Tales from the Flatland

Dear Chroniclers,

it's worth it just to see young Teenygoth's jaw hit the ground,

"I do so love your scrag-end, my dearest!"

Mrs electrofried gazes longingly at me across the dining-table,

"You do say the sweetest things, darling!"

Teenygoth makes a rude gesture indicating the imminent disgorge of the scant contents of her stomach-lining then leaves us to it. Oh for the snatched joys of a short break in the countryside! And as for mrs electrofried's scrag-end - all will be revealed in the fullness of time.

Thatched and Dangerous

Today's pasting finds us deep in the heart of Norfolk during the half-term holiday. We occupy a thatched-cottage abutting a dreamy field of "set-aside". Behind us lie the grounds, a veritable pot-pouri of late autumnal decay in all its many-splendoured hues and glory.

Mrs electrofried and I do so love Autumn, a season of fruitfulness and fleeting golden light. But our beautiful cottage retreat conceals hidden dangers, as I discovered to my cost earlier this week.

Indiana Jones and the Walk of Death

Do you remember those scenes from "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom" when the gritty, ill-shaven hero encounters a series of traps and snares on the way to fulfillment?

Picture then your intrepid Chronicler as he awakes from sleep on the first night of our stay in the cottage. Nature calls and I stumble from bed, taking care not to disturb the recumbent form of my dearest as she dreams of dew quilted, fairy-tale gardens.

All is starless and bible-black outside, so I advance braille-like toward the corridor that leads to the bathroom. I pass across the first trap - two floor-boards that conceal a long drop to the cellar below. Following a recent rewiring of the cottage they are secured by just four slender screws ... and when I hear them creak beneath my increasingly corporeal form I start to panic!

I press on as quickly as I can, only to encounter the second snare, a delicate filigree rug that slides beneath my feet propelling me inexorably along the polished wooden floor toward the third, and penultimate, trap. It is no more than a small escarpment in the corridor, a step down of but an inch or so to accommodate the sloping floors of this ancient cottage. And I stub the toe of my recently broken foot to the sound of an expletive that will require both repentance and a carefully worded apology to young Teenygoth.

My travails are not yet at an end. Clutching a bruised and throbbing toe I stumble forward until my head meets with the sill of a bathroom door designed for those of an earlier generation who would now be viewed as vertically challenged by any reasonable modern-day standard. Ouch and double ouch!

So with throbbing toe and aching head I reach my destination. It hardly seems worth the effort and I resolve to master better bladder-control come the morn.

In the Naughty Corner

I shouldn't complain - the bruises will heal eventually and we're enjoying a splendid time here in the Flatlands. The highlight to date has been a visit to the school where our eldest daughter, Maximouse, has recently taken up her first teaching post.

Being half-term the school was deserted, so we had the opportunity to see her classroom. Unsurprisingly, the ladies of the family ganged up on me, so I spent much of the time nose to the wall in the "Naughty Corner" reflecting on my not inconsiderable misdeeds in life.

And how quickly life flashes before us. I recall cradling the baby Maximouse in much younger arms and now she's in charge of a class of adolescent senior-schoolers. Autumn time indeed, and such sweet-fruited memories to treasure!

Food for Thought

So this just about brings us full-circle.

Mrs electrofried and I join hands across two freshly-emptied plates that just a few moments ago were home to a rich stew made with scrag-end of lamb and a can of tomato soup. This was a meal we enjoyed regularly so many years ago when we first began our married life together as blushing newly-weds, and as a holiday treat my dearest has prepared it once more.

The cheapest cuts of meat were all we could afford then. How sweet they tasted at the time and how sweet they taste still as Autumn draws close.

And somewhere in the distance you may hear the sound of darling teenygoth retching!

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)