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)

365 Photos - Gallery 11

My Chains Fell Off ...

Dear Chroniclers,

I have to report that, with some marvellous synchronicity, Mollie the Sprollie (favoured hound to the Master of the House) has also fallen prey to injured foot syndrome. The photographic evidence appears above.

Ripped and torn

Yet another frenzied pursuit of a low-scudding canine search'n'return missile has resulted in a doubly painful tear to the nail of her ill-fated dew claw. Doubly painful in the sense it sees both Mollie similarly encased in restrictive foot-protection and our own faltering bank balance depleted by the ravages of yet more veterinary billaging.

Mollie has sulked much of the last week or two, taking refuge beneath the electrofried four-poster only to emerge at infrequent intervals to claim her rations for the day, accompanied by yet another tablet of anti-biotic treatment, the price for which far exceeds its weight in gold.

The Scent of Freedom

There is, however, some good news to report - my own bindings have now been removed. The cast that has dogged my every step these last four weeks has been cut off.

I have to say that it had it stayed in its unwashed condition much longer, chances are it would have slinked off of its own accord bearing its rank odour proudly before it. Frankly, it has quite put me off Stilton, and I now take my nightly glass of port cheese-less.

Return to Horology

I would like to say there is new skip to my step, but I fear this must wait just a little while longer. My first two days back at the Horology Factory have seen me adopting the gait of a septuagenarian. Be warned, however, my pace has quickened such that I am now within touching distance of the odd arthritic tortoise.

I have no doubt my self-imposed diet of good British stout and freshly-pickled autumnal onions will soon restore the muscular wastage of the last month. So watch out for further news as I step out in style accompanied by a tawdry mongrel in blue bandagery.

yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

365 Photos - Gallery 10

Snap!

Dear Chroniclers,

we interrupt the "365 Photo Galleries" series to bring you breaking news. Literally.

A Walk in the Woods

The early morning sun peeps gently through the shuttered windows of the Tower to summon yours truly from the land of slumber. Downstairs, the hounds of electrofried await their early morning constitutional with the usual eager anticipation.

That is, with the notable exception of Daisy the Retriever, conceivably the laziest dog in all of Christendom. Her idea of exercise extends barely beyond the twice daily rush to consume the contents of her feeding bowl, a task normally completed in a little under ten seconds.

But no matter, hounds are to be walked, so off I set through the gates of the House toward the woods that lie to the south of our estate. And what a cheery morning it is too!

Chance Encounters

A little way into my walk, and I chance upon the scented Mrs Bottomley, wife of the very Reverend, whose humble chapel lies to the far end of the estate. Deep in theological discussion we proceed at a brisk pace into the woods, sundry hounds trailing in our not insubstantial wake.

And it is at this point our conversation is rudely interrupted as I find myself, Alice-like, falling down the rabbit-hole. One moment all is civilised discussion, the next I'm tumbling unceremoniously to the ground accompanied by the sound of what, on first hearing, I take to be a twig snapping beneath my feet.

A Fall from Grace

Somewhat bemused, I come to my senses to discover myself nose first in the leafy debris of the woodland floor. This is not entirely a dignified position in which to land, particularly as Daisy has chosen precisely this moment to descend into position for her morning micturations.

Leaping to my feet, I wince ... to put it mildly.

"Are you alright?" enquires the scented Bottomley.

My reply does not bear repetition, and I shall say several penances in consequence during the weeks to come - but being of a certain generation, I bite my lip and stride out manfully, one foot trailing loosely behind in the leafmold like some malfunctioning rudder. My companion gamely sees me safe back to the electrofried charabanc and I chug off down the back-lanes toward the House.

A Strained Breakfast

My return is greeted with customary disdain by young teenygoth. Pausing only to break the thick crust on top of Cook's legendary turnip-flavoured porridge, she turns to enquire about my most recent fall from grace.

"So what've you done this time, Dad???"

I explain my tumble in the woods, much to her merriment.

"Well, I guess you're going to be great for a three-legged race then!"

is the cruel repost as teenygoth packs her bag, ready for school. Mrs electrofried is more sympathetic and suggests a trip to the hospital to get my foot checked out. But no, being a man it's my honour-bound duty to ignore any possible medical intervention - I decide instead to walk it off.

I'm sure it'll be as right as rain come the evening!"

is my somewhat optimistic pronouncement as I hobble toward the charabanc to make my way into the Horology Factory.

On the Joys of Hospital

Mrs electrofried's advice is, as always, absolutely right. I spend twenty minutes or so of my lunch-break negotiating a hundred yard stretch between the Factory and the sandwich shop, and conclude all may not be well.

The sobering moment of realisation comes half-way across a particularly busy stretch of road adjacent to the shop. I reflect, perhaps a little too late in my journey, that things could get interesting should a car appear at short notice from around the corner travelling at any great speed. The prospect of a lame and startled electrofried rooted to the spot and contemplating his imminent demise bears little appeal.

And so, off to hospital we go, family entourage in tow replete with picnic-basket and a plentiful supply of light reading material. I emerge little over an hour and an half later (a testimony, if one is indeed needed, that the NHS is a national treasure whose value we ignore at our peril), duly plastered.

Foot Up!

So you find me, dear Chroniclers, sat uncomfortably in my bath chair, one foot duly elevated so I can enjoy the dubious pleasure of watching my toes turn a variety of shades of rich plum-purple. The cast will be on for at least a month and I have only the comfort of regular infusions of Horlicks to dull the pain.

Trust all is well with you, as I struggle once more to put my best foot forward,

Yours as ever,

electrofried (mr)

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