails in flooded communities, our columnist grabs her wellies to stem the flow at Hammond Towers.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, January 31, 2016


Our columnist grabs her wellies to stem the flow at Hammond Towers                        [HELLARDS]

Just a few short weeks ago, we were all feeling rather battered, bruised and discombobulated. After all, most of us were recovering from the excesses of Christmas and New Year overindulgences, others had succumbed to the heavy cold that seemed to have left the UK looking like one big, extremely runny nose. Meanwhile, more poor souls were trying to escape the rising water that left so many families in despair.

Not a brilliant way to start a new year, but the Dunkirk spirit will prevail. With any luck, there will be a glimmer of realisation that flood plains should be preserved and treated with as many conservation and planning regulations as bats in the rafters – or a spackle-horned orchid in the flowerbed! It may not solve the problem, but surely we should all try to do our bit.

I remember listening to a radio programme some months ago on the issue of flooding and apparently the increasing number of paved or tarmacked front gardens is a real problem, as water has nowhere to drain away and heavy rain on these surfaces runs off and gathers, flooding drains by sheer volume.

Of course, if you have nowhere to park your car, you may have to tarmac over land, but if at least part of the garden is left to lawn, or a flowerbed laid, it eases the pressure.

I wish we’d been more aware of this at one of our old houses. After suffering many months of shovelling dirt, a severe blow to our bank balance on bags of gravel and sore backs all round, we admired our beautiful new driveway for about three weeks before the heavens opened and rainwater merrily trickled its way into the kitchen! We quickly had drains installed and I’ve been very watchful when it comes to water levels ever since.

Which brings me to a mysterious phenomenon at Hammond Towers.

There is a strange clay pipe on one of our external walls. Nobody knows where it comes from and most of the time it disappears behind bits of foliage, but occasionally it starts to spurt water.

Ah yes, you may be thinking, it’s some kind of overflow. But it isn’t and what’s even more curious, the stream of water is so strong it manages to flow up a slight incline!

We’ve rattled our brains and come to the decision that it must be connected to an underground spring of some sort that has been redirected at some point, but how on earth are we to find it? It’s clearly been operating for many years because the water gathers where the incline becomes too steep and floods into a field where it has made its own seasonal pond!

My investigations with neighbours revealed the little stream at the bottom of our fields used to run steadily in decades past, but is now a bit of a trickle. And although the resident otter is as big as a small cow by all accounts, I suspect this is due to severe lack of exercise rather than overeating – after all, these days he can only dip his tootsies in the water and have a paddle while trying to spot a stickleback, instead of gliding sleekly through deep water chasing a fat trout.

Since starting a clearing operation on the overgrown bit of land we acquired last year, we discovered something new that also lends to the idea of some human intervention where the little stream is concerned – a dam!

And no, it definitely wasn’t built by beavers. The sad truth is that reinstating the natural watercourse is no simple matter. After all, we don’t know the reasoning behind the dam or the change of direction of the stream. Our neighbour assures us that many rather rare birds still return to the stream every year and we need to make sure we don’t discourage them, and naturally we must make absolutely sure nobody in the village will suddenly find their garden waterlogged if the dam disappears.

Much as they might enjoy the sight of a kingfisher on the gatepost, I doubt they’d be too happy to see their dahlias drown.

One thing is for sure – the badgers aren’t worried whatever happens. If they build their sett any higher, they’ll become tree-dwellers. Perhaps we should have paid more attention to their habits earlier, then maybe we would have seen the early warning signs – badger sett high, heavy rain nigh?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/638036/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-column-flood

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Her Daughters' Winter Fashion

DEDICATED followers of fashion who don’t consider the great British climate have our columnist sartorially baffled – until she looks at her own family.

By MINDY HAMMOND

PUBLISHED: Sunday, February 7, 2016



Mindy is rather surprised about her daughters' winter wardrobe                                           HELLARD

Don’t you think it’s amazing the things you learn from your children? Within 24 hours of being informed by Willow that 2015 was the warmest year on record in the UK, she was moaning that it was freezing outside and she needed more jumpers and woollier socks.

I pointed out that perhaps a coat would be a better idea, meanwhile noticing her sister Izzy was wearing a cropped top and jeans with splits in the knees, paired with Ugg boots.

I know I’m rather ancient, but where’s the sense in wearing a fitted jumper with your midriff exposed to the elements, or a pair of jeans with naked knees? The only parts of her body reliably wrapped up against the chills of winter were her feet. No wonder they get so warm – they’re completely out of sync with the rest of her.

Perhaps, because we were all lulled into a false sense of security last year, we’ve forgotten that not so long ago we had a very cold, snowy winter all across the country that took many of us by surprise, and where are you going to find a nice warm coat when all the shops are displaying their spring/summer collections ready for exotic Easter holidays?

Although we do seem to be quite good at acclimatising our bodies in this country; after all, teenagers in the North of England are so hardy they’re able to walk snow-covered streets in short skirts and shirtsleeves for a night on the tiles, seemingly with no trace of frostbite or chilblains. I’m amazed they don’t suffer overheating when the weather improves; if they did I suspect it could cause a public outcry and lead to a few new naturist areas! Yet when we venture abroad, we find ourselves flaking in the heat, while our fellow Europeans are wrapping themselves in cardies and overcoats.

There’s one part of the UK that always fascinates me for the complete irregularity of personal temperature control, and that’s London. I realise our capital city is a bit of a melting pot of cultures and nationalities but even so, if you’re ever static on a London street, it’s mind-blowing to see the extremes.

Unfortunately, a traffic jam in central London is quite a common occurrence, so to pass the time I’ve invented a game (especially useful if I’m with the girls) called “Guess Who?”. It’s very simple to play. Based on how people are dressed, you just have to invent an explanation for their choice of clothes; you’re not allowed to be cruel or judgmental and the story has to be believable. During the course of these games, we’ve been completely dumbfounded at times, and by far the best time of year for a good round has to be spring.

For some, the moment the clocks go forward, the winter woollies must be locked away and come rain or shine, the flowery prints and strappy sandals are on. For others, winter boots and fur coats remain the order of the day until the mercury rises above 23ºC. During springtimes past we’ve seen friends chatting animatedly as they walk together, one in wellies and a raincoat, the other in shorts and sweatshirt! That was a particularly good story, we decided they were both from a stage school, off to auditions, one for Fame The Musical and the other for Singin’ In The Rain.

On another round of the game we spotted a very romantic couple, walking hand in hand before stopping to gaze into a jewellery shop window. They were very sweet, although rather noticeable, as she was wearing a three-quarter-length black fur coat with matching boots and hat (Izzy commented that she was wearing just about all of the bear), whereas he was in chinos, what looked like a pair of deck shoes and a lightweight linen jacket.

We finally decided, after a heated discussion, that they were having a long-distance relationship and that she was Canadian and he was American. When they received a gift from a very wealthy mutual friend who had booked them a surprise mini-break to London, he thought it was London, California, and she thought it was London, Ontario, and they independently packed accordingly. It could be true…?

We often wonder if anyone’s playing “Guess Who?” with us. Izzy in her knee-split jeans and cropped tops, Willow with jumpers, woolly hats, Converse trainers and huge fluffy socks, Richard with a smart overcoat and flat cap (yes, it has been known), and me in a Barbour, jeans and high-heeled boots. I suspect they simply think we got dressed in the dark in a house with erratic heating and a dog that steals shoes. They’d be right, of course, although at least the heating has been fixed and I’ve hidden that cap!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/640301/Mindy-Hammond-column-daughters-winter-fashion

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Safari Holiday to South Africa

NOT all the Hammonds were wild about a safari holiday to South Africa – until they remembered creature comforts closer to home.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Feb 14, 2016


Not all the Hammonds were wild about a safari holiday to South Africa                           [HELLARD]

Some weeks ago, I managed to persuade the girls that a half-term holiday was a good idea. Despite a small glitch (agreeing to a party the night before departure to tire Izzy enough to sleep on the plane), my plan worked. Hoorah! They agreed to go and all I needed to do was book it.

Three days later, the few strands of my hair that hadn’t been pulled from their roots were quivering with fright. Everyone in the UK seemed to be planning to fly off for half term and although I’d found a couple of places with rooms available, the only way to reach our destination would be as stowaways in the hold!

I briefly considered the idea of travelling in pet crates, but decided although Richard would be asleep in moments and be completely non-plussed, the girls would question the change in seating, absolutely miss the in-flight entertainment and definitely notice the dramatic drop in temperature. I had to find a new plan fast!

Having sold everyone into the idea of reclining on a sun-drenched beach (except Richard, who would need some kind of interesting activity to keep him happy), I was beginning to run out of options. I’d heard friends talk about exotic places like the Maldives and the Seychelles, but honestly, although they look very idyllic, there’s really nothing to do unless you’re into snorkelling or scuba diving (which, unfortunately, we’re not).

Izzy would have a nervous breakdown at the thought of the flight, I would never keep Mr H happy and Willow would be bored rigid by day two. I was about to throw my hands in the air and admit defeat when, out of nowhere, inspiration hit me square in the face.

My backstage pass from Clarkson, Hammond & May Live had been hanging on a nail in the kitchen along with lots of other similar passes, and as I unloaded the dishwasher it somehow plopped on to the open door. It was from the Johannesburg show. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

It’s so straightforward. The flights are overnight and there’s only a couple of hours’ time difference. Hmm… except it’s not exactly a seaside resort. There’s overly warm sunshine, but the sea is so cold in South Africa it’s inhabited by penguins! Strange but true. We all love a penguin, but I’m not sure we’d enjoy sharing their swimming pool. Being stuck by the hotel pool would be disastrous, so there was only one option left… safari!

Unbelievably, I managed to find a place that didn’t require the services of a biplane to reach it, so Izzy would be pleased, there would be lots of animals, so Willow would explode with joy, game drives on tap so big smiles from Richard, a gym and a spa at the camp for fitness and pampering, and the lodge even had a swimming pool. Am I a holiday-finding goddess? Of course I am.

I announced my findings to the family and Richard was deeply pleased, especially when I compared it to the costly alternatives.

“That looks brilliant. Great idea. Book it,” he said.

Willow, ever the home bird, was yet to be convinced: “Aww, I hate going on holiday.”

“Yeah, I suppose it’s OK.” Then she took a sharp breath, “Does it have Wi-Fi, though? ’Cause Mind, you know I can’t survive without Wi-Fi.”

“Yes, of course it does.”

Uh oh. Did it? I quickly checked, and yes it did. Phew!

So it was all booked. I sighed with relief and gathered all the passports and paperwork together, checking expiry dates etc as I went. House-sitting was organised and pony-parenting sorted then, like everyone else who’s booked their trip, we started counting down the days. Then this morning, Izzy looked at the calendar.

“Erm, Mind, why is there a red mark on today’s date with a picture of a sheep on it?”

“Oh! Oh no.”

“Are we getting more sheep?” exclaimed Wills

“Well, quite possibly. Erm, today is Elwyn’s due date.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant. You didn’t say she was pregnant!”

“Well, it’s a bit tricky with sheep.” Oh please, not this morning, I thought. I really don’t have the energy.

“Ooh! Can we bottle-feed it?”

“No! Not unless it’s necessary.”

“Are all the sheep going to have babies?”

“Well, we’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

“So we will have some as pet lambs then?”

“I hope not. But yes, if we

have to bottle-feed any, we will.”

“Well we can’t go on holiday, then, can we?”

“Yes we can – Charlie will be here every day to make sure they’re fine.”

“Oh, but…”

“Oh, but nothing. Elwyn will be fine, Porridge will be fine and the Herdwicks will be more than fine.

I promise you’ll be the first to be armed with a milk bottle if there are any tiddlers. But after the first feed you’ll be the lamb’s mummy and will have to do every feed afterwards, OK?”

“Yes of course!” said Willow enthusiastically.

“Yeah, right Wills. I can see you getting up in the night to feed a lamb,” Izzy scoffed.

“Mummy will do those.”

“Oh no, she won’t,” I told her. “I’ll feed all the lambs that need feeding, unless you adopt one, and from that day on it’s yours.”

“Except when we’re on holiday.”

“Yes, except when we’re on holiday. Then Charlie will take over.”

Willow thought for a second, “I’m looking forward to our holiday now.”

Tinker!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/642396/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-safari-holiday-South-Africa