Mindy Hammond - Express

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Newborn Lambs

WITH two new additions to her flock, Elwyn was proving an absent mother. So it was back to bottle-feeding for our caring columnist.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, February 21, 2016


It was back to bottle-feeding for Mindy                                                                                                           HELLARD

Finally, after many dashes to the lambing shed, Elwyn finally gave birth this morning to two little lambs. I was en route to school when Charlie, our shepherd extraordinaire, texted to say all was well.

I lost signal for a while, but 20 minutes later there was a second message.

“Number two; leg back.”

Oh no! Did he mean the lamb’s leg was stuck back or I should “leg it” back? I wasn’t entirely sure, but regardless, I needed to fetch ewe feed and another bottle of emergency replacement colostrum milk on the way back, so I called into the local feed store.

Once back, we hotfooted it over to the lambing shed and on the way, Charlie explained that the lamb had a leg stuck backwards on its way into the world, which is a tricky situation. Fortunately, he sorted everything and both lambs were fine. Elwyn was very much the proud mother and gratefulto receive a reviving breakfast after her efforts.

The two babies were absolutely beautiful and although the younger one was half the size of its elder sibling, both seemed strong and alert. Of course, the most important thing for any newborn is mother’s milk, but worryingly dear Elwyn was more interested in having a lie-down after her efforts than standing so her babies could suckle! Charlie encouraged her to keep on her feet while I guided the babies, but to no avail.

Charlie sighed.

“Let’s leave them for a while. The first one looked very keen. Hopefully they’ll work it out.”

I carried on with mucking out and a couple of hours later went back to the shed armed with a made-up bottle of colostrum milk, secretly hoping it wouldn’t be needed. Sadly, after watching Elwyn for half an hour I realised things hadn’t progressed. The lambs were desperately hungry but even when they found the right place to suckle, they found the well was dry. I tried everything I could think of while struggling to prevent Elwyn from reclining on her comfy straw bed!

Her poor lambs were nudging her under the chin, in her woolly stomach, here, there and everywhere seeking milk, but all they got was a face full of wool and a dry mouth, while Mummy dearest was breathing fast and grinding her teeth.

I managed to get a little of my pretend milk into each of them, but didn’t want to make them more interested in the bottle than their mother and ruin any chance they might have for a natural upbringing. Still, the seed of doubt had been sown.

I forced myself to leave the little family in peace for the next few hours, concentrating on all the other jobs that needed doing until I collected the girls from school, but by the time both girls were in the car I had formulated a plan.

“Look, Elwyn’s had her babies,” I beamed as I showed them the photos I’d taken in the morning. The girls responded with appropriate‘aahs’ and ‘oohs’.

“But there is a potential problem.” I went on to explain what had happened throughout the day and my plan to go and see them straight away when we reached home.

We were all in agreement and while tea was cooking, Izzy and I went to check on the sheep while Willow changed out of her uniform. Nothing had changed, except when I touched the larger of the lambs, it felt a little cold – not a good situation.

We returned to the kitchen and, having already identified a large dog crate in the old stables, explained the plan to Wills over chicken kiev, chips and peas.

“We’ll bring the crate in and put it in front of the Aga. You cover the bottom with newspaper and put the big woolly dog bed in it. When you see us coming, open the back door and make sure all dogs and cats are out of the kitchen. OK?”

“Got it.”

Izzy and I took a warm towel and raced to the sheep shed, picking up a feeding bucket filled with ewe feed on the way. Izzy was on door duty with the torch while I placed the bucket of nuts in the far corner and as soon as Elwyn started munching, I scooped up both lambs and headed for the door. Izzy quickly shut it behind me, then jumped into the passenger seat of the truck ready to receive the babies.

It felt like kidnapping, but the lambs would be lucky to last the night if we didn’t intervene.

They bleated a bit on the way back to the house, but the moment Willow took Tiddler in her arms and encouraged her with a bottle, she soon settled, and Squirm immediately snuggled up on Izzy’s lap and went to sleep once her tummy was filled. Most importantly, they were warm.

It’s 23.52. I’m writing this column a day early because I might as well stay awake for the next feed. The girls have promised to get up in four hours’ time to do the 4am feed (I’m not holding my breath).

TG thinks she has strange- smelling puppies and is delighted, and Ketchup and Frazzle have decided they’re on sentry duty. Meanwhile, I’m just waiting for the formula to be at the right temperature.

I’m sure I’ve done this before...


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/644939/Top-Gear-presenter-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-newborn-lambs

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on A Romantic Date Night

LUNCH in Ross-on-Wye and a movie sounded like a romantic date for Mr and Mrs H – until they made a spectacle of themselves...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sun, Feb 28, 2016


Lunch in Ross-on-Wye and a movie sounded like a romantic date for Mr and Mrs H...       HELLARD

Like most busy couples, it’s quite rare to find ourselves with a whole day to spend together, but last week, Richard and I chanced upon one of those very unexpected days.

Izzy and Willow were both at school, I’d sorted the ponies and sheep early, and we met in the kitchen with a plan to go to the bustling metropolis known locally as Ross Vegas (aka Ross-on-Wye).

The plan was to have lunch together and get home in time to slouch on the sofa in front of a film before the school run, and we were quite excited at the prospect.

Just before we left home, Richard was trying to read the post and sighed, “I really should get my eyes tested – I’m sure they’re getting worse.”

“Well, that’s OK,” I replied. “We can nip into the opticians and make an appointment.”

“OK then. Come on, let’s go”

First stop was the jewellers. It’s a lovely, family-run shop and they know us both rather well (after all, we’ve both nipped in there independently in last-minute gift-buying panics). James came out from the back of the shop, and on seeing us exclaimed, “Blimey! Have the local police been alerted you’re out together?”

Well, we realised, it is quite rare!

James set about replacing the battery in Richard’s running monitor – he was a bit worried when he set off for a run that morning and appeared to have no heartbeat whatsoever. Thankfully, thankfully it was only the battery that was dead and he hadn’t become a zombie in the night!

It was surprisingly difficult to fit the replacement as a strange foreign object had got stuck in the battery compartment.

With the new battery in place, we thanked them all and set off for our next stop – the opticians. Unusually, the shop was rather quiet. Again, they know us quite well. I’m for ever losing or breaking my glasses and Richard is one of those locals who, I suppose, is just a bit memorable.

We soon discovered that he hadn’t bothered to get frames made for his last prescription (naughty!) and just as the optician was advising him of this little hiccup, he looked at her rather guiltily and said, “Oops! Thing is, I think they’ve got a bit worse. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of an eye test, is there?”

I raised my eyebrows and said, “It doesn’t work like that – it’s not a walk-in service, you cheeky whatsit!”

But then the receptionist looked at her appointment book and his luck was in.

“Erm… you’re not going to believe this but he’s got a spare appointment now – hang on.”

She came out of the examination room smiling and said, “Yep, he can see you now.”

“I don’t believe it,” I exclaimed.

Richard smirked, and feeling a bit guilty said,

“Well, you need new glasses too....nobody likes yours and they keep sliding down your nose, why don’t you choose a new pair while I’m having mine tested?”

I didn’t need much encouraging.

So after an hour and a bit, we’d chosen our glasses and as there was a buy-one-get-one-free offer, we both ordered two pairs.

Finally we set off for lunch and bagged the last table in the local bistro. But by the time we eventually returned home, time was too tight to fit in a film, so instead we watched an old episode of Sherlock (my favourite!), although Richard did think it was quite funny.

“Some romantic day!” he laughed. “Fixing a heart monitor and getting new specs – we’re getting old!”

To be honest, I was feeling a bit guilty about getting mine when I really could’ve made do with the ones I already had.

I shouldn’t have worried though, because this morning I came downstairs to find something rather strange had happened in the night. My glasses were in the opened case, but the left lens was lying on its own alongside on the kitchen island. On close inspection (a la Sherlock Holmes), I noticed the screw had completely disappeared from one arm, causing the frame around the lens to be open.

Although I asked every member of the family if they knew what had happened, everyone was baffled. I was the last to go upstairs the night before, when my glasses were intact, and the first down in the morning. So who? How? Well, in our house, there is one explanation.

Perhaps it’s not just Richard and the girls who took a dislike to my old John Lennon-like round specs? Maybe our ghostly friends agreed and worked through the night with a mini screwdriver to deconstruct the offending articles…

I’m sure everyone is right and maybe they’re not the most flattering style I could have chosen. Although I hope they didn’t mess about with the heart monitor, too – that’s a little bit dark and really, very naughty.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/647348/Mindy-Hammond-column-romantic-date-night

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on An African Safari Strip

THE Hammonds are catching jungle fever on an African safari but would our columnist make a splash in the fashion stakes.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Saturday, March 5, 2016


The Hammonds are catching jungle fever on an African safari                                                                   HELLARD

Finally, we’ve made it – we’re on safari and the whole family is loving every second. Willow has already made a “pet” of a grey Laurie – kind of an enormous grey cockatiel – who shared a dip in the pool with her yesterday before leaving a rather surprising message on her head. Ah... true love?

Naturally, the journey to South Africa didn’t go without the odd hiccup, even though I was so determined to remember everything I began packing the day before. We almost took Ketchup the cat with us, as she refused to leave my open case and every time I gently lifted her off my bikini, she took the top with her grasping it desperately between her front paws as if to say, “Noooo, please don’t go, or at the very least, let me come too!”

Eventually, I closed the suitcase and bumped it down the stairs to join the others before meeting Mel in the kitchen. She was being left in charge for the duration, so we went through a standard pre-holiday briefing over a coffee.

Izzy sauntered in, bemused, “Blimey guys, we’re only going for a week!”

“I know, but there’s a lot going on at the moment.”

“Ooh yeah, I mean, what would happen if – I don’t know – a lamb was born without 24-hour surveillance? Bet that’s never happened before!”

“Erm… think about Squirm for a moment.”

Squirm and Tiddler, our two newborn lambs, needed an awful lot of human intervention in their first 48 hours. Izzy had bonded with Squirm – saved his life in fact.

“Ah, OK, point taken. I’ll go now then.”

“Don’t forget to pack chargers!” I called after her.

“This is me. As if.”

Richard was meeting us in London straight from work, so before I left I phoned him to check he had packed everything.

“Yes. All done. I do this a lot, you know?’

“Yes, I know, just making double sure.”

Two hours later, the phone rang.

“Mind, could you possibly throw a couple of pairs of swimming trunks in my case?”

“Yes... anything else?”

“No, no, that’s it.”

Five minutes later, it rang again.

“Oh, and the Kindle charger?”

“Uh-huh, and the book beside the bed?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose you could bring that too.”

When we met up at the airport, Richard picked up a newspaper and started rummaging in his bag. I watched him huffing and puffing for about 30 seconds and couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Here you go,” I said, grinning.

“Oh, my glasses.” He looked a bit humbled then smiled and said, “Thanks, Mind.”

The moment the plane was in the air, we were all excitedly seeking out a movie. Well, three of us were – Richard, true to form, was asleep in 30 minutes!

An hour into the journey, Izzy exclaimed, “Oh no. No!” then she looked pleadingly at me and said, “Mummy, darling, have you got a phone cable?”

I grinned. Funny enough, yes. But Iz, this is you, so you must have your own, surely darling?”

She did her Puss In Boots expression and won the use of my phone cable.

Meanwhile, Willow was engrossed in a book about South African wildlife. All went incredibly well until the computer system failed and half the plane was without the entertainment system (including us), although one part of the system was working incredibly well – the cabin lights couldn’t be dimmed, which wasn’t ideal on an overnight flight!

After three hours on the road we arrived at the reserve, desperate to jump into a cool pool.

“Come on, Mind! What are you doing in there?”

I walked out slightly sheepishly.

“Oh, that’s an interesting combination.”

“I know. Not many people can carry off a turquoise top with pink striped bottoms…but you know, I like being a trend setter.”

“Forgot something, did we?”

“Nope. I just lent the top to Ketchup.”

What does it matter? I’ve had no complaints from the elephants, although this morning, when we were lucky to see a beautiful, just-fed leopard snoozing in a tree; her full stomach bulging over a branch, I noticed her peer briefly down me as if to say, “turquoise? Are you sure? Spots dear… spots if you please.

How very vulgar”

I could only whisper, “Sorry ma’am, but it was your relative’s fault.”


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/648565/Mindy-Hammond-column-African-safari-strip

[RedMoon11]

Mindy on Birth at the Hammond Household

OUR columnist could be hearing the patter of tiny – and ever-so-cute – feet any time soon and everyone wants to get involved.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, March 13, 2016


Our columnist could be hearing the patter of tiny – and ever-so-cute – feet any time soon                       HELLARD

Spring is in the air, so our lambs Squirm and Tiddler are bouncing around and generally making a nuisance of themselves to their very pregnant Herdwick “aunties”. Meanwhile, Mrs Fluffy Knickers, our teeny little fluffy-legged bantam, has gathered seven eggs beneath her bloomers. But we’re all on high alert to prevent any of the ducks from sitting this year. We have more than a lifetime’s supply of Nobby’s offspring and I’m determined to escape yet another Muscovy population explosion.

But there will be other babies in the Hammond household this spring – and before you even think it, the answer is no, not me. My only use for nappies in the future will be in the application of equine foot poultices.

We are busying ourselves with the new maternity ward in the snug and awaiting the arrival of a furry little mother-to-be at the beginning of the Easter holidays. Tiggy the terrier will be spending her confinement with us as her owner Mrs A (Willow’s beloved classics teacher) will be abroad visiting her children and grandchildren. It wasn’t the timing anyone had originally planned for, but when nature delayed matters slightly we all agreed to make things work.

Tiggy often spends holidays visiting with daughter Fudge, who lives with our friends Phil and Helsie, and she will spend part of her “Easter break” with them. But as Tigs has never stayed with us before, formal introductions will have to be arranged and appropriate accommodation sorted.

She will arrive complete with whelping box and all her prized possessions. However, Tiggy is not your standard terrier, and despite practically every teacher at Willow’s school owning a dog of some description, and most of these dogs being present in lessons and around the school, Tiggy is the self-proclaimed school mascot. She is adored by all the children and regularly sits on laps during Latin (especially Willow’s apparently).

As a fairly compact little thing, she finds even the smallest of children can supply a very comfortable snoozing place. She’s almost all white, except for a tan marking on her back and a tan and white mask on her face. Oh, and unlike some Jack Russells, she has a long tail.

Strangely, despite birthing foals, lambs, kittens and even a donkey, I’ve never been present for puppies before, and have to admit to feeling a massive sense of responsibility.

Thankfully, Tiggy knows what she’s doing, but apparently has a habit of trying to give birth outdoors so will need to be watched.

“You’ll be walking her on the lead at all times,” I told Willow.

“But she never wears a lead at school. I don’t know if she’s even got one.”

“She will have, I’m sure, and we can’t risk her going off for an adventure and disappearing down a badger hole.”

“Oh, blimey! I didn’t think of that – good point.”

“And before you ask, no, she isn’t sleeping on your bed.”

“Awww!”

“Think of the cats. You can’t favour her over Rucksack, and Satchel might attack her – he’s far bigger than she is.”

“Oh, OK. But where’s she going to sleep then?”

“In the snug, of course.”

“On her own?”

“It’ll be the best place for her. We’ll put blankets on the sofas and she can snuggle up on them if she likes, and the whelping box will be in there ready for her. Don’t worry – I’ll have Classic FM playing 24/7 to keep her company.”

Finally, Willow agreed to my plan and set about gathering blankets.

“Do you think she’ll have the puppies at night?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. She’ll have them when she’s ready, but it can take a long time for them all to be born.”

“Ooh, it’s so exciting! What day do you think they’ll come?’

“Well, according to Mrs A her due date is the 18th of April, but it could happen a few days before or after and she might hang on until she’s back at home. After all, Mrs A will be back at school on the 19th.”

“Oh, I hope she has them here then we’ll have to keep them for a bit.”

“Mmmm… well, let’s wait and see.”

Meanwhile, I’m studying every bit of literature I can find on whelping puppies, and thinking of asking a friend of mine who’s a vet to let me sit in on a delivery to see the whole thing before I need to put on my midwife pinny. I’ve even prepared Tiggy’s “hospital bag” – towels, gloves for me and a special bowl for warm water.

Well, I’ve seen Call The Midwife – isn’t hot water and towels all you need for giving birth?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/650543/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-column-birth-household

[dit]

Am I alone in being reminded of Mindy Hammond every time I watch the advert with the little pony and the lady who orders it a horse-flap from Amazon?

Full version:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=aU_c8aabw2Y

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Spooked Ponies and A Mystery Broken Gate

SERIOUSLY spooked ponies and the mystery of a broken gate – who’s been horsing around? Our columnist dons a deerstalker to investigate...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, March 20, 2016 | UPDATED: 16:28, Mon, Mar 21, 2016


Mindy wants to know who’s been horsing around?                                                               HELLARD

I thought it was such a quiet, straightforward sort of a day. I’d left supper cooking in the aga, collected the girls from school, and was smiling at all the ponies assembled at their various gates as usual as I drove in with my brood. The sound of the car heralded bedtime to all the animals, and Willow had volunteered to help (for once!).

We grabbed our wellies and tromped over to the paddocks, Sparrow at our heels and head collars at the ready. Willow ran off down the run to Romeo’s exit gate while I walked up to Max, whinnying at me over his gate nearest the stable yard.

But when I tried to open it, it wouldn’t budge. Weird. I gave it a bit of a shove, but still it wouldn’t move. I looked at the catch (which is an enormous version of a standard pedestrian gate catch) and noticed the rod had been pushed past the catch itself and been embedded in the wooden gatepost.

By this time, Willow had arrived and was walking Romeo towards his stable.

“What’s happened?”

“The gate’s stuck. I’ll hop over and lead Max through Romeo’s paddock instead.”

Willow bedded down Romeo while I put Max’s head collar on and headed towards their connecting gate, en route to the ‘exit’ gate at the side.

However, Max was rather confused that he was being led away from the route to his supper.

He humoured me until we were about 20 feet from the connecting gate then, sensing he was heading towards another paddock and not his cosy stable, decided against the idea.

In a moment, he shot forwards at a canter, crossed in front of me and galloped back, causing me to do a rather elegant pirouette. (Obviously, I let go of the rope – if there’s one lesson I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that a small person on the end of a rope will never win in a tug of war with a galloping horse!)

He skidded to the gate then pranced along the fence line, snorting to anyone who’d listen.

I ran over to the fence and hopped over to Willow who was trying to soothe him.

“Whoa, Max, easy, boy, shall I grab his rope?”

“No Wills, just feed him treats and talk to him.”

She did as I asked while I unclipped the rope from his head collar and tried to calm him down. But he was still very jittery and began running the fence line again.

“Wills, can you grab a scoop of his feed and show it to him over the fence? Take it to the far side. We need to get him away from the gate while I try to get it open.”

The plan worked and Max trotted off. I set about the gate with my lump hammer, but to no avail. There was only one thing for it – I called Sparrow to hop in next to me in the truck and lined it up, then drove slowly into the gate. It was so stuck, the wood broke before it finally freed!

“Wills, stay there!” I called, knowing what was likely to happen once I opened Max’s exit route. Sure enough, as the gate swung, he charged.

“Steady boy, steady,” I urged and once on the other side, the relief of being freed seemed to calm him a little and he stopped to nibble at the lush grass under the cherry tree. But he was so wound up, he wasn’t concentrating, and skirted around under a low branch that caught on the back of his rug. At the very touch of it he leapt forward, the branch snapped and he was spooked. Thankfully, by now I was at his stable door and called him.

The poor chap cantered from the cherry tree on to the concrete pad in front of the stables, but on seeing me turned sharply, lost his footing a bit then did a fast trot to join me in his stable.

“Easy fella, it’s OK. Good lad,” I soothed as I stroked him and gently undid his rug. He was trembling slightly, and obviously shaken up, but was soon changed into his PJs enjoying his supper.

On fetching Finn and Musca, who’d been observing events from afar, we discovered Finn had been naughty too, knocking three of the top rails off his fence. So by the time the ponies were all in, changed and eating, I was just setting off with hammer and nails. The gate could only be temporarily fixed with the aid of gaffer tape and the eight-foot-long top rail acted like a rather heavy unhinged seesaw while I tried to reattach it and fell on my foot twice!

Regular readers may be aware of my Sherlock tendencies, but this time I’m baffled. Something seriously spooked the ponies that afternoon; Max must have rammed the gate with his full body weight to cause what happened and Finn had barged the fence in his field. Both of them had wanted out. The question is… why? I’ve dusted off my deerstalker; anyone know Miss Marple’s phone number?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/654367/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column

[RedMoon11]

Richard Takes Over the Sunday Lunch at the Hammond Household

WITH our injured columnist lying prostrate on the sofa, Richard took over Sunday lunch – but would cabbage in wine be a taste sensation?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, March 27, 2016


Richard took over Sunday lunch – but would cabbage in wine be a taste sensation?        HELLARD

Things came to a bit of a sudden halt last weekend. I’d felt a twinge in my neck the previous couple of days, but it seemed to ease while I was busy, only becoming really noticeable when I sat down in the evenings. But even after taking painkillers on Sunday morning, by the time I’d finished my morning chores I could feel everything start to jam up. Richard’s greeting said it all.

“Blimey! You look interesting – you OK?”

“I think I might’ve pulled a muscle in my neck.”

“Ah, that’ll explain why your neck is streaked with... I hope that’s mud.”

“Oh no! My hair’s full of hay, too. Sorry, I’ll jump into the shower.”

But as I went to pull off my wellies I nearly fell over.

“Actually, I might have a bath.”

The water soothed away all my aches and pains, but after 20 minutes of relaxation I felt so tired I lay on the bathroom floor and fell asleep.

Sometime later Richard woke me.

“Mind? Mind? What are you doing?”

“Hmm... I fell asleep.”

“Right. You need a day off.”

Willow was at his heels with Blea, who tried to revive me by licking my face.

“Eew. Thanks Blea.”

“Daddy’s right. You’re ordered to sit down and watch a film. We’ll do lunch,” Willow told me.

Izzy appeared with her coat on.

“Come on father, let’s get stuff.”

So that was it. I put on PJs, a woolly cardy and big fluffy slippers, and was marched into the sitting room. Willow lit the fire and Blea cuddled up.

When Izzy and Richard returned, they wouldn’t let me in on their newfound cooking expertise, although Willow sneaked out regularly and returned looking slightly worried. An hour later she poked her head around the door, asking, “Mummy, do you put wine in the cabbage?”

“Mmm... no.”

“Well Daddy’s just gone to fetch a bottle.”

I dashed to the kitchen, and ignoring the devastation, quickly whispered to Izzy, “Iz, no wine in the cabbage. Boil it then fry it with half butter, half oil and grainy mustard.”

“Shoo! You’re not allowed in here.”

I know what you’re thinking: burnt chicken, lumpy gravy, soggy spuds and indigestion. But no. They made the most fantastic Sunday lunch and Izzy’s gravy was so good she finished it off in a bowl with a large hunk of bread. Richard didn’t put wine in the cabbage, he put it in himself instead. I had a glass of prosecco and the girls had non-alcoholic fizz to wash down the feast.

It was the most relaxing Sunday ever, although the pay off was a completely trashed house on Monday morning. Still, it was worth it and I managed to make an appointment with Steve the osteopath that day. He was a bit alarmed.

“When did all this start?”

“Um... about a week ago?”

He took a deep sigh and shook his head.

“Might as well start at the top and work down.”

Oh, and didn’t he just. Shoulders, neck, back, pelvis. Meanwhile, we nattered on about life. Steve and his wife Pat are old neighbours, so we caught up while I was massaged, manoeuvred and cracked.

The moment I stood up again I felt like everything was reconnected.

“Oh, that’s better.”

Steve smiled.

“Well, let’s hope it holds. Come back if it doesn’t, and next time, come and see me a bit earlier, will you?”

I promised I would. Back home, Richard’s face lit up the moment he saw me.

“Ooh! You look better. Steve fixed you then?”

“Just a bit. Right, I’m off to change Finn’s poultice on his foot.”

“Didn’t you say he leans his weight on you if you pick up his feet to put on the poultice?”

“Yes, little wotsit, and he’s so heavy.”

“Mind! You idiot, that’s how you’ve wrecked your back.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.”

He shook his head. “Horses!”

“Ah, but they’re worth it.”

Richard sighed. “Steve on speed dial, is he?”

I won’t admit it, but by that night my back was twinging a bit. Still, hopefully the poultice will have done its work soon then I’ll go back to see my friendly osteopath. Naughty Mindy!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/655216/Mindy-Hammond-column-on-Richard-in-the-kitchen

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Her Winning Outfit at the Cheltenham Festival

Hats off to the Cheltenham Festival – but with the British weather to contend with, the stakes were high to pick a winning outfit.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, April 3, 2016


With the British weather to contend with, the stakes were high for Mindy to pick a winning outfit    HELLARD

The excitement, the organisation and, oh yes, the hangover. It can only mean one thing – the Cheltenham Festival. People flock to Cheltenham from all over the place and many more are excited at the prospect of a great week’s racing on the TV.

But in our little corner of the world the build-up starts weeks beforehand with friends deciding on which days they’re going, planning transport and studying form, or just picking a horse with a cute name. In my case, all the investigations result in one conclusion – bet on the greys as they’re pretty and easy to spot.

This year, unusually, I decided to go on Ladies Day with a group of local friends and that in itself is a bit of an issue. Forgetting the unpredictability of the weather, there’s also the horror of the ‘ladies day’ outfit.

Having been a lucky visitor for many years, I’ve seen my fair share of pain-stricken ladies who started the day looking a million dollars and ended it looking windblown and interesting, shivering in the wind, killer heels finally removed as they limped back to the car park with their poor, blistered feet splattered in mud and previously perfectly made-up faces transformed into an off-blue tinge – watery eyes smudged grey by mascara after hours of squinting against the legendary Prestbury wind and lips blue with cold.

Some years, the elements have been on our side so summery frocks and straw hats have been just the ticket. However, woe betide anyone who assumes the sun will shine every year and forgets to bring a sensible tweed coat and woolly hat.

This year my friend Sarah popped over for a spot of pre-racing planning and we sensibly consulted the weather forecast. Well, that wasn’t too helpful; cloudy then sunshine and possibly warmish or coldish.

“It’s all right for men!” she exclaimed, trying to decide whether to get her legs out or keep warm in trousers. “A touch of tweed and a shirt and tie and they’re sorted. What do you think – can I wear pink?”

Unfortunately, our planning session was slightly marred by a bottle of prosecco and trying on an assortment of hats I’ve collected over the years. Sarah is renowned for her love of dressing up and has a reputation for disappearing in the middle of a dinner party, only to return in a bizarre outfit she’s found discarded in the back of the host’s wardrobe.

So being presented with hats made with everything from felt to straw, fake fox to moleskin, she was in seventh heaven.

But she finally decided against the moleskin hat with a life-size fake partridge on the side (which even the Mad Hatter would think is over the top) and opted for a black felt hat.

The only thing was, it was a bit on the sensible side and needed a bit of a personality injection.

“I know, I’ll nip into the hat shop in Ross tomorrow and grab some pink feathers,” I said. “That’ll do it.”

So the following day I dashed into the shop, hat in hand, but the milliner explained she’d have to take the hat home with her to work on it properly.

“Can’t I just pull the feathers off this fascinator clip thing and shove them in?”

She smiled and sighed, “No, Mindy, they need fixing on. Don’t tell me, it’s for tomorrow, isn’t it?”

I smiled sheepishly and nodded.

“Go on, I’ll do it tonight and have it here by 9.30 tomorrow.”

What a star!

“What are you wearing tomorrow?” she asked.

“Oh, an olive-green coat with gold buttons – but wait!” I pointed to an enormous straw hat with plumes of feathers on it.

“Hmmm, I’m not sure. What hat were you planning to wear originally?”

“A furry foxy thing.”

“Oh stick with that – it’ll be cold tomorrow, you mark my words.”

So I did. I collected the hat in the morning, which had been festooned in pink feathers and completely delighted Sarah. I stayed toasty warm in the wind at Cheltenham (although looked a bit strange with an enormous foxy hat and sunglasses) and had a fabulous day with wonderful friends. We left the racecourse happy with our winnings and celebrated with a curry that evening.

None of us was too perky the following morning and much as I had a great time, I was very relieved not to be going the next day!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/656973/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-Cheltenham-Festival

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Dancing at a charity event

TAKE your partners for the Herefordshire charity hop – as our columnist trips the light fantastic Strictly-style, she fears a tumble...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, April 10, 2016


Mindy trips the light fantastic Strictly-style, she fears a tumble..                              HELLARD

Ooh the strain of it all. Juggling school pick-up times, re-arranging work schedules and missing nights out. There’s a small group of dedicated, footsore heroes of Herefordshire who have been surrendering their Wednesday evenings since January, and another night besides, just to be given the opportunity to embarrass themselves in front of a large roomful of paying guests, all to raise money for a local charity.

This year, my tootsies are being trampled alongside those of nine other brave and true ladies and gents.

It all started when our friend Matthew, who took part in 2014, asked if I’d like to be his partner (his wife, the lovely Jenny having decided to leave her sparkly bits in the wardrobe this year). I was delighted at the thought, then three weeks into rehearsals we were all told tickets had sold out before it was even advertised (and there were 350 of them) and suddenly I felt just a teensy bit nervous.

“Don’t worry,” Erica said reassuringly. “I’m going to make sure you all get the tables you’d like – I’ll just add some more.”Gulp.

Admittedly, it’s a stroke of genius as a fundraising event and every other year, under the skilful direction of the ever-effervescent Erica, the Hereford Cathedral Perpetual Trust hosts Herefordshire’s very own version of Strictly Come Dancing, if on a far smaller scale.

Obviously we don’t have the likes of Aliona Vilani or Anton du Beke, but we do have Nicola’s School of Dance and several very brave instructors. Unlike the real Strictly, we don’t pair up with a pro. Instead we’re all amateurs, although the five couples taking part will be judged – by a panel – on an individual dance, which is just slightly scary.

To kick off, there’s a group performance for the entertainment of all those lovely people who’ve paid their money for a night of sequins, swinging hips and sashays. Hence the Wednesday night wobblers session when we regularly bump into each other, go off in opposite directions or sometimes end up in a sort of car crash at the end of the room.

Poor Nicola manages to stay calm while all around her is chaos and has even succeeded in making us concentrate so well, we’ve worked out the difference between a salsa and a cha-cha-cha (well, almost).

Still, it’ll be all right on the night, as long as nobody falls and flashes their frilly knickers.Matthew and I are having great fun learning our steps, although as the day draws nigh, I can’t help wondering whether we might have bitten off a bit more than we can possibly chew. We were allocated the quickstep as our individual dance and were both very pleased, until we discovered it’s the most difficult of the ballroom dances. Oh, perfect!

Fortunately we do have a secret weapon in the form of Dominic, the only male instructor, who’s been coaching us every Monday night since time began. He has the patience of a saint, especially when he teaches us a new bit and we alternately get it wrong for 45 minutes – I cross the wrong leg, Matthew crosses the wrong leg, we both cross the wrong leg and then just before the session ends, we finally do it right and jump around with glee just before we go home and Dominic reaches for the aspirin.

I’m sure the children he teaches are far quicker on the uptake and look a million times more professional. Still, he tells us how good we are (even when we know we’re not),and regularly says, “That was it! You got it.”

But as we walk back to our “spot” to run through the steps again, one of us will say to the other, “I’m not sure we have,” or, “I’ve no idea what I just did.”

So far we haven’t actually fallen over (although we’ve been quite trippy at times) and I worry that particular moment will arrive when about 500 people are watching. I can see it all: heel through skirt, legs akimbo, face first on the floor with no hope of recovery or a quick-run-hoppity-skip-step and me hanging on to Matthew’s coat tails to keep myself upright while Dominic has a nervous breakdown from the edge of the floor, wondering where he went wrong.

Whatever happens, we’ve all had a great time and if the room is filled with laughter at our expense, it really won’t matter at all. I might see if there are any bloomers in the attic, though, – just in case.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/658930/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-dancing-charity-event

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Saving the Frailest Lamb

WITH a special delivery of twin Herdwicks it was double trouble for the Hammond family. But they all rallied round to save the frailest lamb...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Apr 17, 2016


 With a special delivery of twin Herdwicks it was double trouble for the Hammond family            HELLARD

Like many sheep owners in the UK we are hearing the pitter-patter of little feet on our green and pleasant paddocks. Porridge and Elwyn, our two Ryeland sheep, have three babies between them, and we now have two sets of Herdwick twins, but there has been a bit of trouble with the last delivery and the results have had a major impact on local baby supplies.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to any of us when one of our Herdwicks, who’d been living wild and free on the hills above Buttermere until last year, was rather private when it came to lambing. She took herself off to the shelter of the hedge to deliver her babies, refusing any interference from human hands (although she did follow them once they’d been scooped up and carried into the shed, thank goodness).

With twins, there’s often a difference in size, but on this occasion it was really pronounced – one was twice the size of the other and the smaller of the two was a frail-looking little mite. Still, that doesn’t always mean bad news, as long as it can stand – and as instinct tells it where the milk is, even the tiniest of lambs can turn into a bouncing bundle of joy in a matter of hours.

I left Mummy and babies to Mother Nature for a while, surrounded by warm straw, a bowl of revitalising ewe food and fresh water, as well as a small crowd of concerned friends and family “visiting” from the other side of the shed door.

A couple of hours later, Charlie appeared at the kitchen door,

“I just nipped up to check on the lambs. The little one doesn’t look too bright.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Mmm, I think you might need to bring it in.”

“Righto,” I turned to Izzy. “Ready for lamb crèche action stations?”

She grabbed my fleece, pulled it on and said, “OK, but I’m driving.”

Then she yelled down the hallway to her sister, “Wills! Willow! We’re off to rescue a lamb – can you get the crate ready?”

“Yep, I’m on it.”

What a team. Izzy and I hopped in the truck and drove over to the shed. Sure enough, although the lambs had exactly the same markings (all black apart from white hoops going all the way around the base of their ears), one was running around at its mother’s shoulder while the other was lying on the straw, dull-eyed and motionless.

I was in like a flash, scooped the baby up and tucked it under Izzy’s arm. Then we zipped the fleece up, so it was all cuddled in, with just a little head poking out.

“Oh, it’s so little. Ew Mummy it’s wet!” Izzy said.

“Well, it hasn’t been born long, although that’s a worry – the ewe should’ve cleaned it up by now.”

“Eeeeewwwww, I’m glad it’s not my fleece!”

The poor little thing didn’t even bleat on the way back and it took a good hour to warm it up. I won’t go into the stresses of getting some substitute colostrum into it but take it from me, it was a tricky job!

TG, as usual, was very excited at the new arrival and set about cleaning it from head to toe; the lamb didn’t mind, and after a couple of night feeds we were all relieved to see it looking a bit brighter the following morning, although it wasn’t able to stand.

Fortunately, Richard arrived home that evening and he soon became as besotted with Zeus (yes, I know, ridiculous, and we didn’t yet know if it was a boy or a girl). Between us we developed a pretty good feeding system, with Richard holding the lamb on its feet while I administered the bottle, and on day three, the lamb took its first steps.

Zeus is now five days old and does circuits around the kitchen island, is very good at Tigger jumps, climbs on to TG’s back when she lies on the floor, gulps down milk at a rate of knots and thinks Ketchup the cat is the best playmate in the world. I have a permanent lamb escort wherever I go and am constantly sterilising bottles and making feeds.

This morning, I needed to replenish supplies and nipped into the local supermarket.

My mobile rang when I was at the checkout, so I was a bit distracted, but just as I was hanging up the lady on the checkout started chatting:

“How are you? I haven’t seen you for a while”

“Great, thanks,” I replied, finishing off my packing.

“Busy, I see.”

“Oh yes, as usual.”

I paid for the shopping and thanked the nice lady, then just as I walked through the exit door realised what she meant. I’d bought nappies, baby wipes, feeding bottles, measuring jugs and a couple of muslin squares. Well, you can’t blame her, who’d believe they were for a 17-hand horse and a five-day-old lamb?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/660957/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-saving-frailest-lamb

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Mindy Hammond on Spring-Cleaning the Duck Pond

IT'S a mud lark as our game columnist spring-cleans the murky duck pond and overfills an unwieldy wheelbarrow...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, Apr 24, 2016


It’s a mud lark as our game columnist spring-cleans the murky duck pond                  SUSAN HELLARD

We made it. Another winter is over and the old excuse “we’ll do that when the weather improves” is rather redundant. Time to take a deep breath and a good, long look around.

Unfortunately, now the mud season is over, the damage has to be assessed, and unless you live in one of those regimented households where shoes are removed at the door or you have no children or pets and possess a well-trained husband and a sturdy doormat, the wear and tear on carpets will be staring you in the face. Look closer and chipped paint on the skirting boards, grubby marks on walls and something sticky under the dining table are just a few of the horrors which may come to light.

In our house, the scariest place is definitely the kitchen. Not that it’s dirty; the floor and cupboards are cleaned every day (they have to be with the amount of through traffic). But when you consider the effect of four lambs having resided in there for varying lengths of time – one of which, Zeus, is still overnighting in a dog crate at the grand age of five weeks and practising ramming various areas as he gallops and jumps like a Grand National veteran.

So it’s no surprise to find a “marked” effect on the paintwork – although it’s not as disastrous as the red marks left by hoverboards. No problem, just like Bob the Builder, I know we can fix it with just a couple of brushes and a big can of paint.

It’s when I take my sturdy notebook and pen outside that I reach for the oxygen. My handy temporary repairs with baling twine and gaffer tape have lasted well, and nobody has been particularly upset by them over the winter months, probably because nobody ventures too far in cold, miserable weather, but once the sun comes out and the husband walks his dog more casually, his eyes are drawn to every flaw in the landscape, and the accusations fly.

“Are you planning to fix that fencing or is blue string going to be a permanent feature?” was how it started, followed by, “Chicken Woods look a mess… where’s the grass gone? And the pond is disgusting.”

Ho hum. I knew it all would need doing and should’ve started earlier, I know, but this spring has been rather busy. Now, with nearly all the ewes out of the maternity ward, Finn’s feet practically recovered and Max on the mend after his gate-barging incident, time has to be set aside for a bit of general sprucing up.

Sadly, I’m easily distracted, and find wandering around making notes a bit tedious. After all, if you come across a little job, why not simply get on and do it, rather than wasting time putting it on a silly list? The fencing would have to wait for the fence poles, but the duck pond? Well, I could get on and do that in a couple of hours.

In I went, armed with bucket, fork and shovel, to begin the rather smelly task of emptying a once sweet little pond which the ducks had managed to transform into a mud hole only suitable for mini hippo wallowing. I had pointed out to Mrs Nobby that despite enjoying her new trick of “walking on water”, she was, in fact, paddling on sloppy mud, and the bath water certainly wouldn’t be fit for ducklings if she managed to hide a few eggs from me this year.

I began hauling out buckets full of mud and slopping them into the wheelbarrow, but this wasn’t very efficient, as various leaves and twigs either displaced the mud or simply wouldn’t fit in the pail, so in the end I shovelled and forked the stuff out until I finally hit the stones at the bottom. It was warm work and with the sun blazing, I was soon in just T-shirt and jeans, working away as my duck friends looked on with great interest.

Admittedly, I found myself breaking off to separate fighting drakes every few minutes (well, it is spring and a young man’s fancy can make him a bit hot-headed).

Just as the ponies began calling at their gates to come in, I’d placed the hosepipe in the clean pond to refill it. “There you are, ladies and gents, take your towels please and form an orderly queue.”

I left the water running, brought the ponies in, and then went back to collect the final wheelbarrow full of mud, reckoning the pond would be filled by the time I returned from the muck heap.

Of course, I was quite eager to finish the job and had probably put more into the final load. It took some pushing across the field, but I had all the dogs out with me and they were enjoying the walk. Finally, we reached the muck heap and I threw the handles skyward.

Warning: make sure your wheelbarrow is evenly loaded before emptying on uneven ground.The barrow unbalanced, turned slightly, the weight moved, mud slid,

Mindy slid, and… splat! I was smelly and brown all down my right hand side. Worse yet, the dogs came to help and ran amok in the muck.I refer back to the list. The duck pond – done, kitchen – “repainted” – Jackson Pollock brown.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/663054/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-on-spring-cleaning-the-duck-pond

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Mindy Hammond on Saying the Last Goodbye to Crusoe the Collie

IT'S joy and heartache for our columnist as she recalls meeting Crusoe the collie for the first time and saying a fond final goodbye.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, May 1, 2016


'No matter how prepared you think you are, you’re never ready to say that last goodbye [HELLARD]

There is a sad inevitability when you share your life with an animal and no matter how prepared you think you are, you’re never ready to say that last goodbye.

Although our lovely collie, Crusoe, had several health issues, she’d defied the odds and carried on with the business of enjoying life. She’d come with me to the stables in the morning and curl up in the hay for a nap until I sent in Sparrow to nudge her awake, then wander back to the house with us to continue sleeping in her bed, stopping to smell the flowers on the way.

Often, she’d pause at the front corner of the house and lie on the flowerbed in the shade of her favourite tree for a snooze in the sunshine, happy to watch the world go by until I waved at her to come in for supper.

Long gone are the days when we owned four feral sheep, who would constantly get out of their paddock. All I had to do was whisper to Crusoe, “Go fetch your sheep,” and although she’d never had a day’s training, she’d dart off over the hill and within a few minutes they’d be rounded up and delivered safe and sound right where they should be.

Crusoe was our second family dog and my second border collie. My first was a rescue dog called Friday and when I lost her, I promised myself if I ever had another I would name it Crusoe, hence the rather masculine name for a very feminine dog!

Friday was still with us when I met Richard and mothered our old cat Rucksack when he was a kitten. Although sadly we lost her within the year, it wasn’t until a few years afterwards, when we’d exchanged contracts on our first country house, that Richard told me, “I’ve been thinking about your birthday present.

It’s been a few years since you lost Friday and as we’ll have more space soon, I think it’s time you had another collie.”

Izzy was a year old and Pablo, our naughty chocolate poodle, was our family dog. But we’d both thought, as we had two cats, he was rather outnumbered and might like a doggy companion.

I was overjoyed at the thought of another collie, although determined not to have one quite as energetic as dear old Friday – three hours of exercise a day were fine when I didn’t have a toddler in tow, but the thought of pounding the streets with a pushchair, a poodle and a puppy was more than a bit off-putting.

I began looking through every newspaper and doggy magazine, and called a few places, but many of the dogs were working strain or “fizzy” characters. Eventually I found a litter that sounded perfect at a farm 18 miles from our home in Cheltenham. There was just one pup available, but it was a little girl and they promised not to sell her before we arrived the following morning.

When we arrived at the farm that gloriously sunny day, I couldn’t believe the beautiful little tricolour pup who ran towards me from the barn. thinking this couldn’t possibly be the one for us, wagging her bottom as well as her tail.

And when the owner smiled and said,

“Oh, you’ve found her then,” I thought my heart would explode. Izzy’s chubby little arms were around her neck in moments, and the second she buried her face in Crusoe’s soft fur, that little dog sat calmly and simply melted in her love.

Now, 15 years on, I have a different feeling in my heart. The end was mercifully quick and painless, and we were all with her. She’d been on a lovely walk around the fields in the sunshine with all the other dogs and a few hours later collapsed.

Elliot, our wonderful vet, came immediately. There was nothing to be done but ease her passing, and let her know this was a battle she would never win, and we didn’t expect her to try.

She was the mother figure, the matriarch of the pack. She taught every new arrival the way to conduct themselves, just as Pablo taught her. She adored us all and had that collie telepathy that means you never need to verbalise a request – it simply happens at the slightest inference. She was a quietly incredible dog.

Much as I’m devastated by her leaving, I hope that glorious, most adoring and gentle of dogs is with her friend Pablo, the mischievous chocolate poodle, that he can see again, she can hear, and together they are running and playing in a golden, sun-filled meadow.

Goodbye, my gorgeous girl. All dogs go to heaven and hopefully one day, we’ll meet again.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/665202/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-goodbye-Crusoe-collie

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Welcoming a New Four-Legged Friend into the World

MUM'S the word for our columnist as she welcomes some new four-legged friends into the world – but they just keep getting bigger...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, May 8, 2016


Mindy helps a new four-legged friend into the world                                                                  [HELLARD]

Nature really is a marvellous thing and although the family is still smarting from the loss of our beloved collie Crusoe, one week later a new and far happier event came to cheer us.

I’d been sleeping on the sofa for a couple of nights, watching over Tig, the very pregnant terrier that belongs to Willow’s schoolteacher Mrs A. Everything was ready: the whelping kit had been laid out on the coffee table, a fact sheet was open to “the early signs of labour” in my canine compendium, and the laptop paused and ready for stage-by-stage advice.

Then last Friday morning it began. Tig was restless – symptom number one. She’d been seeking out a birthing area in various strange places, including the gooseberry bush!

She was off her food – symptom number two – even refusing her favourite dish, and she was finding it hard to get comfortable. By teatime, the trembles started and although Willow had been at her side all day, I decided it was time for us both to be in the room permanently.

We changed into pyjamas (although I kept a set of clothes nearby in case we needed to do a vet run), said our good nights to Richard and Izzy, and settled in.

I’d just sat down on the sofa when Tiggy decided she wanted to be close and hopped up next to me. Sure enough, a couple of hours later the first big contraction came.

Luckily, I was sitting on a “blanket” of puppy training pads (I suspected our princess would decide the comfiest seat in the room would make a nice delivery bed), as a very exciting evening/morning began.

Without going into the more private elements of the procedure, puppy number one arrived bottom first. This alarmed me slightly, although not as much as poor Tiggy, who must have worried that she’d given birth to the ugliest puppy ever – a very long, thin nose, and no eyes, ears or mouth!

But she breathed a sigh of relief when I turned the little chap around and she realised she’d been cleaning the wrong end. Willow and I were relieved when he was safely suckling and both mother and son were happy.

It was 30 minutes before number two arrived. It needed a bit of attention as she was taken a little off guard by the sudden arrival of number three, six minutes later (they were just about twins, with very similar markings – a boy and a girl).

“Oh they’re so cute,” Willow beamed, “but they all look about the same size. I thought the vet saw a really big one on the scan?”

“I don’t think we’ve finished yet. She’s just taking a breath… Oh, here we go again.”

It had been 30 minutes since puppy number three when the little terrier began pushing with all of her might. I’d become acclimatised to everything at the business end and was only wishing I had a catcher’s mitt (or surgical gloves).

“Oh my God! This is the big one,” I exclaimed.I couldn’t believe the size of the puppy’s head – it was double that of all the others and poor Tig was exhausted. She managed to get him halfway out and thought that was it – she started licking his head and cleaning him.

Admittedly by that stage, there was enough pup to equal any of the other three, but a two-legged, half-bodied dog surely didn’t look quite right? I felt like one of the midwives on a Victorian drama as I mopped her brow with a cold, damp flannel and urged her on: “Come on Tig, push! Push!”

Tiggy knew she needed to gather her energy. It seemed like ages before she mustered up courage for the final push, but out he came. Whether it was due to fatigue or confusion, she started cleaning his neck and back, forgetting about his mouth and nose, so I swept around the inside of his mouth and wiped his nose with damp cotton wool. In moments, he was breathing well and joined his brothers and sister.

We stayed with our new little family on the sofa until 4am. I cleaned Tiggy’s face while Willow finally announced, “Oh look, I found the surgical gloves!”

“Erm… bit late, lovely.”

We moved mother and children to their bed then I cleaned up (eeeew!), before leaving them in peace for a couple of hours. When I returned at dawn, Tiggy hadn’t touched the chicken breast I’d left for her and her water bowl was still full.

There’s devotion and then there’s absolute devotion. Little Tig is the latter in the motherhood department. She wouldn’t move from her babies even for a drink of water and for the next few days, we took it in turns to lift a shallow bowl to her lips every 30 minutes just to make sure she kept hydrated. Then her healthy appetite returned and she more than made up for her mini fast.

Yesterday they went home to Mrs A. Tiggy was so ecstatic to see her mum, she almost forgot her puppies for a few minutes, but soon reclaimed them and shared her joy with her favourite human.

Willow and I shared a wonderful experience with her that we will never, ever forget. And better still, we helped bring Dimple, our future family member, into the world.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/667002/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-on-giving-birth-to-new-dog

[RedMoon11]

Booking a Sunny Holiday and Spray Tan

HOW difficult could booking a sunshine break with the girls (grown-up variety) be? Our columnist battles with the computer and the spray tan…

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:Sun, May 15, 2016


Our columnist battles with the computer and the spray tan…

For many years we’ve discussed it, half-planned it, and then discovered kids, animals, husbands and commitments have meant it just wasn’t possible. But this year we’ve all been just a bit more determined and unbelievably, with just five days before departure date, I’ve booked the (grown-up) girls’ break away.

We’ve found a fab apartment in the Canary Islands with its own pool and as long as we manage to get to the airport at 4am on Monday morning, everything will be wonderful. Yes, I know, it’s not the most sociable time of the day to travel – why do the tour operators manage to make departure times so daft?

But with a pony competition, a christening and a shed load of pre-holiday preparation to be done, it’s kind of the best option.

Never mind, we’ll have an extremely late supper and kick on through till our 2am departure from Chez Hammond, and promise ourselves a long snooze in the sun on arrival (as long as the minibus I’ve booked is at the airport to ferry us to our hotel).

I think the worse thing about doing the legwork yourself and booking hotel and flights separately has to be tying it all together – at one point, I had the websites of four different airlines open at the same time. Then I couldn’t remember whether we’d decided on the Canaries or the Costa del Sol and nearly booked to fly to the wrong part of Spain. Then I almost booked a flight the day before we actually wanted to leave because the airline’s page refreshed itself! I was so nervous, I checked everything twice – thank the Lord because I’d cancelled the booking for accommodation we’d chosen and saved the wrong one.

There were several moments of panic: Lou was out of contact on a trip away with her mum, Helsy was doing pony stuff and Sarah’s Wi-Fi had crashed.

Then I’d finally found flights that worked for us all, but there were five seats left on the flight going out and only four on the return one! I didn’t want to book them without everyone agreeing, but the perspiration was beginning to bead on my forehead. Then, just as everyone texted at once to say yes, the page froze!

But finally, after four hours on the computer, it’s all confirmed (unless, of course, we discover someone has an out-of-date passport). We can all get just a bit excited and dust off our bikinis, find the flip-flops and pack the suntan lotion, convincing ourselves there’s no use-by date on the bottle.

“Ooh, Mindy, you can work on a tan ready for Strictly,” Sarah beamed.

“No need for that,” I replied. “I’m going for a deep and dark fake tan.”

Just the week before, at rehearsals for the aforementioned Strictly Come Dancing-style event, teacher Nicola had announced, “You’re all booked in on the Thursday for a serious spray tan and you need to go as dark as possible because the lights are so bright. Don’t worry – they will fade a bit by the time we get to Saturday night. So no pale faces, please.”Ah well, it’s all for charity and I knew I could stay away from public places for a couple of days.

Or so I thought. Last week I was up with the lark as Willow had to be at school for 6am when the minibus was to leave for the finals of the under-13s national hockey. I drove the two hours to watch as soon as I’d done the ponies. It was ferociously contested and schools from across the region were battling for their place in the national championships.

Willow’s team hadn’t played more than a couple of times this term, so we weren’t too confident. Then they won, and they won again, and again until they were in the final.

There they were, feeling just a bit sad that this would be their last ever match together, as they’re all in their last year. Dear Mrs Bailey and Mrs Moge were quite tearful, then Mrs Bailey wandered over to the mums with a smile on her face and whispered, “They’ve qualified. I didn’t dare even hope.”

We all whooped for joy. Then I looked up the date of the championships – Friday the 13th! Oo-er. But worse than that, when do you suppose I’m having my fake tan? Thursday the 12th! My daughter will be embarrassed to within an inch of her life.

Unless, of course, I dress like a Bedouin and pretend to be a terribly exotic relation…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/669573/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-summer-holiday-spray-tan

[RedMoon11]

Spanish mini-break

THE girls feel the heat on their sunshine break – turning a lovely shade of lobster-red. But cooling cocktails go down a treat...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: 00:01, Sun, May 22, 2016


The girls feel the heat on their sunshine break – turning a lovely shade of lobster-red [HELLARD]

There’s definitely safety in numbers, and majority rule has saved the day in the permission/persuasion department. After all, the four of us have children, animals and husbands as well as various work commitments, but having decided it was “all for one and one for all” the pressure on our other halves was undeniable.

If any one of our number was refused access to our Spanish mini-break, it would cause cancellation for all four and endless retribution visited on the husband responsible. So naturally, they all said yes, although there was a “men’s meeting” just hours after our departure to console each other over many beers.

They must have been very distraught as they didn’t manage to soothe their woes until late that evening. Our 6am flight wasn’t necessarily the best option.

Leaving home at 2am and catching a couple of hours’ sleep on a rather packed plane resulted in dribble stains, a cricked neck, smudged mascara, and worse yet, when attempting to stand after four hours, I found my leg was still asleep and almost ended up in Sarah’s lap.

At Arrivals, we watched for a long time for Sarah’s bag on the carousel, until we decided it had taken the opportunity to switch planes and embark on a secret spiritual journey to Tibet. Thankfully, it had a change of heart and harrumphed into view, a lone but very welcome sight after our conversations about emergency bikini sharing. Despite almost 24 hours without our heads touching the pillows, we were determined to make the most of every moment, desperate to get to our room then snooze on our sun loungers.

Sadly, on arrival, we discovered the room wasn’t ready, but were allocated a changing room, so quickly defrocked and emerged bikini-clad and saronged then headed for the cocktail bar. “Mmm… feel the heat,” Lou cooed as she sipped her piña colada.

We all toasted our success. We’d done it and could look forward to a few days of serious R&R. Then Hels had an idea. “We should make a plan to do this regularly,” she said. “After all, we’ve got permission this time, so it’ll be easier the next time.” “Ooh, yeah and we could alternate a sunny break with a culture trip,” I suggested.

“But do you really think it would happen or are we pushing our luck?” “Hmm… maybe we should quit while we’re ahead,” Sarah said as she sipped her mojito. We had a couple of cocktails and, conscious we had missed breakfast, decided a Caesar salad would be a good idea, so promptly ordered two bowls of chips with lots of ketchup. The room still wasn’t ready, so we would simply have to cope on the loungers by the pool. “Have you brought your lotion?”

Lou asked. “Erm… no, mine’s in my case,” Hels replied. “But it’s not too hot and we won’t be here much longer, surely?” “Mine’s in my case too,” I dozily responded. “I’ve got some. Hang on…” Sarah rummaged in her bag and we all quickly applied factor 20. As it turned out, we might’ve been too late. By 4pm, we finally gained access to our apartment and were all ready for a shower and a nap, but decided sleeping would be a waste of valuable holiday time and a good brisk walk to the old harbour and a fish restaurant would be a better idea.

But it wasn’t a group of bronzed beauties – it was a bunch of slightly awkward mummies with “farmers’ tans” who laughed at each other and formed a new and exclusive “line club”.

Although relieved that our children and spouses weren’t present to poke fun at our mistake, I made matters slightly worse for myself by forgetting to pack trainers. And as my feettend to go blue in a mild breeze, I set off on our three-mile hike to the harbour in summery leggings, a T-shirt and Uggs. (Izzy would’ve killed me for the fashion faux pas – and for stealing her Uggs, in the first place).

Once we finally arrived at the fish restaurant, slightly pooped and dusted with volcanic sand, I ordered lobster and immediately realised the poor chap was camouflaged in our company – particularly if he laid across our upper arms.

After a rare and wonderful nine hours of sleep, today we’re multitasking; reading that novel we’ve each been trying to finish for over six months, while working on evening out our tans and hoping we can either “style it out” or cover our embarrassment with fakery when we get home. Uh oh... it’s cocktail hour... where’s the factor 50?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/671782/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-on-Spanish-mini-break

[RedMoon11]

Developing serious case of puppy love

AS TINY four-legged friends arrive at Hammond Towers for a weekend break, our columnist develops a serious case of puppy love.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sun, May 29, 2016


Our columnist develops a serious case of puppy love...  HELLARD

Poor Mrs A has really had quite a busy time of it over the past couple of months and although her Latin lessons have become incredibly popular at school (any excuse to play with Tiggy the dog and her children), the downside of having a school full of eager puppy minders is a constant trail of visitors across the threshold of her home within the school grounds.

Tiggy has always lived “free range” so after a few weeks of utter devotion to her pups, she was eager to get back to normal. She chose her opportunity carefully, waiting until a weekend rounders match before appearing in the dining room, just in time for match tea (lots of tasty sandwiches!). The second she heard our car, Tig dashed over and attempted to climb into the back seat with Willow.

“Oh Tig! Darling, you can’t come home with us – we haven’t got your babies.”I told her.

“Come on, back to the children.”

We escorted her back to her home through the ingeniously wedged door (the wooden wedge has “Tiggy” inscribed on it, just to make sure nobody mistakes it for firewood), where she immediately hopped back into the whelping pen and was soon covered in puppies.

For the first few weeks, the puppies were busy growing, opening their eyes

and getting to grips with the business of motor skills. The largest of the four, who will be taking up residence with Willow’s friend Rosie, has been christened Bertie.

He was, not surprisingly, slowest off the mark in the activity stakes. He could haul his great bulk forwards with his front legs, but couldn’t get the hang of the rear end at all, and we all wondered whether he was somehow half dog and half frog!

Meanwhile, the tiniest of the puppies was off like a shot – he disappeared on a tour of Mrs A’s sitting room on week four having gone “over the top”, escaping out of the whelping pen commando-style.

My friend Mel is having him and while she tears her hair out trying to think of a name, I’m forever hinting, “What about Rambo? Or the Prisoner? GI Joe?”

Meanwhile, our darling Dimple is happy snuggling up to anyone who’s interested and even before she’d opened her eyes – her only experience of life was suckling milk and sleeping – she was the most active dreamer.

Her little legs going 19 to the dozen and little nose twitching away. Surprisingly, she’s not as bonded to her twin as we expected, preferring the stomach of her big brother Bertie for a pillow.

Time moves on very quickly for puppies and soon they had morphed from immobile, fat, furry, blind bundles into healthy, rough-and-tumble balls of mischief, no longer happy to reside in the whelping box but keen to explore the excitement of the outside world.

What a relief they weren’t winter puppies. And even better, there was a spare stable at school that could be converted into an outside play area to give both their canine and human mother a well-earned rest.

This weekend, Mrs A is taking a little break and asked if we would mind having boarders.

“Of course, as the puppies will be weaned, you may as well keep Dimple with you at the end of the stay,” she added.

We were delighted to have them and it gave me the push to crack on with the next stage of Zeus’ rehabilitation (Zeus is our house lamb). Our lamb now resembles a small sheep, complete with budding horns.

Although he would still like to have a bottle of milk, he is actually weaned too and ready to move on.

I’d finally decided it was time to stop overnighting him in the kitchen when he invented a new game of “TG hurdling”, which he thought was brilliant fun but was likely to end in tears if TG ever stood up when he was in mid-flight on his course around the kitchen island.

It’s time for Zeus to grow up, move to his new quarters in the old pig run (complete with straw-filled ark, of course) and hand over his stable to puppy playtime.

The snug has been puppy-proofed (rug replaced by newspaper, all chewable articles out of reach) and rubber toys are strewn across the floor.

Have a great break Mrs A. We’re ready –bring on Tiggy and her tribe! Good luck, everyone.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/673265/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-puppy-love-dogs

[RedMoon11]

A Missing Mutt Rescue Mission

THE hunt is on for Tati, the beloved dog of our columnist’s friend. Will they collar the missing mutt before it’s too late?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sunday, 5 June 2016


The hunt is on for Tati, the beloved dog of our columnist’s friend            [SUSAN HELLARD]

We all love a walk with our four-legged friends and when there are lots of new places to explore, even the best-trained companion can suddenly become distracted and out of earshot. The countryside is alive with interesting smells, things to chase and new adventures, so your fireside lapdog can’t be blamed for regressing to its wolfy forefather’s instincts.

The daintiest of dachshunds can easily morph into a badger hunter extraordinaire in a matter of moments and once underground, the thrill of going a-hunting can easily go badly wrong.

After calling your dog six or seven times whilst scanning the horizon, waiting expectantly for their familiar form to appear then slowly your blood begins to runs cold, calling with increasing volume and urgency until you have to face the inconceivable: he’s not coming back.

Then follows blind panic – retracing your steps, frantic calling, stopping everyone you meet to ask if they’ve seen your beloved dog and phoning anyone in the area to help in your search. You call dog wardens, vets, animal shelters and the police, and in the back of your mind fight the worst scenario – that somebody has stolen your dog and you may never see him again.

Luckily, I’ve only ever lost one of my dogs, and then only for a couple of hours. Sparrow, our black Labrador, must’ve jumped the cattle grid at the front gates when the postman arrived one Saturday morning. While I was yelling and whistling for her, driving around the land and going out of my mind with worry, somebody had seen her by the pedestrian gate and sensibly took her to the local vet.

I’d called them earlier with no luck and had just driven into the lane to drive further afield when they rang to say, “Have you lost a black Lab?”I burst into tears of relief and drove straight there to collect her. The second they’d scanned her, my details appeared on the computer and she was soon back home (but is never out of the house now without her collar and ID disc).

A few days ago, my lovely friend Curly rang in floods of tears. “We’ve lost Tati,” she sobbed. “She never goes further than the garden. I’ve looked everywhere and I just don’t know what to do next.”

Tati is their adored Norjack (a cross between a Jack Russell and a Norfolk terrier). Within 24 hours, Curly had printed flyers with her photograph, posted them everywhere including the local supermarket and taxi firm and contacted every organisation that might have been handed a lost dog until she’d exhausted every avenue. Everyone’s biggest fear was that she’d been stolen.

“But it’s so remote here and she’s not even a pedigree,” Curls was distraught.

“No, but she is very cute and looks more like a Norfolk terrier than a cross,” I replied. “Try taking your other dogs for a walk and let them go wherever they like – they’ll be missing her by now and might pick up her scent.”

“Oh, I’ve been doing that every few hours, but there’s no sign.”

Terriers will be terriers and we all know what mischievous little tinkers they can be. Several of our friends had reassured Curly with tales of their dogs disappearing for more than two weeks, only returning home after their weight had dropped sufficiently to allow them to squeeze out from whatever animal hole they’d foolishly entered.

Meanwhile, I’d arranged to go over the following morning to help in the search when suddenly, at 9.30pm, Facebook came alive with a picture of a little terrier face wedged at the back of a deep burrow.

The message below said, “We’ve found her! She’s wedged in. Anyone in the area please come and help us dig her out.”

Willow was asleep and Izzy was on her way back from a late night at school, so I called to say I’d be there soon. It was my relieved and tearful friend who answered.

“We’ve got her!” she said. “Oh, I can’t tell you how lucky that was. I took the dogs for their last walk over by the woods and heard the tiniest whimper. I just knew it was her.”

Rachel Tobey, hero of the hour, was on the scene with Curls and with the help of a few neighbours and a lot of digging they freed a very grateful Tati.

Next time the other dogs contemplate a bear hunt I can imagine Tati’s reply, “Don’t. You’ll get scared. I got stuck!”

But she is fitted with a GPS tracking collar – just in case.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/675161/Mindy-Hammond-column-missing-dog-got-stuck

[RedMoon11]

Missing Items of Her Summer Wardrobe

WHITE jeans and a stripy T would be the perfect summer outfit but where was it? Our columnist discovers the answer lies close to home.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 12 June 2016


Mindy is getting frustrated at the disappearance of her much-loved shorts from last year      HELLARD

Here comes summer! Quick, cast off your cardi and reach for the sunglasses. Or, if your wardrobe is anything like mine, forage around for half an hour getting evermore frustrated at the disappearance of those much-loved (and well-worn) shorts from last year. And while we’re about it, what happened to those Capri trousers and the white(ish) jeans?

Hmmm a washing incident perhaps? Or could it be that they were at the end of their lives and were sent off to recycling in a moment of spring-cleaning madness? I know I wouldn’t have thrown them out just because they’re “out of fashion”.

I still wear my Wrangler jeans, which are more than 30 years old (although the knees went, so they’re long shorts now) and as Trinny and Susannah will tell you, the white jean is an essential, as long as you keep buying special whitening washing powder and never sit on the grass, drink red wine, eat spaghetti or go anywhere near a speck of dirt.

“Has anyone seen my white jeans?” I called up the stairs, trying to be heard over the battle of the stereos. “Iiiizz? Wills?” I yelled.

There was a thumping of feet and loudening of music as a door was opened.

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen my white jeans?”

“No, sorry Binds.” (Izzy and Willow have taken to calling me Bindy or Binds – they’re Bizzy and Bill – don’t ask.)

“OK, thanks.” That was me scuppered. I should have left the house 10 minutes earlier for a rather important lunch and had agonised over what to wear to look a bit summery without getting my legs out. The fake tan, which had looked absolutely fantastic for my dancing extravaganza a few weeks earlier, had now faded in a rather patchy manner. In some places I looked golden brown, in others?

Well, next time you’re in the supermarket take a peek at a loaf of tiger bread – that’s a slightly doughier version of my legs! No. Exfoliating doesn’t work; I’ve tried that, and moisturising, and pumice stoning. So far the only solution is time and long trousers.

Ordinary jeans just don’t look dressed-up enough. I was already late and starting to get hot and bothered. A long skirt? I’m sure I had one last year, oh then I’ll have to change my top. Why do men have it so easy? All they need to do is throw on a pair of jeans and a shirt and – hey presto! –they’re smart enough to sit at any dining table.

Eventually, I dug out the long navy skirt and found a very clean (because it was new) white T-shirt. It just didn’t look right with flip-flops, though. Then I remembered: I bought a pair of white sandals last year for just this eventuality and after a few minutes, I found one of them.

Unfortunately, that was the only one I found – clearly his twin didn’t fancy an outing or had run away some months ago, possibly aided and abetted by Sparrow or TG, so could be anywhere indoors or out.

I harrumphed around the bedroom delving into the back of wardrobes in the vain hope I’d eventually come across some suitable footwear but all I could find were tatty old strappy things. I was about to throw them behind me to join rejected shoe mountain, but halted mid-hurl after glancing at my watch (no time!), shoved them on my feet, grabbed a bead necklace from the door handle and launched down the stairs.

“Bye! See you in a bit.”

I heard a half-asleep harrumph from Mr H, dozing in the living room, and drove off.

Strangely, my haphazard outfit seemed to go down very well and I had a great time, although when I returned home I hadn’t even managed to get out of the car before Izzy appeared.

“Ooh! Can you drop me in town?” she asked.

“Wha? But I’ve just…”

“Plleeeeaaase?”

“Go on then, hop in.”

“You look nice,” I told her. “Where to?”

“Oh, just meeting the usual crowd for a coffee. Can you pick me up in a couple of hours?”

“OK.”

We chatted on until I pulled up outside the café.

“Thanks, Binds, see you in a bit.”

I smiled as she walked away, pulling a daft, cheeky face and waving. She looked really lovely in a striped top and white jeans... then I realised; of course I like that outfit, it’s mine!


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/678058/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-summer-wardrobe

[RedMoon11]

In Saving Farmed Chickens From Slaughter

RICHARD faced a glut of eggs for breakfast as our columnist hatched a plan to save farmed chickens from slaughter.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 19 June 2016


Richard faced a glut of eggs for breakfast as Mindy tried to save farmed chickens from slaughter [SUSAN HELLARD]

I have a confession. I thought I might get away with it but as it turns out, some members of the household are more observant than I first thought. I’ve been very good on the duck front this year; making sure nobody was given the chance to sit on eggs, even to the point of retrieving the chicken eggs Mrs Nobby was guarding (I have the scars to prove it). However, as everyone knows, I’m rather a soft touch when it comes to animals in need and was recently caught at a vulnerable moment.

We were celebrating our lovely friend Phil’s 50th and it was a really good do, which started in blazing lunchtime sun and ended under the sniggering gaze of the moon. There were lots of familiar faces and we all heartily joined in the celebrations. While there, I began chatting to a lady who mentioned she owns a chicken farm, supplying eggs to various supermarkets, and during conversation, she said, “Didn’t you have some of our chickens a few years back?” The penny dropped. “Oh!

The ones Lou was trying to find homes for? They were yours? Yes, I’ve still got one of them, although she still looks almost oven-ready,” I said. “Oh, sorry. Well, we have to clear out a load more in a couple of weeks if you’d like any,” she offered. “These do have all their feathers, though.” I felt bad afterwards; I wouldn’t normally say anything, but was a little bit bolder after a couple of glasses of prosecco.

All I could think about was our poor threadbare chicken Poppet who has to sleep alone in her own house as other chickens might peck at her raw unfeathered patches. In winter, she can hardly get through the door for the amount of hay and straw packed in to keep her warm (I even bought her a knitted jumper at one stage, but it wasn’t very practical, and she didn’t suit stripes).

It’s a sad fact that although the law has improved, even now an “enriched cage” farmed chicken is only allocated a space little larger than an A4 piece of paper, and in the UK over 50 per cent of the eggs produced last year came from chickens living in caged conditions. After about 18 months, their commercial value as egg producers declines, so they’re all off to the slaughterhouse, having never seen daylight.

I know it’s just a chicken, but they didn’t ask to be born chickens and if you can help a little brown hen, why wouldn’t you? An average life for a pet chicken is eight to 10 years if it isn’t taken by a fox and some have been known to live to the grand old age of 20, although I suspect they’ve long ceased laying by then and probably need a comfy jacket as well as a jumper. A few days later, Lou brought up the subject of the chickens. “You know they’re clearing out again and if they’re not bought, they go for slaughter?” I couldn’t help myself. “Right, here’s £10. I can find homes for a dozen, so see if they’ll do a ‘buy 10 get two free’ deal?”

It was like a secret mission. “OK. I’ll nip over there one day this week. Shall we do the handover at school drop-off?” “Good plan. I can put them in Chicken Woods before anyone notices.” When we arrived at school, we parked the cars next to each other.

“Nothing to see here”, Lou called as she hauled a hole-ridden cardboard box out of her 4x4. “Ladies?” One of the teachers asked quizzically as she walked by, her spaniel showing a lot of interest in the box. “Animal rescue services,” I winked at her. “Not ducks again?” “No, no, chickens this time.” The not-too-shabby chickens were soon in their new house and run, a temporary “acclimatising accommodation” prior to being set free with the others.

None of the family noticed our new additions (well, none of them do the chickens), although over breakfast a week later Richard did comment on how fantastic our egg harvest was this year, but then raised an eyebrow. “We seem to have a lot more brown eggs suddenly?” Panic hit me, and I could feel myself blushing.What to say? Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Oh that’ll be from the chickens sunbathing.” He sighed and shook his head. “I’m not even going to ask.” Well, best not to.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/680195/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-farmed-chickens-slaughter

[RedMoon11]

The Strictly Come Dancing-inspired charity event and her two left feet

THE big Strictly-inspired charity event had arrived but would our twinkle-toed columnist suffer two left feet during her cha-cha-cha?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, June 26, 2016


Would our twinkle-toed columnist suffer two left feet during her cha-cha-cha?                    HELLARD

Finally, after five months of lessons, Saturday night loomed and my 19 fellow dancers and I prepared to take to the stage competing in Hereford’s Strictly Come Dancing-style charity event.

The final week was frantic, with dress rehearsals, spray tans and last-minute panics.

I wasn’t there for one of the last rehearsals, as Willow’s team had qualified for the English national hockey championships for the first time in their school’s history. As leavers, it was the last match they would ever play together, and the last match for their wonderful coach Sue Moger (Mamma Moge) before her retirement in July.

So the parents support team had to be there.

I was booked in for my Strictly spray tan the day before, so drove to Nottingham while “developing”. When the school minibus arrived, the girls hooted with laughter and Willow was mortified when I dashed over to give her a hug, squealing, “Mummy! Your face is the same colour as your hair.”

“That’s nothing,” I told her, “I came in shorts – you should see the state of the car seat!”

No matter, I stood loud, proud and Tangoed alongside fellow parents as we watched our girls play the best in the country. It was 0-0 at half time of their fourth match against tough opposition.

They had to win by at least three goals to get through to the next round and everyone was tired. Mrs B gathered the girls to her. “Do it for Moge,” was all she said and they pulled out all the stops then scored the three they needed.

The final match went to a penalty shoot-out and they finished an incredible third place overall. Parents, coaches and girls shed tears of pride and bittersweet joy as they collected their medals on a day we will never forget.

The next morning, I was up with the lark as usual, putting ponies out, doing the school run and driving to the dressmaker.

She’d had four days to make my Strictly dress fit (tricky, trust me) and when I arrived, there was still a bit to be done. Nevertheless, she sewed like the wind and I left 20 minutes later with my green sparkly dress complete with newly attached chiffon drapes to the cuffs, laid on the back seat of the car.

The group dance rehearsal went brilliantly, but Mathew and I had a complete Horlicks with our quickstep! Each time we did it, we went wrong – we trod on each other’s toes, went in opposite directions, forgot where we were or reached the end before the music stopped.

Rather nervously, I dashed home, mucked out, brought the ponies in, walked the dogs, had a shower and arrived back at the venue for hair and make-up.

Nerves needed to be settled, so we unanimously decided on a drop (or gallon) of Dutch courage, then suddenly the moment arrived.

The Jackson Five’s Can You Feel It blared, and we cha-cha-cha-ed our hearts out to tumultuous applause. We all felt fantastic and ran back to the changing rooms to put on our couples dance outfits.

Mathew and I were the fifth couple to dance and practised until our calves were aching and toes raw. We were called. Behind the curtain we stood, like two lambs to the slaughter.

We marched out, bowed and the music started. People were standing on chairs, cheering, whistling, but I didn’t hear a thing.

All I could do was concentrate. Incredibly, we managed the best performance in our short history of quickstepping. The steps flowed, moves were remembered and we even finished dead on time. Relieved? I can’t begin to tell you.

Votes were gathered in and all the dancers formed a line in their couples as prizes were announced. The winners, after an incredible Charleston, were Tim and Wendy. We went wild! Tim has been our resident joker and wonderful Wendy founded the Little Princess Trust charity.

John and Kate’s romantic rumba came second and Barry and Jane came third. Barry had a heart attack just five weeks earlier and we all hoped they’d win, but the voting was in the hands of the audience. When their names were called, we all grabbed a serviette and theatrically dabbed our eyes.

They both laughed, but we’ll never forget the day in dress rehearsals a couple of weeks before when Barry was overcome with emotion, wiped tears from his eyes and blurted out, “I’m just so grateful I’m here.”

A dear, dear man. We were very grateful, too.

Our finale was a repeat of the group dance and behind the curtain, we passed a couple of bottles of prosecco down the line and performed a cha-cha-cha of pure celebration.

None of us are quite ready for it to be over.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/682309/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-Strictly-Come-Dancing-charity-event

[RedMoon11]

Mindy Hammond on Corralling some unruly sheep

THE battle lines were drawn as our columnist and her troops try to corral some unruly sheep – but would they be victorious?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED:  Sunday, July 3, 2016


The battle lines were drawn as our columnist and her troops try to corral some unruly sheep

There were The Three Musketeers, The Avengers, but in a small corner of Herefordshire, there is a formidable new force – a ginger woman, a blonde woman and a big butch bear of a man. Together, they are the shepherders. They use stealth and cunning (and sheep hurdles).

No unruly sheep escape their wrath.

It was a cloudy, humid morning and although the sun hadn’t pierced the clouds our intrepid trio could feel the heat on their backs as they advanced through fields of high grass. Charlie, the leader of the pack, marched on, crook in hand, rolling up his shirt sleeves as he trod a path towards his quarry.

Mel, armed only with her bucket of sheep nuts, followed and, bringing up the rear, yours truly.

Mel and I, as foot soldiers, wearing our standard uniform of wellies, denim shorts and T-shirts and not yet holding the superiority that affords our leader his steel-toed muck boots and work trousers.

His pace slowed as the objective of the mission came into view. There were three of them, their grey, woolly backs just visible on the brow of the hill. But we knew there were more nearby and the element of surprise was with us.

Having made a three-sided corral, Charlie gave us our orders: “Mel, take the bucket and rattle it in the top corner. Mindy, you take the left flank.”

Silently, we obeyed, climbing the fence with silent, ninja-style moves. We crept into position, watching for his signal. But what was the movement ahead? Had our cover been blown? Far away to Charlie’s right… Was it a bird?

Was it a plane? Was it an Exocet missile? The three sheep on the brow of the hill had been alerted, their heads shot up, then there was a thunder of hooves as 28 sheep, lambs and a ram charged towards us.

Charlie had enlisted the help of his secret weapon. She’s small, but she’s strong, and a more resilient shepherdess you won’t find in these parts. Claire, his right-hand woman, was behind the stampede and, staff in hand, she whooped and whistled the sheep on.

Like a well-oiled fighting machine we began. Mel rattling her bucket in the corral; Claire, Charlie and me whooping and whistling to urge the sheep towards the feed and ultimate capture. All was going well until a Herdwick ewe made a break for it.

“Close the lines,” yelled our leader. We moved like lightning, but she was too quick for us and broke through, charging for the far corner of the field. Worse yet, she’d signalled to her compatriots who soon followed, until the only prisoners in the corral were the easily duped Ryland sheep.

“Regroup, regroup,” came the call, and Claire was off to the far corner of the field like a rat up a drainpipe, her blonde bob a-bobbing. Charlie and I positioned ourselves behind the others, sun blazing high in the sky as we tore through high grass and nettles eager to keep up the momentum.

At her station, Mel resumed bucket rattling, but now they were spooked the sheep were distrustful. We edged them to the centre of the field. This could go either way.

“Easy, slowly now,” Charlie instructed. “Mel, leave the bucket and climb over the fence. We need a stronger line.”

Stealthily she joined us. There were six sheep in the corral and others looking on interested. But Mel’s blood was up, and the sheep could sense it. A huge ewe began to turn, and as she moved, the ram followed, eyeballing me.

“Don’t get too close,” Charlie yelled, just in time as the ewe lowered her head and ran at Mel. She dodged impact, but the ram was behind and heading my way. I raised my arms, ran forward and against all instruction growled;

“Raaarrrrr, gearrrrr.” The ram turned then broke out between me and Charlie. He had signalled his flock to disperse. They were on to us – but we weren’t beaten yet. We were dripping with perspiration, sliding on the dew-covered grass, yet still sprinting in formation, our battle cries louder and stronger. Minutes passed, then the field grew silent as we had them on the far fence line, inching towards the corral.

Success was in our sights. Sheep were panting, we were panting and the air was tense. Then she went – the same troublesome ewe darted towards Claire. She sidestepped and blocked the escape route, but the others had spotted the commotion and another followed, then another, until the whole lot had disappeared into the bushes.

We turned to give chase but our leader spoke: “Sod this for a game of soldiers. Let’s try tomorrow. Cup of tea?” We turned for home.

“Well, you know what they say,” I mused.

“Once a sheep gets an idea into its head there’s no shifting it.” Shepherders will return to fight another day.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/684822/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-unruly-sheep

[RedMoon11]

Her Bubbly Visit at the Ascot Opening Day

A DAY at the races proved a sparkling occasion but would our columnist live up to her nickname “Windy Mindy” after too much lovely bubbly?

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 10, 2016


 Mindy enjoys a traditionally British spectacle, the Ascot races, in a bubbly way

With hats in the boot of the car, three of us in our posh frocks (obeying the Royal Enclosure rules to the letter), a bottle of champagne on ice and name badges so carefully pinned, a spirit level wouldn’t have made them any straighter, Helsy, Sarah and I were en route to one of our most favourite events of the year. My brain was on a loop, replaying the wonderful scene in My Fair Lady where all the beautiful people at the races sing the lines:

Every duke and earl and peer is here.

Everyone who should be here is here.

What a smashing, positively dashing spectacle.

The Ascot opening day!

Admittedly it wasn’t the opening day, it was Wednesday, but who cares? Ascot is Ascot and the world rejoices in yet another traditionally British spectacle. Gentlemen in their morning suits and ladies dressed with great attention (particularly when it comes to the hat).

No modern fascinators here – the head must be properly covered if you’re lucky enough to be entering the Royal Enclosure.

I was slightly more organised this year and my saviour at the hat shop was relieved when she realised there were two days to go and all she needed to do was insert a ribbon into the brim of a rather huge hat to make it fit my head. I’d already bought the dress, in a very pale nude-pink, and despite matching it to various understated head accoutrements, when I spotted a wide-brimmed “wow” of a thing she agreed it worked brilliantly.

“And it has a brown ribbon, so that makes finding shoes simple,” she said. “If you’d come earlier I could’ve dyed a pair to match the dress.”

“Oooh… I didn’t realise you could do that.

What a brilliant idea – I’ll remember next time.”

Who would’ve imagined one of our local shops just happened to have a pair of shoes in precisely the same colour as the dress? Within half an hour, I had everything sorted – I even managed to find a petite cream jacket that would fit perfectly as long as I moved the button.

In the car, as my friends were sipping their first glasses of champagne I was working with needle and thread repositioning the button. A complete waste of drinking time, as it turned out, because when we arrived at the car park the sun was high in the sky. We tiptoed across the mud and made our way to the gates, joining a throng of excited racegoers.

Our hosts David and Laura have been great friends for years and their home Tweenhills stud has an incredible reputation for breeding racing legends.

David is racing and bloodstock adviser to the lovely Sheikh Fahad and his brothers, and the stud has become closely associated with Qatar racing and bloodstock.

The Tweenhills box was decorated with beautiful portraits of stallions and a whole wall was devoted to a cleverly created photograph of six young foals, perfectly posing against a background of one of the Tweenhills paddocks (there was a lot of photo management and skill to make it look so natural!).

After several glasses of champagne, incredible racing and so much fun and laughter we were all in danger of hurting ourselves, I found myself drawn to one particular foal – not just because it looked slightly magical, but also because of its mother’s name (or should I say dam, to be proper).

She is Air Biscuit, and that makes us fatally attracted. You see, after a few fizzy drinks, I’ve been known to get just a bit burpy, to the point I’ve been nicknamed Windy Mindy. If you don’t know what an air biscuit is, maybe that’ll give you a clue!

I mentioned this to David and in between giggles, knew I’d planted a seed that my dear husband will, I’m sure, one day appreciate. Surely I can smuggle in a thoroughbred if I keep it far enough away from the house, dress it in a big rug and plait in a shaggy mane?

What a day, what a giggle, and who knows what the future might hold for a certain windy foal?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/686769/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Ascot-opening-day

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Everyday Country Chores

WITH lame horses to tend, sheep shearing and harvesting on her to-do list, it was an everyday tale of country folk for our frazzled columnist.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 17, 2016


An everyday tale of country folk for our frazzled columnist

Even though I love it when a plan comes together, some days it seems as though every plan comes together all at once and this morning, it was like Spaghetti Junction at the stable yard.

Some weeks ago, we had to call the vet to visit Finn, our big horse, as he was lame. Worried about side bones (they’re near a horse’s feet), we agreed he should have an X-ray. And as I’d noticed Max was a little bit lame, too, it seemed a good idea to bring the mobile X-ray machine to us and kill two birds with one stone rather than try to squeeze Finn and Max into the lorry.

Or worse yet, spend a whole day ferrying them to and from our wonderful equine hospital.

Finn’s problem was nothing serious at all, as it turned out, and remedial work had already been started by our amazing farrier, Pat, much to the delight of the vet. But when we saw Max’s X-rays, we were horrified. Max had been hiding a very painful problem – his pedal bone had dropped and rotated.

It’s a bone in a horse’s foot and when this happens, it’s rather serious, very sore and hard to correct. He’s such a brave and stoic pony, none of us had suspected what was happening, and we were all so relieved to have discovered it in time.

Fortunately for us, Pat is a very conscientious and caring chap, and has paid numerous extra visits over the past couple of months to make sure Max is happy. He even texts in between visits to see how his patient is getting on.

So when I told him Max was due to be X-rayed again, he insisted on coming to remove Max’s shoes himself, rather than the vet taking them off. He’d be back the following day for his six-weekly visit to all the ponies, so would replace Max’s shoes along with the rest.

Meanwhile, in a far-off paddock, the sheep were searching desperately for buttons or a zip, but to no avail. The weather had been so erratic, we’d held off shearing them, but suddenly the nights had grown warmer and it was time for a change of clothes – off with the woolly jumpers and fluffy trousers, on with vests and pants.

Of course sheep owners everywhere had made the same decision, so the sturdy chaps who shear for a living were booked solid and frankly not quite as interested in our tiny flock as they were in a few hundred (well, you do the sums!).

But help was at hand in the form of our old neighbour Roger and his son Richard, who sold us our first chickens when he was but a lad and bred them for pocket money. He’s now all grown up and shears like the wind – well, he did win the World Young Shepherds Challenge in 2014.

Roger told us his son would be happy to help, but we needed to wait for a dry day. We began watching the barometer and checking the weather even more regularly than usual.

Along with the sheep and pony peculiarities, there was another issue to be addressed: the hay.

As usual, the grass had been sprouting slowly until the buttercups decided to raise their leaves, then it was all hands to the weedkiller pumps as we sprayed them, along with docks and nettles, to give the crop a fighting chance and improve the quality.

A couple of weeks later, the hay was thigh high and ready for harvest, but there was a problem. This year we’d decided just to make hay and not haylage – the stuff you see sitting in the fields like enormous black plastic-covered cubes – despite Willow’s pleading after pointing out some wrapped in pink plastic a few weeks ago: “Oh that’s sooo cool – can we wrap ours in pink this year?”

“Nope,” I replied. “It’s small bale hay for us this time around. We’ve lost half the crop to damaged plastic two years on the trot and our ponies don’t need high-energy haylage – it turns them into rockets.”

But who was there to harvest and store 2000 bales nearby? Another neighbour, another Roger, gave me a number.

This morning I sped back from the school run and dashed to the stables; Mel and I mucked out in record time just as Martin (hay man) arrived. We whizzed around the paddocks in the truck, sorted a harvesting plan, emptied at the muck heap and zipped back. As we said goodbye, Richard arrived with his shearing truck and equipment, behind him was Pat in his farrier’s van, behind him, Bev, returning our pony Megan (29 this year) from loan and ready to aid Pat with ponies while Mel and I darted off to the vet with Dimple and Floyd for jabs; Megan’s merry whinnying in our wake.

Ooh there’s the gate – have to go, the whelping kit is being collected for Grub – border terrier pups due in two days’ time.

How lucky we are to have such fantastic neighbours and isn’t it a quiet life in the country?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/689380/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-everyday-country-chores

[RedMoon11]

A Party Night

IF there was a degree for partying, our columnist and pals would be in a class of their own. School’s out, so bring on the dancing girls...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 24, 2016


School’s out, so bring on the dancing girls

It’s the end of an era in the Hammond household and it’ll be very strange leaving the girls’ old school behind us. Both started there in the nursery class, Izzy at two and a half and Willow at three years old.

At the beginning, it was just a couple of half days a week, then as time passed they went through the school. Izzy left a couple of years ago and now it’s Willow’s turn to move on, heralding the emotional end of a 13 year relationship. It’s going to be emotional for all of us.

The kids are all ready to take on the challenge of senior school, but what about the parents? Judging by the events of the last week, I think we can unanimously agree – we’re not quite mature enough yet.

It all started with the leavers’ play premiere.

It was a lovely event, with kids and adults alike dressing in black tie and posh frocks. We had a green carpet (it was a play loosely based on Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest), there were photos, non-alcoholic champagne, VIP arrivals and, for the adults, a bit of an afterparty.

When I say “a bit”, I mean rather a lot. The following day was hard going for some of us, but we knew we’d have a “quiet” get-together for Helsy’s birthday at the weekend. The teenagers were having their post A-level party in a friend’s barn, so why not have a dinner party for the boring parents in the house?

After eating, the men snuck off to the kitchen so the girls decided to put on some tunes and that’s when it started to get silly. Izzy was not pleased at the sight of her mother and friends dancing like loons beneath Sarah’s multicoloured revolving disco light. She shot me a look of embarrassed horror as she scowled,

“I think we should leave.”

“Yes, in a minute,” I grinned and winked at her mischievously.

“Oh God, it’s going to be one of those nights,” she sighed and returned to the barn.

We loved it. Mamma Mia never sounded so good, although some of Sarah’s easy-listening tracks made us wonder whether she spent every hour away from us in a comfy cardy and slippers, nodding over her knitting in a creaky rocking chair.

Eventually, the far more sensible menfolk reappeared and began the tedious job of separating their sashaying spouses from the rhythm of the night. But when a girl’s gotta dance, a girl’s gotta dance, and these girls were definitely in the mood for dancing.

It took a few more songs before we started to disperse and, looking at Izzy’s ever-deepening brow furrows, I decided I should remove myself so left Helsy and Sarah spinning into the dawn.

It was leavers versus parents rounders and cricket the following day, so a rather bleary-eyed Mindy did her best (not very good) mucking-out job possible after four hours’ sleep and almost forgot to load the car with ice, plates, napkins etc for the picnic.

Thankfully, Izzy was on hand to help gather everything and after dropping Iz at her friend’s house, I drove into school to find Willow and her classmates even more tired than the adults after their traditional night walk over the Malvern Hills.

“I’m sooo tired!” she moaned. “We didn’t get to bed till four.”

“Oh pish! I wasn’t in bed till 3.38am and I was up at half seven. You’ve had eight hours’ sleep – you should be raring to go,” I smirked.

She rolled her eyes and sighed, “Partying parents, was it?”

“Yep.”

Shaking her head in mild disbelief, she left to get changed for rounders and I joined in with setting up the picnic headquarters.

The girls were very kind to us in the match.

After an unbeaten season, they’re rather good, and purposely missed catching us out, made dramatic misses at stumping posts, and ensured the bowling was slow enough for us to see the ball coming without specs.

Even Mrs B, coach extraordinaire, called a no ball each time a batting parent swung and missed, just to give us a less-embarrassing defeat.

We thoroughly enjoyed every moment and were sad to leave our little darlings, who were setting off for a week at camp. Their last week together.

Luckily, friendships won’t all be lost despite the children setting off to different schools as a result of their parents enjoying the occasional party and though they may cringe at our dance moves, the kids love their regular parent-driven reunions.

I doubt we’ll ever feel old enough to act our age when the music plays and, as it turns out, that suits our children just fine. Life may move on but hopefully they will see that friendships can stay the course, even when the school gates are a distant memory.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/691419/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-party-girls

[RedMoon11]

Today's World of Fine Dining

EATING out gave our columnist food for thought about the standards of service in today’s world of fine dining.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 31, 2016


Dining out Hammond-style can be a rather varied experience

Dining out Hammond-style can be a rather varied experience; if “the face” (ie Richard Hammond) is with us, we may get special attention, and although it can be a little embarrassing at times, the girls and I are well aware of service at the other end of the scale.

You know the scene in Pretty Woman where Julia Roberts goes shopping and nobody will serve her? Well, that’s become a theme for us – we’ll walk into a restaurant and be noticed last, served badly or just plain ignored. Why? We look no different to when we dine with Daddy, but “the face” isn’t with us and “the treatment” disappears.

It can make us more than a little perturbed.

We’ll look across the table to each other and one of us will say the words “Pretty Woman moment” or “PWM”. Now before you start thinking, “Oh well, they expect special treatment,” please let me gently amend your thinking.

For many years, I worked in bar and waitressing jobs to supplement my pitiful income. In those days, your best friend was your brain and the ability to do mental maths was a prerequisite because
there weren’t programmed buttons for every type of drink on an electronic till, just numbers 0 to 9. Bar staff were expected to work out the total as they mixed drinks, key in the sum whilst requesting payment from the customer, calculate the correct change in their heads, smile and repeat the procedure for several hours without overcharging, undercharging, getting stressed, or expecting a calculator to come to their aid – I mean, good grief! What kind of geniuses were we?

Sorry, I digress – back to the point. In those days, the one and only rule was “the customer is king”. Your role behind the bar was to be welcoming wonderful, patient and pleasant. Whether waiting on tables or pulling pints you were responsible for the reputation of the establishment and woe betide anyone working in either role who didn’t deliver.

There was no such thing as a service charge.

If you expected a tip, you’d have to work for it; provide service with a smile, and do everything in your power to ensure the best dining experience possible, then search expectantly beneath the ashtray while clearing your table in the vain hope there might be a few leaves of the folding stuff left behind especially for you.

Waiting jobs paid less than the minimum wage and tips weren’t just a bonus, they were essential for survival.

Ah, how times have changed. These days a tip is almost guaranteed. It’s often included in the bill, so why should your waiter or waitress do any more than deliver your order eventually?

When the girls and I went for a meal in Cheltenham recently as a last-minute birthday surprise while Daddy dearest was at work, we were really looking forward to a fun night, with live jazz playing and food we knew would be fabulous.

OK, so it was rather spur of the moment and we hadn’t exactly dressed for the occasion, but we were perfectly presentable, if a little casual.

However, our waitress had clearly decided very early on that we weren’t especially worthy of her attention. Despite waiting patiently for 15 minutes for Willow’s drink to arrive, and making no mention of the one hour and 10 minutes it took to serve two courses, when I politely requested she might bring our desserts with the bill as our taxi would be arriving imminently, I was rather dismayed to see little more than a vague acknowledgement.

Ultimately I had to seek her out at the till and remind her of my request, at which point the bill was produced, closely followed by the desserts (10 minutes after the taxi).

I don’t always examine bills, but this time was interested to see the “optional service charge” of 10 per cent. When I quizzed her, the waitress informed me it was company policy to include the service charge in the total. It wasn’t until after I had paid and had pressed her on the point that she admitted it was optional because customers could challenge it and ask for it to be removed.

Surely, as the service charge is essentially a tip, it should not be added unless the customer decides they’ve received good service, rather than assuming every customer will pay automatically to avoid an awkward moment regardless of whether the waitress has been worthy of a rather large tip?

I’d love to share some words of wisdom told to me many, many years ago with any waiting wonders out there: treat every customer with the same degree of politeness, service and polish; remember many others have walked in your shoes, and, most importantly, the man who walked into the supercar showroom in sports blazer and shiny shoes may have dressed smartly for his visit, but the guy who came in ripped jeans and tatty T-shirt drove a Ferrari home.

Be consistently kind and everyone wins.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/693905/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-fine-dining 

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A Nasty Surprise

WHAT was lurking in the long grass at Hammond Towers? Our columnist’s equine friend Finn sticks his nose in – and gets a nasty surprise.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, August 7, 2016


What was lurking in the long grass at Hammond Towers?

After the wettest June on record, July not much better, and the sun playing hide and seek, I was wondering why those naughty people who predict the weather thought it was a good idea to tell us we were going to experience a repeat of the summer of 76? Now we’re itching to fly to the sun.

I’m very lucky to be outdoors so much that I can appreciate every little hint of warmth or sunshine, but if you’re stuck indoors five days a week, and the weekend is miserable, it really doesn’t make for much of a summer. If you’ve banked on a good British summer and saved all year for a holiday in the UK, just to wind up watching rain dribble down the windowpane of your hotel, or gone for the camping option and found yourself baling out the tent and stomping mud into your sleeping bag.

Then, when we see a glimmer of hope and the sun finally smiles on us, the weatherman gets all excited and announces summer has finally arrived, only to eat his words with great embarrassment a few hours later as he points to a monster swirl of low pressure sneaking its way towards us. The map on the telly is splattered with rain clouds and sitting rooms across the land fill with the sound of exasperated groans.

Meanwhile, in our fields the hay is getting ever longer. Thankfully, we didn’t cut it when the weather looked good (you need several days of dry weather to ensure a good crop), only for a downpour to ruin the lot. We felt so very sorry for those who had taken the plunge, just to be left with soggy grass that might never dry.

Although leaving great expanses of grass so long for so many months has caused problems. We’ve lost sheep in it when moving them from paddock to paddock to the point I thought about asking Richard to get an aerial view in the helicopter.

The rabbits think they’ve been delivered into Utopia and are so secure in their enormous expanse of grassy safety they’ve stopped being nocturnal.

Badgers think nothing of storming through all the way to the garden and the fox cubs have absolutely no intention of leaving home when their hunting is so successful and plentiful, interspersed with play fighting in the comfy long stuff.

Captain, the terrier’s favourite sport is rabbit-chasing, but when he took off through the hay, Blea had to resort to tigger-like bounces just to find him and then steer a way out!

None of these issues, as it transpired, were the worst of our worries. Actually, they were all rather fun for everyone concerned (except for a poor hedgehog who fell in the pond and didn’t make it to the escape ramp in time). Although there was one of our number who really did have a rough time and it shocked him to his boots.

The horses were all enjoying one of those rare, sunny days. I’d just left with the girls for a night away, which they’d booked as a birthday treat, when Mel phoned me from home.

“I’ve had to call the vet – Finn’s face has swollen up and he’s very agitated,” she said.

Finn, our enormous big baby of a horse, was in a great panic. Within minutes his face and then his neck began to swell. Thankfully, our incredible vet was there in minutes. Worried about his increased heart rate, he quickly administered a sedative and prescribed lotion for the swelling. I kept in touch by phone and Bev, who is so brilliant with our ponies and helps with their exercising and well-being, was on the scene in moments. When we next spoke, Finn was calmer, but as Mel told me,

“He looks as though he’s just had lip plumping and been over-Botoxed! His neck looks like it’s been borrowed from the Michelin man, poor chap.”

Poor, poor Finn. Nothing has ever hurt him before, hence his complete panic. All he wanted to do was stand in his stable where he felt safe while everyone kept a close eye on him.

Thankfully, although his face was very itchy as the sedative wore off, the swelling went down over the next 12 hours and by the time I arrived home he was back to normal, except for two small scratches on his nose.

Finn has a habit of leaning over the fence rail in his paddock and munching on the long grass in the hay field next door, but as it turns out there’s a new neighbour who’s taken up residence and didn’t like to be disturbed. Finn had been bitten by a snake. Quite possibly an adder.

Finn has stopped eating over the fence and everyone is being far more respectful of the tracks in the long grass. Let’s hope when we cut the hay we don’t find anything big and wriggly in the middle of a bale...


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/696240/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-nasty-surprise

[RedMoon11]

British Summer Days

A FAMILY of swooping swallow chicks make a summer morning for our columnist as unexpected Sunday blue skies leave her in a sunny mood.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, August 14, 2016


Unexpected Sunday blue skies leave Mindy in a sunny mood                                                           HELLARD

I thank my lucky stars almost daily. Not only am I part of a loving, happy family who are blessed with wonderful friends, but we also live in a glorious part of the country in our unique house festooned with furry and feathered friends. However, just when I think things couldn’t possibly get any better, a day takes me by surprise and delivers up a few extra gifts.

There’s something very precious about our British summers. The reason we are so grateful for warm, sunny summer days is easily explained – they rarely happen. On that special morning when you sneak a peek through the curtains, hoping for brightness, and wham – blue sky and sunshine greets your inquisitive eyes and you just know, today will be fabulous.

They are absolutely my most favourite mornings, and I simply can’t wait to be outside. The gift ofa sunny day is even more wonderful if it happensto arrive on a Sunday, when there’s no emailing, phoning or expecting anything work-related to be addressed.

If I’m really lucky, there won’t be anything in the diary that calls for a long car journey and I can take my time with the outdoor jobs and make them last a little longer, at least until I need to start on the Sunday roast.

Incredibly, last Sunday, the planets aligned to deliver a Mindy treat – the girls were both sleeping in extra late and Daddy dearest was away working which meant there would be no demands for breakfast or Mum’s taxi service. Heaven!

I practically skipped to the stables with Sparrow and grinned as Max predictably whinnied his “hello”, closely followed by a neighing chorus.

“Good morning, my lovelies. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I asked them as I stroked everyone’s nose and gave each a bite of hay.

“Extra fly-spray all round today and a dab of suntan lotion on the nose, too,” I told them.

Once they were all sprayed and lotioned, I began leading them out to their respective paddocks. Romeo marched out with me, eager to get through the gate and have his treat. As I took off his headcollar, he stood perfectly still and waited for me to close the entrance to his field.

“Go on, Romeo. You know you want to…”

I could’ve sworn he winked and smiled before slowly collapsing to the ground and rolling for joy. He was a bright dun two minutes earlier, but anyone looking at him post-roll would wonder at the pale brown patches, even after he’d finished his head-to-toe shake. Little tinker.

Finn and Musca knew their turn was coming and the three of us wandered towards their big patch of lush green grass, bordered with stubble fields.

Just as I was removing their headcollars, I glanced across towards the copse – and there she was, standing motionless, watching.

“Oh Finn, isn’t she beautiful?” I whispered.

I didn’t need to mention it. Finn remained by my shoulder, ears pricked and eyes focused on our beloved dark fox. She’d been busy with cubs for months. We’d spotted five of them playing in the dingle a few times, but she’d kept hidden until now.

Much as we were admiring her, she seemed to be enjoying watching us. She’d caught a rabbit on her morning jaunt and had been on her way home with it in her mouth. But instead of racing away at the sight of a human, her casual pause was a sort of acknowledgement, there was a shared reassurance. We were letting her know she was welcome, we were no threat to her and she mirrored our thoughts – mutual respect; a sunny day for all to share.

Moments later, she trotted on towards her den and a hare raced in front of Musca, darting down his burrow while all about us the fields were busy with rabbits rushing home before they were spotted by the big buzzard who hides in the old oak.

On turning out Max I was greeted by the swallows. The five chicks are fully grown, but reluctant to leave their nest in the roof of his stable. They swoop in and out, following their parents and flying circuits before returning and landing on various perches.

“Come on now, I really think it’s time you guys left home,” I told three of them surrounding me as I brushed off their “messages” from Max’s back.

I know I’ll miss them, it’s been wonderful to watch them grow, their trepidation at taking to the air before developing their flying skills – now masters at their mother’s wing.

I smiled as I began the mucking out, dodging their dive-bombs, then realised we had new neighbours; a noise like that of a cageful of budgies was coming from Romeo’s stable – the word had spread, and newlywed swallows were arguing over their wallpaper.

Just one hour on a sunny Sunday morning made me feel one of the luckiest people on Earth.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/698879/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-on-British-summer

[RedMoon11]

Daughter Izzy's Bad Day

OUR columnist’s usually happy-go-lucky daughter Izzy is in the wars this week, which is hardly ideal with a big party coming up.

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, August 21, 2016


Our columnist’s usually happy-go-lucky daughter Izzy is in the wars this week               HELLARD

We all have our good days and our bad days, but for some the bad days – although rare – come with a force rarely seen by man or beast.

Izzy, our smiling, unbelievably upbeat teenager, had planned a girlie get-together a couple of weeks ago. We were to spend hours trawling dressing-up shops to get the theme right (festival/hippy chicks), decorate the pool area and download a playlist until, looking at the calendar, I realised a terrible diary clash had occurred.

The day before was marked in bright red: “Izzy. Dentist part two.” Uh-oh. She had just recovered from the removal of two obstinate baby teeth the week before and there, looming, was the revisit for the last two to be pulled. It wasn’t a good morning.

“Hey Iz, baby, you need to get up,” I said as I nudged her at about 10am.

“Wha? But… huh?”

“Erm, I’m really sorry but you have to be at the dentist at 11.30.”

“Nooo! Oh no, please not today – I’ll have no teeth tomorrow. Oh, why me?” she wailed.

“Oh I’m sorry, but you know it has to be done and you’ll have beautiful teeth in the end.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to be all gummy. And I won’t be able to eat.”

“It’ll be OK. C’mon, it’s the last time and I promise to buy you something nice after.”

She buried her head under the pillow as I left her room.

I felt so bad for her, then felt worse still when she was sitting in the dentist’s chair later that morning. Even though we all know it’s the right thing to do and we’re lucky to have a wonderful dentist, there’s no escape from the discomfort any parent feels watching their child going through any medical procedure. She was very brave, but as we walked out the tears began to roll and my heart went out to her.

We busied ourselves buying up a storm – wigs, bunting, sweets, John Lennon-type sunglasses and everything else we could find to make her party go with a bang.

By the time we set off on the journey home, she was back to sparkly Izzy, then the following night her five friends arrived and all had a ball.

Next morning, I was busy constructing bacon sandwiches for them all when Izzy appeared in floods of tears.

“I broke a glass last night and I think there’s a bit in my foot,” she sobbed.

We examined the damage and tried to ease the sliver out, but it was in deep.

“OK, let’s try the bicarbonate of soda trick and put a plaster over it – hopefully it’ll ease out.”

Then I noticed her voice was sounding hoarse.

“Iz, are you feeling OK?”

“No. My throat’s really sore,” she moaned.

One look down her throat and I saw bulging red tonsils.

“Oh, blimey! Here, take some Ibuprofen and a glass of juice and sit down quietly for a bit.”

“OK. I’ll just see everyone off and get changed.”

Just as the last of her friends were collected, Izzy came downstairs in absolute floods.

“My earring’s just gone straight through my ear!” she groaned.

“What?”

Sure enough, something very bad and rather painful had happened. Her ear was infected, there was a big hole where there should have been a little one and on top of everything else she’d (not surprisingly) truly lost her sense of humour.

I called our doctor and explained her ailments. “I’ll give her antibiotics to cover the ear and throat but I’m afraid if the glass in her foot is stuck, you’ll have to go to A&E,” came the reply.

So off we went.

“Oh!, It’s the other one,” our usual, friendly nurse exclaimed as we entered the hospital.

“I was expecting Willow to have broken her arm again,” she joked.

The foot was X-rayed, but they couldn’t see the glass. There was only one thing for it: local anaesthetic and “a dig about with a needle”. Eew!

By teatime, Izzy was home from her adventure, and when Richard called to ask how she was, she couldn’t help but laugh as she told him, “Well, great really. I’ve got a sore throat, half my teeth are missing, a hole in my ear, a hole in my foot and, oh… hang on… yep, there it is, the icing on the cake – a spot on the end of my nose. I’m feeling like a queen!”

A few days later, despite a bandage on her foot, a big plaster on her ear and talking with a slightly husky voice, she was out with us at a friend’s house partying the night away and making jokes about her injuries.

Hmm, that reminds me of someone…


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/701018/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-bad-day-daughter-Izzy

[RedMoon11]

Pre Holiday Troubles

WITH the Hammond clan about to fly off to the sun, what could go wrong? Stricken ponies, sheep with the lurgy and a wounded dog for starters...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, August 28, 2016 | UPDATED: 09:38, Monday, August 29, 2016


With the Hammond clan about to fly off to the sun, what could go wrong? A lot apparently...     HELLARD

Maybe this is one of those many age-related issues or perhaps it’s just a Hammond thing, but over the past couple of years I’ve noticed the final week before our long-awaited summer holiday seems to find both Richard and

I crawling towards the finish post like a pair of ill-prepared long-distance runners hauling themselves across the line. And this year the wicked witch of weariness had waved her wand furiously over Richard and Mindy.

In Richard’s world, the grown-up business side of things had come to the fore alongside filming and playing with his chums. At home, Izzy had realised the fun of festivals and a serious teenage social life, while Willow found herself teetering on a precipice.

Behind her were the familiar comforts of her pony, the playroom and school friends she’d known for 11 years, yet she yearned for new challenges – to spread her wings a little and dip her toe in the sea of adulthood. Surfing those particular waves inevitably caused a regular ducking in the murky depths of hormonal soup.

Meanwhile, I was doing what all wives and mothers do – keeping the ship afloat and doing my best to calm stormy waters. Tricky, when on occasion I worried we’d set sail on the RMS Titanic.

Although running Richard’s diary is a complicated job, it has become comparatively simple against organising time management around the girls’ social lives.

I mean, what happened? Only yesterday they were playing in the sandpit and making mud pies all summer. Now it’s all parties, events and friends visiting. I love watching them enjoy this phase of their lives and genuinely cherish seeing their lovely mates, but a little more than 24 hours’ notice before a two-hour drive to a party or five friends arriving on a sleepover might be nice. We can’t complain really, though, as in the mix of their activities are thrown many impromptu adult get-togethers.

The kids always have their own party alongside ours and have a blast. Better yet, they can lie in till lunch the following day, the lucky devils.

None of this helps with my uncontrollable obsession to “sort everything” before we leave on holiday. Bills must be paid, invoices sorted, no bits of paper whatsoever left anywhere, accounts up to date and house tidied. Any possible problem must be seen off before it’s even a twinkle in someone’s eye and having worked furiously till the early hours for a week, I really thought I had everything under control two days before we were set to leave.

Then the inevitable happened.

I’d turned out Romeo, who neighed to Megan before both skipped merrily across their lush grass. When horror struck as both ponies began coughing. Just as this was happening, Charlie appeared:

“I think the sheep have orf (a disease). Have you seen them this morning?”

“Oh yes, and I noticed Zeus had a strange lumpy bit near his mouth. I thought maybe he’d been eating thistles.”

“Hmm… that’ll be the start of it. Don’t touch it whatever you do, it can transmit to humans. We used to put methylated spirits on it. Straight alcohol seemed to sort it out.”

I finished the mucking out and ran back indoors, grabbed a bottle of gin and dampened a cotton-wool pad before dabbing it all over my legs. I’d been fussing Zeus earlier and he’d rubbed his nose on my knees – I’d do anything to avoid being bikini-clad and plastered in red scabs.

After showering with salt scrub I headed over to the yard, stopping by to give Boot his morning exercise, when I noticed a couple of spots of blood on the ground. Poor boy, although he looks like a young dog, he’s really very old and recently grew pressure sores on his legs. He’d caught one of them on something. I administered the magic “purple spray” (great for animal wounds) and rang the vet to list all our animal ailments.

Moments later a flurry of phone calls resulted in last-minute meetings and a dash to London for Richard. He’d miss his haircut as a result, so I packed my hairdressing scissors and his case as we’d meet him in London. I was just off the phone when Willow appeared, hot, miserable and with lumpy tonsils.

We hotfooted it to the doc and while there I explained I’d been lightheaded and had a humming in my ear the previous night, which I thought was a plane circling the house. It was tinnitus.

The doctor loaded us with boxes of penicillin for Willow and scolded me, “Get some rest. Your blood pressure is very low.”

The vet came the day of departure with antibiotics for Boot and the sheep. The ponies were fine, just reacting to manic hay harvesting all around us, Richard’s meetings went very well and, hurrah! We made it to France. So rest has arrived. Or has it? Twenty-four friends are soon to be joining us. Well, a change is as good as a rest – isn’t it?


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/704835/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-pre-holiday-troubles

[RedMoon11]

Busy Holiday Schedule

FROM the adrenaline-fuelled Running Club to canine capers at Dog Rescue Club, our columnist’s holiday schedule is one big mad dash...

By MINDY HAMMOND
PUBLISHED: Sunday, 4 September 2016


Our columnist’s holiday schedule is one big mad dash...                                                                HELLARD
 
This week’s column is coming courtesy of French Wi-Fi (sorry about the faint whiff of garlic). We’re happily settled in now, although when we arrived at our villa it was a bit of a surprise to discover a very wide-angle lens had been used on the advertising shots. Every room was about half the size we’d envisaged, so we christened the lower ground floor, where the teenagers would be sleeping, “the shed”.

Or, more precisely, “le shed”. The two boys were in one of the rooms and five girls in the other (a five bed-long line of pillows and coverlets). Thankfully, the kids decided it was fun despite a TV that was purely for ornamental purposes.

On the plus side, the pool was large and the outdoor space enormous. Eight brand-new inflatables greeted our arrival and a sun so hot it had ignited forest fires in Marseille, so we knew we’d cope with the slightly cramped indoor space after a couple of glasses of rosé.

With 16 of us, there has been rather a holiday camp atmosphere in our house among the vineyards. Richard and Phil quickly formed Running Club, assembling at 9am to jog the surrounding dirt tracks through the woods. On day one, several of the kids joined them. But when they decided on running a mile to the top of the hill in blistering heat on the second morning, they soon found membership had been reduced to the two founders, both returning rather flushed and bathed in exercise emollient (sweat).

Lou was in charge of pool games (she has, after all, missed her calling as a Butlins Redcoat), devising various races, diving competitions and other watery thrills, but it was the foolish 12-year-old men in our party who invented the game of “try and get us off the inflatables”, which became incredibly competitive – nobody escaped a dunking.

Richard introduced Scooter Club (any excuse to take motorbikes anywhere). This was very popular with the chaps, although Phil seemed to have serious problems turning left and did a bit of impromptu off-roading, very nearly kissing a lamp-post! We all decided that motorcycling probably wasn’t his thing and turning left (even in Running Club) was to be avoided at all costs to avoid unforeseen incidents.

Obviously, there was Yoga Club, but this year instead of downloading a tutorial on my computer,

I enlisted the help of Fabienne – a bona-fide yoga instructor – and everyone was keen to join. Mats were lined up on the shaded decking area and we went through various poses, until we arrived at one of the warrior positions and Phil and Richard lost their balance simultaneously, so “proud warrior” became “falling on to the gravel warrior”.

As Saturday approached, so did “turnover day”, and we waved goodbye to one group, ready to welcome the O’Briens, Zieglers and Rogers and with them two Tobys – one aged 10 months, the other 15 years, both happily outnumbered by four teenage girls.

Birthday Club found itself in full swing. Having celebrated Erin’s 16th on week one, we chomped through cake number two a few days later and sang Happy Birthday to Zog, raising our glasses to one of our favourite and longest-serving friends on his 66th.

We tried to visit Saint-Tropez – well, we felt you have to – but the traffic and the bustle were rather a shock after the tranquillity of our home in the vineyards, so we retreated to the supermarché and threw a few steaks on the barbecue instead.

Of course, there is also a Dog Rescue club, which came about after an impromptu visit by a large black dog. He has joined Running Club, looked pleadingly at us through the gates of the villa and then been spotted rummaging through dustbins in the dead of night. Local inquiries lead us to believe he was in fact abandoned and rather sad.

I think he’s a very thin Beauceron, a French herding/guard dog, although he looks more like a hairy Doberman with his tail in its present state. We’ve christened him Pierre le Chien and if nobody has claimed him before we leave, he will be delivered to a French vet, vaccinated, passported and brought to Bollitree.

We haven’t told Daddy… yet.


www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/705832/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-on-busy-holiday-schedule