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Post by RedMoon11 on Apr 27, 2017 5:45:59 GMT
Mindy Hammond on Her Allergy to Bubble Bath
WHEN the going gets tough, a bubbly soak in the bathtub is the relaxing answer for our columnist – until Mother Nature intervenes...By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, 16 April 2017  When the going gets tough, a bubbly soak in the bathtub is the relaxing answer for our columnistWe’ve been particularly lucky in our household when it comes to allergies, after all so many poor souls suffer with asthma these days, as well as various problems with foodstuffs and animals, yet we’ve sailed through problem-free. It seems as though everyone has an issue with something or other, so it’s always my first question before visitors come to see us the first time, “Are you allergic to anything?” I’m not surprised that children brought up in modern dust-free, draught-free homes without a single pet have chronic sneezing fits when they come into contact with a cat. But when I recently heard about local beekeepers being visited by a little lad with chronic rheumatoid arthritis, in order for the poor chap to be stung, I have to admit I was more than a little alarmed. I know several people who carry life-saving EpiPens because their reaction to insect stings is so severe, so the thought of being stung on purpose just seemed cruel. Yet as it turns out, medical research has found apitherapy lessens the pain for those suffering from certain conditions – who knew bee venom could be such a good thing? But before you dash out to annoy the nearest bumblebee, I should tell you there’s more to the therapy than simply being stung. It has to be a specific type of honeybee that delivers the stingy cure, and some people suffer 80 stings to get relief, so its not for the faint-hearted. I’ve long since felt enormous sympathy for those sneezing, watery-eyed and miserable wretches who dread the high pollen-count, refusing every flower delivery and never able to enjoy the smell of a summer meadow, so when Willow began sneezing and her face broke out in red blotches, it was the worst surprise to all of us. For poor Willow, her most dreaded nightmare has become a reality. The teenage hormones have had the most devastating effect and she has suddenly developed an allergy to horses. Thankfully, it’s manageable, and as long as she doesn’t touch her face and jumps in the shower after being near them, her horsey friends need not miss out on her loving company and she can continue life with little change. But it did make me wonder what other weird changes might be in store. It was quite enough to discover our youngest daughter growing so fast she was taller than Izzy (which didn’t go down at all well with poor Iz, who happens to be two and a half years older). But last weekend Willow strode up to give me a hug and we realised the day had arrived, she was as tall as me. Mother Nature loves her little jokes and sometimes her sense of humour goes to the dark side, which would explain why she lands parents with hormonal teenagers just at a time in their lives when middle age, the menopause, and countless symptoms of mid-life crisis are rearing their ugly heads leaving many of us with little space in our befuddled brains to manage young adults straining at the leash. I’ve discovered a simple solution, and it was right under my nose. Many, many years ago I found it rather strange my dear old mum preferred an hour wallowing in the bath to a quick shower and off you go. Now I understand. Just as I recall the midwife’s best-ever piece of advice when she told me there will be times when the baby won’t stop crying and exhaustion and despair threaten to take over. She told me to make sure the baby has been changed, fed, burped and all its needs answered. Calmly put the baby somewhere safe and secure (in the cot or the playpen), take your self to another room and give yourself a breather, a reset, just for a couple of minutes. The “reset” has to be a little different when referring to teenagers (no matter how hard you try you’ll never squish one into a cot and they can escape a playpen in seconds). Instead, I recommend running a bath of bubbles, locking the door and turning on my talking book, emerging half an hour later ready to pull on (now tatty) kid gloves and deal with the latest drama. It was working perfectly for me until I noticed a small, itchy circle of skin on my wrist. For the first time in my life I have an allergic reaction to something. Typical – it’s bubble bath. Thank you Mother Nature for messing with our molecules, just when we need you most. www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/791062/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-bath-allergy
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Post by RedMoon11 on Apr 27, 2017 6:19:57 GMT
Mindy Hammond on South African Safari
RHINOS wallowing in glorious mud and elephants trumpeting in the water – our columnist is lapping up a South African safari.By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, April 23, 2017  Our columnist is lapping up a South African safariLucky doesn’t even begin to describe it – this Easter we’re in an open-sided safari truck in the South African bush, our favourite place in the world. After travelling 16 hours to get here, the girls were desperate to hop into the truck and drive out to visit the animals – especially the elephants. You never know whether they will be where you’re heading and, despite their size, neither do you hear them approach. But this time, a troop of more than 30 elephants walked towards us at the watering hole. And as we watched them rolling and splashing, we noticed a huge female with three of her older calves keeping close to her side. As they moved closer to the water, they revealed the reason for their protective shield – a newborn calf, so young it fell over its trunk and had clearly never seen water before. To watch the family protect and encourage their baby with such care and affection was the most heart-stopping, wonderful sight. The mother regularly let out a low, rumbling sound to alert others of her baby, particularly the adolescent boy – unmistakably the naughtiest of the gang. He’s always the last to leave when everyone else has marched off through the bush, too busy chasing wading birds and trumpeting. He even considered annoying an enormous bull rhino as it wallowed in the mud nearby, but was discouraged by one of the older members of his family, so ran the shoreline instead, his ears at 90 degrees to his head and trunk extended. Typically, when the rest of his troop disappeared, our little teenage friend stayed behind, despite another elephant his own age returning to fetch him. He pretended to follow then hauled himself back into the water for a couple of minutes, just like the last kid who wants five minutes more in the playground. Suddenly, his head rose free of the water, he looked about him and realised they’d all gone. Wow! What a spurt of speed. He ran for all he was worth to join the tail end of the group, and you could sense the deep sighs and rolling of eyes among his family – naughty boy. South Africa has to be the most overwhelming of countries. Being here touches your soul and the wonder of life all around us never ceases, from scorpions that sneak out at night, scuttling around for their next meal, a leopard sprawled over his rock picking the next meal as it grazes below. Today we witnessed something we’d never seen before – despite watching so many wildlife programmes. In a quiet corner of the watering hole a huge rhino prepared his wallowing place. He arranged the mud to the very soppiest mixture then sat, wriggled and finally flopped until the mud was halfway up his body. Mmmmm… It obviously felt good. Then he rolled over, first on to his side and then on to his back, with all four feet in the air. Now that’s a happy rhino. Sadly, just 48 hours earlier a rhino was killed on the reserve. The poachers were chased and will hopefully be prosecuted. On this reserve in South Africa, every rhino is in the process of being microchipped in the body and in the horn. It’s ridiculous that these animals are killed for their horn as they have no proven medicinal properties, yet the belief it can cure causes so much senseless slaughter. The rangers are at war with the poachers and genuinely risk their lives to protect the many animals facing extinction. Our ranger informed us that a new law has been announced in Botswana, which borders the reserve, and any person seen where they shouldn’t be will be shot. No questions asked. A ban may be put on selling ivory, yet antique dealers across the world are trying to work out a way around the law to continue making a profit out of this horrific and brutal carnage. So as long as ivory can be sold, elephants will be killed as new ivory can be made to look old. Buy it and the blood of a once-majestic elephant is on your hands. I pray our grandchildren won’t hear tales of rhinos and elephants in the wild and think of them as fairy stories, that a zero tolerance response to poaching spreads worldwide and, most of all, that the rhino spends many more years happily rolling in mud. Oh, and a certain naughty teenager will one day watch his grandchildren chase birds along the shore. www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/793781/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-South-African-safari
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Post by RedMoon11 on May 6, 2017 6:11:12 GMT
Mindy Hammond on New home for the chickens and ducks
A NEW home sweet home should keep the chickens and ducks safe, so why was our columnist getting into a flap?
By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, 30 April 2017  A new home sweet home should keep the chickens and ducks safe HELLARD Because of Defra regulations, our poor hens and ducks have been incredibly long-suffering during the past months. They’re used to living a very free-range life, scratching about to eat scattered corn, a bit of grass here, a worm or insect there, with no limit to the number of dust baths the chickens took or turns in the plunge pool for the ducks. So their sudden reduction to solitary confinement was quite a blow. It was softened, however, with Charlie’s wonderful shed conversion. It was once a structure without a single right angle or solid side, then Charlie painstakingly took it apart and reassembled it with new and amazing additions – a nesting box all along one side, exit and entrance doors with sliding pop holes and custom-built ladders, and not only a choice of roosting perches inside but also a hanging chain on which to fix their enormous indoor feeder. This kept their meals at beak level and was therefore far less likely to become mixed with the chopped straw and wood shavings that make up their bedding. It was therefore renamed Cluckingham Palace. Even though all the chickens had their runs and the ducks had theirs, it really wasn’t ideal. And after studying the current guidelines set out by Defra, we realised we could make their lives far more enjoyable and allow them to be freer, so we did. They all loved seeing each other again and seemingly catching up on the gossip – with one of the lady Muscovies proudly showing her friends the two eggs she’d laid. Somehow, a really persistent crow had managed to get into Eyebrow’s run (to this day we’ve no idea of his method – tunnelling with accomplices of other species hasn’t been ruled out). Nobody saw him go in, nobody witnessed what happened, but at bedtime Eyebrow was marching with pride up and down his run, and there, face down in the murky depths – four inches – of his paddling pool was a very large, very drowned crow. So a crow had annoyed Eyebrow, Nobby reported fiendish damage to his house, but there was more. Evil had infiltrated the woods leaving a further sadness to be faced, suffered by the most innocent and unsuspecting of victims. Betty and June, the little chubby cheek chickens whose smiling faces never failed to cheer, were taken from their beds in the night. The culprit broke through their door and in the morning the little souls were gone. To add insult to injury, not only was there a clueless murder scene, there was an additional victim – perhaps he had tried to fend off the intruder, brave little soul that he was… We will never know. But Betty and June’s little friend the robin lost his life along with them, and his little body was left on the floor of the run. In the traditional Chicken Woods spirit, we manfully struggle on. After all, when danger threatens and we find ourselves under attack, we don’t give in, give up or hide – we bare our teeth, stand our ground and fight. Except on the first evening of their new-found freedom, some of the older chickens weren’t keen to return to the wonderful high-rise and supercool house that Charlie had built. The little brown hens happily clucked their way in, but would the rest follow? Not a chance. Instead they decided to return to their old home, the oldest grey hens leading the way, and after all five ladies had entered, the cockerel followed and looked at me as if to say, “Shut the door, then – we’re all here.” What could I do? They were in their old house and the brown hens were in the new one. Everybody happy, everybody safely shut in. I even put another piece of chicken wire across the door to the hens’ old house for extra security, even though it had never been broken into since the day it arrived. The following morning, every single hen had gone from the old house, and not a feather to be seen anywhere. There’s only one explanation – the local vixen is feeding her cubs. She has studied hard, laboured long and finally won her prize. Very occasionally we have a year when we outwit her but mostly, when her babies need feeding she’ll find a way. May your cubs grow and prosper, Mrs Fox. But perhaps next year you might try them on a vegetarian option… www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/796923/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-home-chickens
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Post by RedMoon11 on May 25, 2017 6:59:42 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on May 25, 2017 7:10:53 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on May 25, 2017 7:13:44 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Jun 11, 2017 7:40:09 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Jun 11, 2017 10:02:17 GMT
The struggle of cleaning out the playroomIT'S time for our columnist to clear out the playroom, but how will she persuade her daughters to say goodbye to their toys?By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Tuesday 6 June 2017  Mindy has a bit of a struggle while redecorating the playroomIt all started with redecorating the girls’ bathroom. Years ago it had been replastered and the decorator had been too hasty in painting before it was completely dry. Result: flaking paint. This was exacerbated by two teenagers taking daily showers with the extractor fan off. As it was only a small bathroom, I attacked and finished it in just a few days (admittedly working until very late at night), and by the time Richard returned from his first filming trip it was all finished. The problem is, once you decorate one room you start to look far too critically at all the others, and my next victim was the downstairs loo and cloakroom. But before I’d even dipped a brush in paint, I realised there was a problem: the 20 well-spaced coat hooks were bulging with layers of coats, jackets, scarves and hats; the shoe rack was piled high and very little wall was even visible. I groaned. There was nothing else for it – a sort-out was the only way forward. With summer temperatures on the horizon, it made perfect sense to remove all the winter clobber. But then where do you store 10 caps, several woolly hats, a dozen assorted scarves and a four-foot-high pile of winter coats? Then I remembered: once upon a time, the playroom was a bedroom, complete with large wardrobe for the unseasonable coat mountain. The playroom had become a lonely place where cats slept on beanbags and discarded cuddly toys stared hopefully at the door. The TV had been moved to the guest bedroom, the Wii controls lay gathering dust next to the PlayStation and opposite was a sofa crammed with teddies mourning the loss of their little girls and the games they once played. Willow’s horse models still littered the floor in their carefully constructed paddocks. The wooden barn she made was still there, too, neatly housing all the little saddles and bridles on miniature racks and hooks (although the riders lay on their sides, legs permanently akimbo with no horse beneath them). It was one of those bittersweet moments – every corner of the room brought back wonderful memories, yet I had to digest the undeniable reality. The girls have moved on and so must the room. I discussed the idea with them and they agreed to turn it back into a bedroom for when their friends stay. The next day I began sorting through everything and they were invited to inspect every pile of potential charity donations to check they were happy. Finally, with new bedroom furniture days from arriving, I took a deep breath and broached the most sensitive of subjects with Izzy. “Iz, you know all the cuddly toys in the playroom? Could you sort through them and let me know which ones I can give to charity?” Her eyes nearly popped out of her head in disbelief. “What? No. None of them.” I pointed out that there must be more than a thousand in there and I’d need a dozen plastic crates to store them all. But she was emphatic: “No, no, no. You’re not putting them in boxes. That’s cruel. They won’t be able to see out!” I smiled. “Iz, the ones in the hammocks can’t possibly all see – there are hundreds of them crammed in there.” “They can. I organised them specially. You’re not shoving them in boxes and putting them in a dark, cold barn with scary bats.” I gently pointed out that there was a life-size tiger and leopard in there. If they stayed in the room, our guests would have nightmares. But she was immovable: “I’m not discussing it.” “OK, well, they’ll just have to move to your room,” I replied. That didn’t go down very well. “I’m 16 years old. I can’t have a bedroom full of teddies! They can stay where they are. If you put them in boxes I’ll never, ever forgive you.” I couldn’t really argue with her. I was devastated when I left home and most of my teddies were thrown away. When I found a precious few hiding in a box in my mum’s loft, I cried with joy and I still have them now. But they were few and Izzy’s are many. The new bedroom furniture will be in by the end of the week, the coats will be hung in the wardrobe, the bedding will be plumped and comfy and it will look wonderful – apart from the thousand or so pairs of eyes watching over every guest! www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/813549/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-playroom-cleaning
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Post by RedMoon11 on Jun 21, 2017 6:05:40 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Jun 21, 2017 6:37:11 GMT
Welcoming wild bees at Hammond TowersAS Hammond Towers buzzes with wildlife, our columnist gives Mother Nature a helping hand by offering a home to some visitors…
By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED:Sunday, 18 June 2017  As Hammond Towers buzzes with wildlife, our columnist gives Mother Nature a helping handIn biblical times, there were rumoured to be plagues of lice, frogs and locusts sweeping across the land, and in past years Hammond Towers has suffered its own infestation of migrating frogs, not to mention stormy skies crammed with nasty nipping gnats. However our latest visitors have surprised everyone. Charlie, our man for all seasons, was in the dingle strimming nettles recently when he phoned me, “I can’t believe it… the wild bees are swarming!” To most of us, the very idea of 1,000 bees going berserk around our head would send us running for shelter. But not Charlie, because one of his more recent pastimes is beekeeping. Better still, a lady in his beekeeping club had all the equipment but no bees. “Would you mind if I collected them?” he asked enthusiastically. I groaned slightly, “Oh Charlie, of course I don’t mind, but make sure Clare’s with you, and for goodness sake be careful.” We’d noticed the bees had set up home in the trunk of a tree a few years ago, and had been delighted at their arrival, particularly when the news reported many species faced extinction. Charlie had warned us they were unlikely to survive the dreaded varroa mites which have been ravaging the bee population, so imagine his delight to see the bees had not only survived, but increased in number. Fortunately, the collection of the swarm went perfectly and he transported about 1,000 of them, with their queen in a cardboard box (yes, really!), to a waiting hive. The grateful lady was overjoyed, and particularly pleased at her smart “Bollitree bees”. What really impressed Charlie was their resilience; beekeepers across the country are fighting against the varroa mite, and to find wild, untreated bees with no symptoms could prove to be an important discovery. Two weeks later, Charlie returned for another round of dingle strimming and to his utter delight found the bee population as healthy as ever, with another colony in the tree! “They’re going in and out through a woodpecker hole, with guard bees all around it – there’s some serious work going on in there,” he reported. How incredible. Despite many of the surrounding fields being coloured bright yellow with oilseed rape crops, the pesticides don’t seem to have caused too many problems to our particular buzzy friends. I did a bit of research in an attempt to uncover the mystery of Bollitree’s bee successes, and think I may have hit upon the solution, and it’s a very simple one. According to research, 97 per cent of the wildflower population has disappeared in the UK since the 1930s. Technology has provided us with more advanced and efficient farming techniques, and the traditional methods which allowed wildflowers to sneak into unreachable areas have been abandoned. Bees naturally rely upon flowers for food, and so it isn’t surprising they disappeared when their larder was destroyed. We may have only a tiny pocket of land, but in our little space thrives a garden which has existed for hundreds of years. In the centre of the land, the dingle is only partially managed, with the second pond allowed to remain wild, and the third, deep ditch left as a mass of undergrowth and brambles which provides a sanctuary for badgers, foxes, rabbits, owls, buzzards and an incredible variety of wild birds. Also the occasional otter, mink and so many wildfowl we have lost count. We also live a stone’s throw from the Forest of Dean which has stood for centuries. I’d like to believe the unspoilt nature of the area has contributed to our bees’ survival. But if anyone should take credit, it’s Charlie. He has single-handedly brought our garden back to its original glory – overflowing with flowers and shrubs; every wall festooned in carefully resurrected old roses whose scent is almost overpowering and irresistible to bees. To encourage them to thrive, we’re going to give our bees an additional home in the dingle and put a man-made hive down there – possibly just in the nick of time. Although much as we welcome them in their place, I was slightly concerned yesterday when I spotted an enormous bee crawling into a crack in the mortar on the side of the house. As I watched, smaller bees began following her in. Fortunately, they’re bumble bees so won’t cause any damage to the house, and while the rest of the world is making life difficult for them, it seems the bees have copied our local badgers and decided that the Bollitree sanctuary for beasties beginning with “B” is their nirvana. A mini plague of bees is very welcome, but if locusts land, I’m off! www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/816493/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-beekeeping
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Post by RedMoon11 on Jun 21, 2017 7:01:57 GMT
Richard Hammond has escaped death twice - that’s two times too many, says wifeSILLY, silly boy... Really, he will have his toys taken off him if he keeps breaking them.By MINDY HAMMOND, EXCLUSIVE PUBLISHED: Sunday, 18 June 2017 None of us in our little family dare consider what the outcome would have been if Richard hadn’t scrambled his way out of that car last weekend. We’re just incredibly grateful he got out and escaped with cuts, bruises and a broken knee. Before they loaded him on to the stretcher he called me, anxious to let me know he’d “had a bit of a shunt” but was OK. James [May] spoke to me moments later and gave me a little more information. Clearly Richard was downplaying what had happened and was, I suspect, in shock having escaped the blazing car seconds before it ignited. James assured me he would go to the hospital with Richard, who told me not to worry, he hadn’t hit his head (obviously my first concern), although he told me, “I’m fine but I might have done my leg.”  Richard shows that his horrific crash hasn’t brought him to his kneesThat was an understatement. I spoke again to James and asked him to remind hospital staff about Richard’s head injury, just in case. Naturally, James had already thought of that, and after a spot of medic bullying by a member of the crew I was allowed to speak to Richard again before he was airlifted away. That was the moment I started to feel peculiar. I was in the centre of Cheltenham with our 16-year-old daughter Izzy, shopping for a party we were going to that night. We put our arms around each other and kept reassuring one another, “He’s OK. Nothing to worry about.” “It’s OK, we’ve spoken to him. He’ll be fine.” But in the back of my mind – and Izzy’s too – were the memories of his last accident. I’m not a panicker, but I almost went to pieces this time. I didn’t rant or get hysterical but my brain needed to keep itself occupied with something – anything – as long as it wasn’t the reality of Richard’s situation. I dragged Izzy into a shop and started buying chocolate for everyone, including myself. I rarely eat the stuff, in fact none of us do. It was ridiculous and as we came back on to the street I said, “What am I doing? Sorry Iz, just humour me.” I smiled at her and gave her a hug, “Oh, but you already are.” We walked to the car with our arms around each other. I kept asking Izzy if she was OK and she was incredibly resilient for about five minutes.  The crash was described by Jeremy Clarkson as ‘the most frightening [and] biggest I’ve ever seen’Proving she is the product of strength over adversity, tears came and went quickly before she turned her attention to manning the phone and texting her sister. Jeremy called, Andy Wilman [the show’s producer] called. There was a flurry of activity and by the time we were driving home a flight was being arranged to get me out to Switzerland. Izzy insisted I go, despite my concern that I would be leaving her before her final GCSE on Monday, as well as our 13-year-old, Willow, who was in the middle of end of year exams. When we drew up outside the house she shot out, ran up the stairs and started packing clothes in a bag for me as I gathered computer, chargers, etc, and liaised with our team of incredible helpers who were poised and ready to step in. She was keeping it all together and just before I jumped into the car bound for the airport I hugged her, the memory of a six-year-old Izzy, looking into my eyes just as she did then and being brave. She refused to crumble in front of me, just as I try never to crumble in front of her. “The minute I’m gone, take yourself inside and have a good cry, Iz,” I said. “Seriously. Let it out. He’ll be OK. You know he’ll be OK.” “I’m fine. Go... You’ll miss the plane,” she replied. A hundred yards down the lane Richard called. “Stay with the girls,” he said. “ There’s no point you flying out here; they can strap me up and fly me home tomorrow.” I turned around and found a red-eyed but relieved Izzy waiting for me. She held the fort while I set off to collect Willow from school. We’d kept in touch with her and made sure she knew Daddy was fine. Fortunately, her memories of the crash 10 years ago aren’t nearly as vivid; she processes information and files it away, gratefully accepting the shield of protection offered to her without question. We told her Daddy would be fine, so he will be. She isn’t interested in the details, she trusts us to be honest. Naturally, the plan quickly changed. After consulting various medical experts we realised that Richard flying before the operation wasn’t the best idea.  Time was of the essence and the Swiss are rather expert at orthopaedic surgery (skiing accidents having provided a busy training ground). The operation to reassemble Richard’s knee was performed the following day and 24 hours later I was relieved to find him bruised and battered, but smiling, in a Swiss hospital. Today, we’re working on flying him home and beginning months of rehabilitation. He’s had a very uncomfortable few days and the bruises are really starting to bloom. He'll be a terrible patient when he gets home and will drive me nuts (I’m terrified whenever he attempts to walk with his crutches) but honestly, I can’t wait to see him hug his dog and sit in the garden shouting for his glasses, laptop, phone or a cup of tea! The girls have borne it well; we will go forward with a sense of humour and positivity; with enormous gratitude to that busy guardian angel who stepped in once more. Most of us are fortunate to escape looking death in the face. Richard has done it twice – and that’s two times too many. Although honestly, the lengths some people will go to just to get out of walking the dogs. www.express.co.uk/life-style/life/818364/Richard-Hammond-car-crash-The-Grand-Tour-hospital-UK
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Post by RedMoon11 on Sept 12, 2017 10:54:00 GMT
The arrival of a new feathered friend in Chicken WoodsRICHARD gets into a flap when our columnist arrives home with a new feathered friend who’s large, white and popular at Christmas... By MINDY HAMMOND Sunday, 25 June 2017  After our constant battle with crows and foxes, insult was added to injury when a Harrier hawk snatched one of our ex-battery hens. So I finally took the plunge and, with my friend Chloe at my side, announced, “We’re off to get emus.” We pulled up outside the vendor’s to witness a just-bought, 14-week-old emu being loaded into a 4x4. It was quite big and wasn’t best pleased. As we watched the annoyed little monster scratching the vendor’s arms with his talons during loading and then the loaded box jumping around in the luggage area of the car, we exchanged worried looks. “Ooh, I’m not sure I fancy the idea of an angry mini velociraptor with nothing but a bit of cardboard between it and the back of my neck,” I told Chloe, who chose this moment to admit to her slight fear of emus after being chased by one at a petting zoo. Gulp! Still, we were on a mission. We wandered past various pens and aviaries with everything from kookaburras to call ducks, until we arrived at a paddock with 8ft-high, solid-cage fencing. We hesitated before joining Chris and five enormous adult emus – three girls and a boy. “They should be OK,” he said. “Just watch the big fella – if he starts spreading his wings, get behind me. And they like shiny things – they’ve smashed a few of my watches.” Chloe and I exchanged fearful glances. She was wearing her black leather jacket – with nice shiny zips and buttons on it… After surviving our emu encounter, we visited the rheas, which are smaller, nervous versions of their flightless cousins. They seemed far more elegant, plus they don’t possess the strength and aggression of the emus which, if they get really annoyed, have a nasty habit of eviscerating their opponents. Chloe and I agreed we preferred the rheas, and were discussing their housing requirements with Chris on our way back to the entrance area when we passed the turkeys. As we stopped to say hello, an enormous white female limped over and began chirping sweetly at us and fluttering her huge blue eyes. “She’s lovely. What’s wrong with her leg?” Chris explained they’d rescued her from a sale, then realised she was grossly overweight and had a limp. They’d hoped to use her for breeding, but she was so obese that when the male turkey tried to get amorous, she collapsed. She was due to go for sale, the outcome likely to involve gravy. “Can I have her?” “Yeah, if you want her.” I was delighted – she was gorgeous. I decided to collect a couple of rhea youngsters on our return from holiday and hand-rear them, but in the meantime we would take our turkey who we decided to name Princess. Chris explained the safest way to transport her was in a feed sack with a hole in the corner for her head and her legs wrapped behind her. That way she wouldn’t thrash about on the journey. As we’d left the house intending to get emus, we agreed there was only one conversation to be had with Richard and as I was driving, Chloe made the call on loudspeaker. “Hi, can you meet us on the drive in five minutes? You’re going to have to unload the emu – it’s really heavy.” (Obviously all this happened before Richard’s accident...) Richard sighed, “You haven’t bought an emu.” I joined in, “Just be there, please – we won’t be able to lift her.” Richard and Izzy were waiting as we drew up. “Quickly – we need to get her out.” Richard sauntered over and said, “Mindy, I know there’s nothing in there.” Then he saw the enormous bird. “You really did get one.” He carefully lifted her out and carried her to her new area while I ran ahead to prepare her house. On the way he asked Chloe, “So are they born white and change colour later?” I don’t know how she kept a straight face. We unwrapped our new addition and it took a few moments before Richard sussed. “It’s a flipping turkey! You’ve bought a turkey.” I can’t remember when I’ve laughed so much. Princess, who will for ever be known as our white emu, has settled in extremely well and is the friendliest feathered friend we’ve ever had. She flirts with Nobby the Muscovy drake constantly, much to his confusion, and the white hens treat her as their new big friend, but the most marvellous and miraculous thing about Princess? Since her arrival, not a single crow has landed in Chicken Woods. www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/819483/Mindy-Hammond-column-Top-Gear-Richard-Hammond-country-life
An invasion of bunnies at Hammond TowersAN invasion of young bunnies has caught our columnist on the hop and not even scaredy cat Satchel can shoo them away... PUBLISHED: Sunday, 2 July 2017  www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/821841/Top-Gear-star-Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-column-bunny-invasion
Richard Hammond's wife Mindy reveals the extent of his injuries after horror crashAS the Hammonds rally round injured Richard after his car crash, the girls make a splash with watery antics in the paddling pool. By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 9, 2017  We may have waited many years, but few of us can deny we are finally being justly rewarded with a truly glorious summer, and I for one am now keeping my fingers crossed for sunny days all the way through to September. (It can rain while we’re all asleep in our beds, just to avoid a drought.) In June this year we managed to beat the temperatures of 76, when I remember being so delighted at the first raindrops in weeks, I joined our neighbours to dance in the street as the pavement steamed. Ooh, it was grand. Unfortunately, it was also long before the strict and sensible advice on sun protection, so the UK’s overcrowded beaches were bursting at the seams with lobster-coloured people. I was 11 years old and spent most of that summer wondering when the peeling would stop, even though I continued basking in the sun by the local stream, like a ginger-topped, scorched matchstick, until teatime caused a growling in my stomach. I never came home empty handed, and my long-suffering mother spent many weeks washing up under the glare of several sticklebacks, elvers and water boatmen in jam jars, all lined up on the windowsill in front of the kitchen sink. I was often told to put them back, which was the best-ever excuse to stomp back across the fields the following day to spend hours on the rope swing across the water and eat blackberries from the bushes for lunch. The only way I could be persuaded to stay at home was by re-patching and refilling the paddling pool. It had bits of puncture-repair kit holding it together and was absolutely the best thing in the world as far as I was concerned. So when I collected Izzy from the train station the other day and she suggested we buy a paddling pool on the way home, I couldn’t say no. But with a sudden rise in temperature, most shops had sold out of the bigger pools, so we bought one designed for toddlers before visiting our local DIY shop as a last resort. Fortunately, they had just received new stock and we managed to bring home another, 5ft in diameter and deep enough for any teenager to enjoy a paddle. After almost expiring during the inflation of the pair, we all waited for them to fill. Then two girls, who you could argue are far too old to be playing in a paddling pool, began messing about in the water, just slightly disappointed that they couldn’t resurrect the water slide which had been in the barn far too long and was riddled with mouse-nibble holes and spiders. The more intelligent of our dogs watched on from their favourite shady spots in the garden, while Dimple Chicken raced to the pool and leapt straight in. Terriers are supposed to hate water, yet there she was having the time of her life. She became so obsessed, she ultimately decided the big pool was too crowded and took possession of the smaller one, spending all day leaping in and out of the water, or sometimes just wallowing for a few minutes like a shrunken, shaggy, bedraggled little white hippo enjoying her cooling-down time. It was all great entertainment for poor Richard, whose lack of mobility can be so frustrating. Setting him up with everything to hand wherever he goes has been fine-tuned, but it’s almost impossible to think hours ahead and has made us all consider the plight of all those for whom disability isn’t a temporary situation. So many menial little chores, even the simplest of things like getting dressed or having a shower, were impossible for him at first. Supporting himself on crutches meant he had no spare hand. He couldn’t do anything more than sit down and be waited on, and the utter reliance on everyone around him proved very frustrating. Yet whenever we meet those who have suffered serious injuries or have been born with a disability, their positivity and determination to live life to the full never ceases to amaze us. Bravery comes in many guises and my admiration for the 1.2 million wheelchair users in the UK has never been greater. Let’s hope for the longest, sunniest summer to brighten all our days. www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/825453/Richard-Hammond-injury-Mindy-Hammond-column
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Post by RedMoon11 on Sept 12, 2017 11:15:18 GMT
'Richard has to join the queue and wait his turn for a lift,' says MINDY HAMMONDWITH Richard on crutches, our columnist has the added job of a carer, but a holiday to France is sure to make life easier – isn’t it?By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, 16 July 2017  With Richard on crutches, our columnist has the added job of a carer, but a holiday to France is sure to make life easier – isn’t it? Illustration by Susan Hellard Many of us joke about having senior moments and who hasn’t walked into a room then immediately forgot why they went in there in the first place? But you know things are getting serious when the Marmite is in the fridge, cutlery is being thrown into the bin along with potato peelings and you tipped gravy granules into the coffee jar I regularly return from the supermarket to discover I’ve forgotten that one, really important item (quite often loo roll) and bought yet another four pack of baked beans, even though I could create an artwork piece for the Tate gallery from the number already stacked in the cupboard. I’m bashing into doorframes, tripping over everything (even Dimple) and managed to go to entirely the wrong level in a car park several times over the past weeks, looking for my car. What’s going on? Well, when the sleep app on my phone (which I use as an alarm clock) recorded the number of hours spent in bed over the past few nights as “a nap” – being too short to be recognised as proper sleep – the answer became abundantly clear. I think I might be a little bit tired. In my mind, I don’t deserve to be, I shouldn’t be. Yes, Richard is on crutches and needs constant assistance, we have two teenage daughters, a lot of animals and I have a job to do alongside writing my column. But there are so many women in the world who cope with a great deal more, in truly dreadful conditions, who manage to storm through life, while I have to admit defeat by 10pm, worn out and dragging my weary carcass up the stairs eager to fall into bed. I can’t help but think about the many thousands of full-time carers whose lives are for ever compromised by their generosity in helping others. This is only my second round of enforced carer duties and, although it’s very different to the first time, the difficulties in juggling everyday tasks to fit around a loved one whose incapacity causes them to be bedridden at times are multiple. When we have babies to care for they are fed, burped and go down for a nap. A grown man can be fed (hopefully he’ll conceal his burp) and you can encourage him to have a nap, but more often than not he’ll grow bored, frustrated and before you know it simply demanding and ill-tempered. I’ve threatened locking Richard in his room with a bowl of tomato soup and a box of Lego. I’ve even told him he’ll be denied painkillers if he doesn’t behave, but although he drives me nuts at times, I can’t help but feel sorry for him. Richard rarely watches TV; he goes for a run. Except he can’t, for about a year. He loves to walk the dogs across the countryside; he won’t be doing that until the winter, and even then he won’t be allowed to go over the hills. His collection of motorbikes sit idle in the barn while every biker in the country is tearing around the lanes, but if he wants to go anywhere, he has to join the queue with Izzy and Willow and wait his turn for a lift. At least the summer holidays are around the corner, although juggling teenage social diaries to fit in with everyday life means Mum’s taxi is rarely out of service and the days feel longer than ever. And why do teenage girls need to change their clothes four times a day? The washing mountain never seems to get smaller. But wait – there is a light dimly visible on the horizon. Next Friday we go to France for two weeks and all my chores at home will be covered by Clare and Charlie. The only washing to be done will be bikinis, shorts and T-shirts, which will dry in half an hour and never see the flat of the iron. I won’t cook, I won’t drive and I certainly won’t be mucking out. I may build my upper arm muscles though – 10 months ago I booked our accommodation, never imagining there would be an issue with accessibility. It’s on a hill. There’s no way Richard will be able to manage the “short” walk to and from the local town so we’ll probably be taking a wheelchair and guess who’ll be pushing it? Unless I can ask around and see if they have a willing donkey who would carry him for carrots. None of us are ever completely prepared for life’s ups and downs, but when life throws us lemons it’s best to make lemonade – even if it ends up full of pips and tasting vaguely of paint stripper. www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/828060/Richard-Hammond-accident-The-Grand-Tour-Mindy-Hammond-family-holiday
When an old pony is down that definitely overwrites plans, says MINDY HAMMONDWHEN our columnist and her cool Mustang were needed to chauffeur nephew Tom to the school prom, nothing could go wrong... By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, July 23, 2017  www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/832067/Mindy-Hammond-column-Mustang-horse-pony-sickness
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Post by RedMoon11 on Sept 12, 2017 11:30:41 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Sept 12, 2017 11:52:02 GMT
The time is whizzing by at a rate of knots, says MINDY HAMMONDLAUNDRY mountains, mistrals and missing bikini tops, will it all come out in the wash for our frazzled columnist? By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Monday, 28 August 2017  www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/846700/Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-house-chores-holidays
It’s not easy being a teenager, says MINDY HAMMONDWITH Izzy braving braces to get her teeth straightened out, our columnist’s daughter might need some puppy love to get through... By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Tuesday, August 29, 2017  www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/847088/Richard-Hammond-wife-Mindy-Hammond-teenage-years-puppy-love
There’s nothing more wonderful than the day of release, says MINDY HAMMONDWITH such a topsy-turvy summer confusing birds’ nesting habits, our columnist was in a flap to rescue a baby thrush. By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED: Sunday, 3 September 2017  www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/848134/Richard-Hammond-Mindy-Hammond-harvest-problems-catching-birds
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Post by RedMoon11 on Sept 12, 2017 11:58:22 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Sept 23, 2017 17:13:00 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Oct 10, 2017 7:48:01 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Oct 10, 2017 7:52:24 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Oct 10, 2017 7:56:24 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Nov 6, 2017 5:21:21 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Nov 6, 2017 5:25:46 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Nov 6, 2017 5:39:31 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Nov 6, 2017 5:43:37 GMT
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Post by dit on Mar 3, 2018 1:45:09 GMT
Can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but you know the Amazon advert on TV that has the lady who gets a little pony that's rejected by her horses so she buys it a pony flap so it can come in the house? Always reminds me of Mindy.
(If I've posted this before, do forgive me, it's late!)
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Post by RedMoon11 on Mar 21, 2018 16:57:21 GMT
Can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but you know the Amazon advert on TV that has the lady who gets a little pony that's rejected by her horses so she buys it a pony flap so it can come in the house? Always reminds me of Mindy. (If I've posted this before, do forgive me, it's late!) I haven't seen it in awhile, did a search & found 3 versions of it  Amazon Prime 'Little Horse' Christmas edition - Little Donkey
Amazon Prime Little Horse TV ad - The Knitted Version
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Post by RedMoon11 on Mar 21, 2018 17:39:29 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Mar 21, 2018 17:59:49 GMT
Reunited: Columnist Mindy Hammond opens up on meeting her birth motherBy NICOLE CARMICHAEL PUBLISHED: Sunday, 11 March 2018  Mindy was finally able to learn about her birth from her biological mother Pat Each week S Magazine columnist Mindy Hammond regales us with colourful tales of her family and their menagerie of eight horses, four dogs, five cats, a rabbit, a donkey, a peacock, two goats, a flock of sheep, ducks and chickens – and not forgetting Princess the turkey. Mindy lives in Herefordshire with her husband, TV presenter, journalist and ex-Top Gear and now The Grand Tour co-host Richard Hammond, and their daughters, Izzy, 17, and 14-year-old Willow. Life, it seems, is never dull for the Hammonds, but Mindy, who has been our columnist since 2008, has faced some tough challenges in her life – not least the two occasions she came close to losing her husband in car crashes. And last year, three decades after their initial reunion, Mindy spent her first Christmas with her mother, Pat, who had, with great reluctance, given her daughter up for adoption at birth. Now, in our exclusive Mother’s Day interview and photoshoot at Lucknam Park Hotel & Spa, near Bath, we chat to Mindy and Pat about how it feels to be reunited and the strength of their relationship after so many years apart.  We join treasured S Mag columnist Mindy as she journey's into a new aspect of her life“I grew up in Gloucestershire and I always knew that I’d been adopted,” says Mindy. “I had a loving relationship with my adoptive mum but it was quite complicated and I know that she found it difficult at times. I’m not knocking adoption at all, because I know that it can work fantastically, and I was very lucky because I had a great upbringing. But until I met my birth mother I didn’t have that mother and daughter – nature over nurture – connection. “I was in my twenties and living in London, so I went to the register office in Cheltenham, where I was born. I got a copy of my original birth certificate and wrote to the address, a farm in Avon, not really thinking she’d be there. But although she had moved years before, a neighbour had Mum’s address and she got in touch with her.” Pat picks up the story, “One day, completely out of the blue, I got a phone call from my old neighbour saying she had a letter for me. She invited me round for coffee and fetched me a brandy – saying I might need it. Well, when I read the letter, I was absolutely overjoyed. All my prayers had been answered – that one day she would find me and get in touch. “When I’d had to give Alana [the name Mindy was given at birth] for adoption, I went against my mother, who just wanted me to forget about her. But I was adamant that anyone who I had a serious relationship with would know that I had a daughter who, hopefully, one day would find me. My first husband knew all about her and as soon as my other daughters, Marianne, Sara and Nicky, were old enough to understand, they knew they had a sister who was waiting to meet them one day. “But although I’d always been open and honest with my family about her, at that stage I just hugged the letter to my chest and didn’t want to share it with anyone for a few days.Then we set a date to meet in Covent Garden. In my innocence, I thought it would be quite quiet in March, but it was really warm and absolutely rammed with street performers and tourists.” Mindy says, “I was uncharacteristically early so I was just wandering through Covent Garden piazza, killing time, when I heard this voice behind me call ‘Alana’. I just stopped dead in my tracks. It was as if everything went into slow motion. I turned, saw her and we just ran towards each other.” Pat adds, “It was like a parting of the waves. Everyone seemed to move out of the way and we just hugged and hugged and hugged. We clung together and didn’t want to let each other go.” “I don’t know where the time went but we just talked and talked,” continues Mindy. “It was like a light switch had been turned on – this was the connection I hadn’t had for all those years. We’re so alike, not just physically, but we say the same things and we have the same mannerisms and the same likes and dislikes. I’d never had that before and it blows your mind, really.”  Pat always hoped that her daughter would find her again, now she hasMindy and her mother had a lot of catching up to do and over several cups of tea Pat was able to tell her long-lost daughter about her birth and why she’d had to give her up for adoption. “It was very hard but I didn’t have a choice, as I was just 19 when Alana was born,” Pat explains. “The father was off the scene before I even knew I was pregnant and when I asked his family for help and support I just got a door slammed in my face. So there was never any question about keeping the baby. I think if it had been left to my father he may have supported me more, but my mother was a very strict Irishwoman, so I was sent off to a mother and baby home in Cheltenham. “People talk about how harsh mother and baby homes were, but unless you were in one you couldn’t imagine what they were like. This was a Church of England home and the regime was very hard. You were there for about three months altogether – six to eight weeks before the baby was born and six weeks after – and you did everything for that baby. “Giving her up for adoption was like cutting myself open and tearing out a piece of my heart. It’s something you can never, ever get over and I vividly remember the day we had to say goodbye. I bathed her as usual in the morning and got her into her best clothes and made sure everything was clean and tidy for her new parents. Then I just held her and held her and said, ‘I’ll always love you.’ “I was meant to have left the mother and baby home but my dad had been late to fetch me, so I was still there when the new parents arrived,” adds Pat. 
Baby Mindy with Pat's mother“I was absolutely distraught and my dad was saying, ‘She can’t do this.’ But it had all been organised and I just had no other options. It was totally heartbreaking. The one thing I did stipulate was that my baby girl should always have pets. In theory we weren’t allowed to make any demands but it was the one thing that made me feel better about the situation. “So much of that time is just a blank for me. I’ve heard that the body just shuts down and won’t allow you to dwell on heartbreaking times – as if it’s protecting itself. I spent the next six months in a kind of fog as I tried to rebuild my life without her.” Being reunited in Covent Garden was a dream come true for both Mindy and Pat but in their hearts they knew they needed to put their relationship on hold again. At the time Pat was going through a divorce and Mindy’s adoptive parents were still alive, so out of respect to other family members they didn’t carry on the relationship. “I was so thrilled to meet Mindy,” says Pat. “But it would have upset the balance for so many people at the time.” So it was only a couple of years after her adoptive mother had passed away that Mindy decided the time had come to get back in touch.  Family duties meant that at first Mindy and Pat had to put their relationship on hold“I’ll never forget the letter,” says Pat. “It had a lovely foxhound on the front and when I saw it was from Alana I just wept. The funny thing was my husband, Keith, just assumed it was from Marianne, as the writing was almost identical. When Mindy told me the news about her mum I knew that we could pick up where we left off.” At that stage Mindy hadn’t told Pat that she was married to a well-known TV presenter. “I said, ‘Mum, I probably need to tell you something,’” she says. And Pat continues, “Obviously, I loved Top Gear but if anything, knowing Mindy was married to Richard Hammond made things feel a bit awkward for me. If it had just been Joe Bloggs, the local farmer, it would have been easier. As it was, I hated the idea that she might think I would be different with her in any way.” Mindy adds, “It’s a weird situation. The people who have known us forever understand what we are like. And as Richard’s fame has grown they just know how to deal with it. But when a celebrity suddenly drops into your family it’s quite a big deal and can take a bit of adjustment. I had to say, ‘When we’re together I’m afraid you can’t put things on social media afterwards – and don’t feel awkward if he gets recognised when we’re out.’” Nevertheless, when Mindy finally met her sisters, Marianne, Sara and Nicky and their partners and children, there was an instant connection – and no awkward feelings. “We went to the Cotswold Wildlife Park,” recalls Pat, “and it was just hilarious. It was incredible, as the children just clicked and we had a whale of a time. As I remember, we all ended up chucking each other in the fountain. I think we were eventually thrown out.” “We’re all a bit naughty,” Mindy confesses. “We all love horses and dogs – oh, and prosecco and champagne.” As we talk about both the deeply sad and the more recent fabulously happy times, it’s clear that although apart for many years, Mindy and Pat are now making up for lost time and are devoted to each other. Whether they’re sharing pictures of Dilly, the dog Mindy gave Pat for her birthday, after much secret collaboration with her sisters, or talking about other members of the family, there is clearly a wonderful chemistry between them.  Mindy immediately struck a connection with her new found sistersSo what are their plans for Mother’s Day? “Oh, gosh, we should organise something shouldn’t we?” Mindy says. “Yes, we better start planning,” Pat agrees, and the two of them chat about the various events coming up – Pat’s silver wedding celebrations, a holiday for Mindy and the girls and an upcoming family wedding. “Sorry about this,” says Mindy, “but when we catch up…” “… we can’t stop,” Pat finishes. www.express.co.uk/life-style/life/928851/mindy-hammond-columnist-adopted-birth-mother-richard-hammond
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Post by RedMoon11 on Apr 28, 2018 23:40:18 GMT
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Post by RedMoon11 on Apr 28, 2018 23:57:56 GMT
Cats are more than just pets – they are treasured family members, says MINDY HAMMOND
TWENTY-TWO years is a grand age in the feline world and that’s how long we were fortunate to share our lives with our dear ginger tom, Rucksack. By MINDY HAMMOND PUBLISHED:Tuesday, 17 April 2018  Rucksack the cat was a treasured companion, an none of the Hammond family was ready to see him goVery sadly he closed his eyes for the last time last week, taking a piece of our hearts with him. Not long after Richard and I started seeing each other, I took him to visit a litter of kittens. It was near his birthday and he’d been talking about getting a cat, having cat-sat for a few months. We visited a house in Buckinghamshire and fell in love with two kittens: a ginger boy with white paws and a white bib, and a spotted grey tortoiseshell girl. The two seemed inseparable, so we decided to take both. The two little bundles of fur were so tiny, they could sit in the palm of Richard’s hand, and on the way home for some reason we named the ginger one Rucksack and his sister Broccoli. They were very different characters. Broccoli was very adventurous and a little bit spiky, whereas Rucksack was happier staying indoors and being cuddled, and both adored my collie Friday, who mothered them both. As they grew, life changed for all of us. We moved to Cheltenham, mourned the loss of Friday shortly afterwards and found ourselves living in a modern apartment with a baby on the way. Rucksack rarely ventured outdoors, happiest being a house cat and spending the evenings cuddling my bump, but one particularly warm summer’s day he decided to explore... Later that night, we worried when his sister came home with no sign of her ginger sidekick. We called and called, but he didn’t appear and as dusk fell, Richard set off to search the streets. An hour later, he walked through the front door with the enormous (and quite heavy) Rucksack clinging to his shoulder, his head buried in Richard’s neck. He had somehow climbed to the highest scaffolding in a building being converted into flats and was about 60 feet from the ground and so terrified, his fur was sticky with perspiration. The moment he heard Richard’s voice, he’d started miaowing, and didn’t stop talking to us for hours until his calls became a croak in his throat. It was both the beginning and the end of Rucksack’s great adventures. Instead he devoted his life to our new baby Izzy, whose heartbeat he knew so very well. Never once did he attempt to join her in her crib but the moment she was being held, he would rub his head fondly against her and purr loudly whenever a chubby little hand grasped his fur. Despite all the warnings about cats and babies, even Broccoli became the sweetest, most caring of felines. And by the time we moved to the country and Willow was born, the two cats shared nanny duties with three dogs: Captain, Crusoe and Pablo. The day Izzy had her own little bed, Rucksack took up his nightly “teddy bear duties”, and although he would go hunting occasionally, it was only to deliver live, unharmed presents – baby rabbits, voles, shrews and mice would be carried through the kitchen window, accompanied by a garbled miaow. He’d place them on the floor and smile, never once attempting to chase or recapture whatever he brought in, but begin washing himself while I dashed about after all shapes and sizes of new “pets”. Rucksack lived in eight different homes with us, trained seven cats and 10 dogs, could play “fetch” with a bottle top, climb a ladder and was the most vocal cat I’ve ever known. He spent his entire life loving his people, shared the girls’ beds every night from the day they were out of their cots and in true Rucksack style, even in his last hours, gave each of the girls a farewell miaow. He lies in the garden now, his grave in one of the sunny spots he used to love, looking across at the stables where he’d sunbathe on the mounting block, watching over the girls when they rode their ponies. He was there from the beginning of my relationship with Richard and the girls have never known life without him. Even though he lived to an incredible age, we weren’t ready to say goodbye, but he couldn’t fight any longer. Rucksack wasn’t simply a cat – he was a legend. We were blessed he shared his love with us. Sleep peacefully, beautiful boy. Your people will always love you. www.express.co.uk/comment/columnists/mindy-hammond/947139/family-pet-death-mourning-mindy-hammond-richard-hammond Richard & Rucksack Hammond and a Hyundai Coupe SIII in 2007
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