Author Archives: Rachel Farmer-Reay

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About Rachel Farmer-Reay

Freelance writer and communications professional

goodbye Tinkerbell

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I’d forgotten that sadness makes your tummy hurt.

Yesterday we faced the cruel reality of the speed of cars on the road past the house, when we made the awful discovery that one of our orphaned kittens had been hit by a car. It was so sad to see her soft grey paws lying lifeless, when half an hour earlier she had been gently tossing a hair bobble across the carpet. That sick feeling in the pit of your stomach is how it feels to be so sad because something bad has happened and there is nothing that can be done to change it.

I didn’t expect to be so upset about a pet we hadn’t asked for and who only arrived last October, but one of the saddest things was looking at her fluffy tailed brother wondering where his playmate had gone. ImageImage

We’ve now almost completed a year in Cyprus and it has gone so fast, I’m panicking that it will soon be over. Our first proper visitors of the season have come and gone and we have more family arriving next week – the pool is heating up and the sky is mainly blue – the summer is getting into full swing and there’s lots to be excited about!

Our boys are coming to the end of education as they both move into full time jobs this summer and our only daughter is getting married….the times are changing. In the midst of all this I am trying to keep my head, while I write a best seller (or two), keep up with the daily news and earn some ready money. I also need to work out the best way to transform myself into a half decent ‘mother-of-the bride’ (MOB).

This is more challenging than I’d thought because no sooner do I embark on the 5:2 diet, which involves trying to limit myself to 500 calories two days a week, than we are invited to tea with friends from church. Walking into their lovely bungalow overlooking the sea, I make a mental note to refuse all cakes and accept just a cup of tea. Half an hour later I am helping myself to drop scones and jam and carrot cake – Oh dear. Life on a diet is cruel. I am considering doing some lengths in the pool and or going for a run – instead I have decided to catch up on my neglected blog. There’s little hope for this ‘would-be fit’ MOB.

Last night we raised a toast to Tinkerbell, chinking a few glasses of wine on the terrace with two cat-loving friends who called by to commiserate. We had buried her under the pine trees opposite and said a little prayer of thanks. This morning my stomach still feels strange, but it’s not as bad as yesterday.

Holy rock

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Have you ever touched a holy rock, stroked a sacred stone or perhaps picked up a precious pebble? If not, definitely put Israel on your bucket list – I wish I hadn’t left it so long.

I am not especially geologically minded, but I have to confess to picking up an awful lot of stones from beaches over the years. They inevitably end up on window sills, mantelpieces or the bathroom shelf. Down on the shore of Galilee last week, I watched a lady bending down to pick up very small pieces of what looked like black and white gravel and carefully stowing them in a plastic bag, which she stuffed into her rucksack. Hum…I pondered to myself. Could these be the very stones Jesus had walked on when he wandered down to the lake and called across to some chaps busy cleaning their fishing nets? It was sort of possible…but there were so many possibles all around us. IMG_0655

The church behind us that morning had a very large odd shaped rock which formed a centre piece for the altar. We had watched as people laid clothes on it and stroked the rock and kissed it. It is possible this was the rock Jesus had used as a BBQ base for his hungry disciples and is also rumoured to be where Jesus told Saint Peter, he was the rock on which he’d build his church. There seemed to be a blackened area on it. I touched it too. But what if it was the rock? What would that mean for me?

Back in Jerusalem and Bethlehem there were more significant rocks…Rocks that marked the place where he was born, where he died and was crucified, even the place where his body was laid before he rose from the dead. So many actual physical links to an unseen God. Then there were also the caves, some marked with carvings, where he may have been held prisoner and another where he was most likely to have been born. When we walked the streets of Jerusalem we knew these weren’t the actual streets and cobble stones Jesus had walked, as the city is a few metres higher than it was 2000 years ago. But in one narrow street we wandered into a deep basement of a convent where it looks like there is part of the actual Roman road, with its chariot lines still visible. I ran my sandals along the grooves and imagined a man stumbling under the weight of a wooden cross. Was this one of the streets which Jesus walked on? Shouldn’t I take off my shoes now and feel the same smooth stone on the soles of my feet? The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

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Despite all these stones and rocks and possibilities, it was by the lake and on a hillside where I actually felt God. He wasn’t in the two carefully selected stones I bought back from the lake shore. I wasn’t really aware of Him in some of the most sacred sites and churches. For me the Jesus I have got to know, who I hope to meet one day, was somehow very present beside me, on a balcony as I looked across the Sea of Galilee, where lights flickered along the shoreline and pinpricks of stars were speckled across the black sky above. It was there I heard His voice. He was also with us in a field on a hillside, where there was a cup and a chunk of bread on a rock. But most importantly, He is here now beside me as I write on the tiled steps by the front door in the afternoon sunshine in Cyprus.

The Holy Land was a special experience. I have seen some places where Jesus was, where he ate, walked, talked, slept and died. Most importantly though He didn’t stay there and I’m so happy He isn’t just in the rocks and stones. He is here, ever present and the whole world is a ‘Holy Land’ because He is risen and He is here.

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all in a flap

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Sleeping diagonally across the bed is one of the good things about being on my own for the week. It’s nice to think that if I wanted to be a star fish while I sleep, no one is going to complain. Other good things are no meals have to be prepared for someone eating more calories than me. On the down side, I am hungry, but have no excuse to cook, and no amount of green tea is helping.

Another issue has turned out to be the doors. I’m not afraid of doors, but I am scared of leaving them open. I’m also a bit worried about the windows and am so glad we have net screens that can be pulled across any open gap. This may sound like paranoia, but let me explain…

On Saturday, one of us had been packing bags, and I was carrying a tray of food in from the terrace when something flew past me. I thought I had imagined it at first, or that it was a very large fly. I was wrong. As I glanced up to the wood lined ceiling a bird was circling above my head. I like birds, but I really don’t like birds in the house, especially ones that swoop and threaten to flap in my hair.  If I had an emergency panic button it would have been pressed at that point, instead I shouted for help.

Attempts were made to wave arms and encourage the trapped swallow out through the two open doors, while I stood hiding behind a curtain with my arms on my head. The bird continued to circle and occasionally  trying to find a way out by hitting the beams or corners of the ceiling, but never getting low enough to find the doors. After some time I decided drastic action was needed and fetched the long handled pool net. I had hoped to scoop up the bird like a butterfly. Unfortunately the long handle in the small room ended up being more like a Laurel and Hardy movie as various ornaments, windows and heads were clouted by the end of the pole and the bird continued to fly and flap out of reach. The clock was ticking and one of us had a plane to catch. I had visions of declaring the lounge ‘out of bounds’, while a flock of birds began nesting in our dresser and I spent the week marooned upstairs. The alternative was to let the kittens do their worst.

Just as we were running out of time, the bird itself ran out of steam and suddenly landed on a beam and snuggled itself between the beam and the ceiling. An attempt was made to encourage it into the pool net, but this was unsuccessful again. Eventually, it took a chair and someone with very long arms, who reached up and placed his hands very gently and slowly round the bird. Amazingly it didn’t struggle and a few moments later it was safely freed outside. Meanwhile, I ran around shutting doors and windows and generally securing the house from unauthorised bird entries.

It was only later, once I had calmed down, that I thought about the bird in a complete flap and panic as it circled the room. We couldn’t help because it was too frightened and flapping too much. But when it eventually stopped struggling and allowed someone to gently help, it was set free. There is definitely a lesson in there somewhere for me.

I’m enjoying watching the birds swoop and dive outside, but the screens are staying firmly on the doors, especially while the resident ‘bird catcher’ is out of the country!

If I had a truck

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I want that truck… This is what was going through my mind as I embarked on an afternoon bike ride to the seaside yesterday. So much for enjoying the lovely green scenes in the fields as we pedalled past, or having time to look at flowers by the roadside and even watch some hungry sheep tucking into massive bales of hay in the middle of a dusty pasture. I was mainly engaged in ‘truck envy’. 

First I noticed one overtaking me as I pedalled hard against the wind, consoling myself with the thought that coming back would be easier. It was a lovely red pick-up truck with loads of space in the back for surf boards, bikes and ‘stuff’. Once I started thinking about trucks, it seemed like every other car that past us on the road was a truck. And they came in all the colours of the rainbow. Why was it that everyone in Cyprus seemed to have a truck except me?  After cycling through a village, I glanced to my left and saw a yard packed with cars for sale – high up on display was…you guessed it, a big blue truck.

Most of the journey was then engaged in thoughts of… if we had a truck.

If we had a truck… we could easily go off road across the maze of tracks to some of the most beautiful, remote areas of the island. Throw a tent and camping gear in the back and we would be all ready for any kind of adventure.

If we had a truck… there would be no problem moving anything anywhere – we could buy a BBQ or a dish washer and take it back from the shop, pick up friends with large suitcases from the airport and just throw them (the suitcases!) in the back, even pick up driftwood and logs for the fire without any worries of ‘spoiling the car.’

All good things come to an end and so my truck day-dreams were curtailed by my fellow cyclist stopping short to complain about the hardness of his saddle and wondering if his padded lycra shorts were on the right way round. This led to some chuckling as bottoms were examined, and reassured that everything was in the right place, we set off again. On arrival at the beach, we dismounted slightly unsteadily and sat on a bench overlooking a rocky bay where waves were crashing on the golden sands. We re-energised with bananas and water and contemplated the cycle back. The route home was uphill at first and after a particularly taxing hill the Major pulled in – I thought to considerately wait for me – but he was shaking his head gravely and it turned out there was a flat tyre which couldn’t be fixed. It was quickly decided I would cycle back as fast as I could and fetch the car to recover him and the bike, while he walked the bike until I reached him.

On the cycle back my thoughts inevitably turned to…if we had a truck. Of course, recovering the bike would be no problem, it would just get bundled into the back and there would be no need to search for ropes or bike racks in the shed. As the pedals turned and my thighs began to burn, I wondered why I was so keen on trucks. It wasn’t just ‘Top Gear’ and their proof that they couldn’t be destroyed, it was in my blood. I was brought up with vans and Land Rovers and even took my driving test on the family long wheel-base Land Rover, much to the amusement of the examiner. Tough cars that have big wheels, four wheel drive, low gears and the height to let you look down on the traffic and the scenery is what I like in a vehicle. Never mind the odd scrape against a gatepost, or bumps in the road – we have a truck. We can go anywhere! Give us a boat, a caravan or just a trailer and we can hitch up and set off, no problem. Hills? We eat them for breakfast. Mud and rivers? We can ride through them.

Beyond all this sheer practicality, I have a plan. The plan really requires a truck. Ssh, don’t tell anyone, but I am hatching a plan to drive back from Cyprus overland through Europe, via a ferry to the mainland. Here is my trump card in the argument of why we definitely need a truck. The truck would be rugged and able to go anywhere, it would enable us to take excess baggage,camping gear, and even animals or a small canoe back to the Uk easily. Besides all this, a truck would make the journey fun, so how could we even contemplate making this overland adventure without a truck?

Back home the tiny Toyota was waiting patiently in the drive. It isn’t a truck and it never will be, but if I had a truck…

Train travel and banter

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I may have overdosed on train journeys. Last week I chose one of the worst days possible to ‘take the train’. What should have been a four hour journey turned into a six and half hour marathon, which included swapping from train to train to avoid landslips and fallen trees. During the journey you inevitably become closely acquainted with a clutch of strangers, who you exchange sighs and sometimes smiles with as train announcers crack jokes and flustered guards repeat reasons for the delays. About 5 hours into the journey that famous English sense of humour proved it could soar above adversity, when the train announcer finished his update on progress south by telling us our lifejackets were located underneath our seats. There was a ripple of laughter, which did help lighten the heavy atmosphere in the carriage, as people were murmuring into their phones to let loved ones know when they might actually arrive at destinations. I was laughing, but I did wonder for a fraction of a second if lifejackets were stored on trains…but no, that would be silly, wouldn’t it? I resisted the temptation to check under my seat.

The English sense of humour and the cheeky banter is one of the things that help us through those rainy, dreary days. And nowhere has better banter than Nottingham. Apart from being one of the best shopping centres in Europe it’s also irrepressibly friendly. Having travelled on trams and buses around the city, it’s the only place I know, where people pass £5 down the crowded tram to pay the conductor who can’t reach them and then pass back the change over people’s heads, without a second thought. ‘Hey up me duck’, what’s odd about that? That’s what’s so brilliant about public transport. You’ll probably get asked where you’re going if you have a large bag or a rucksack. If you look lost, there will inevitably be a clutch of passengers to chip in and tell you when to get off. I once joined in a kind of monopoly game using public transport around the city. We were armed with clues about each destination we needed to reach. The passengers realised we were on a mission and it wasn’t long before they were all chipping in with the best stop to get off and directions about how to get to the next location.

The banter is on the streets too. Last week as I sauntered past a white van and three workmen in high vis jackets peering into a large box full of wires at the side of the road, I noticed an older couple stopping to chat with them. The man exclaimed loudly, “but how on earth do you know which wire goes where?” I half wondered if he was their supervisor, but he wasn’t dressed quite right.  The workmen were shaking their heads and seconds later there was a burst of laughter and I realised he was just stopping to have a joke with them. The other people walking past smiled as the couple sauntered off down the street, leaving the baffled workmen to their rewiring. I couldn’t see that happening in London.

Now back in Cyprus, I’m realising our sense of humour and the ability to tease people we don’t even know, is one of the things I value in life. No matter what your problems are, someone sharing a joke with you can lift your spirits. Laughter really is the best medicine because there’s nearly always a funny side to any problem.

cyprus haircut & the abyss

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All it took was a metal coat hanger and a mop in the end, but some problems aren’t solved so easily…
I considered myself a fairly practical person – good at papier-mâché, capable of painting a door or a gate as needed, able to re-wire a plug – but then I got married and suddenly I wasn’t quite so practical. I might be OK with a screw driver, a paint brush and a sewing machine, but wielding an axe or a drill, let alone a saw were all way beyond my kind of practical. That sort of ‘hands-on’, ‘can do’ action can be very useful, but it should also come with a health warning…

The plus side was very evident today after a little mishap with cupboards and holes. The kitchen where we live has a cooker set at an angle in one corner with cupboards build around and across the corner. Strangely the top of these cupboards was not taken right into the corner. This has left a deep well-like hole, that could fit a small person in, reaching from just below ceiling height to the floor. Someone has the habit of placing cans of beer and bottles up on these high cupboard tops, which is easy for them as they don’t need a chair to put things up there. Tidying up a few days ago, I reached up to push an empty domed cake container onto this shelf above the cooker. It was out of my reach but I thought shoving it would be enough. In fact it was too much. The plastic box flew towards the back of the shelf and there was a clatter, followed by a number of thuds, by which time it was out of sight. It had fallen into the abyss between the cupboard, the wall and the cooker. Short of abseiling down the hole, the chances of rescuing the box seemed small. I had visions of climbing onto the thin shelf, falling into the hole headfirst and being stuck in the gap forever… eventually my body would be found, or I’d be eaten by ants! With that in mind, I decided it was a job for the weekend, or something to forget about.

I did mention the flying box and the kitchen abyss in passing to someone, who indicated grumpily that was the last I would see of my cake container. Amazingly, after returning from church he had a change of heart and step ladder in hand, he climbed onto the worktop by the cooker and tried to lower himself into the hole to reach the box. It wasn’t going to be that easy. I rushed around looking for helpful props before he had a change of heart and the box became a distant memory. A mop was handed over, but this couldn’t reach it either. Eventually, an old metal coat hanger was attached to the mop handle and a new hook was sculpted to fish for the box. After a few more failed rescues the hook did its work and the cake box was retrieved – Hallelujah! Let them eat cake!

A practical person can also get carried away though, especially if you give them a saw or worse a pair of garden clippers. Until a week ago we had a lovely set of bushes with bright pink, blue and orange flowers spilling out onto the paved area beside the front door. The flowers had faded and the bushes were in need of trimming back. I left this to the person with the clippers, while I went off to pull up unwanted greenery from the white stone edges. I can’t have been away more than 10 minutes, but when I came back to the bushes…they were no more. Someone had demolished them. Half of them had been reduced to wooden spikes surrounded by dried leaves, the others were on their way out and there was a growing pile of greenery in the middle of the terrace. Asking what was happening in a semi-alarmed voice, I was told the bushes had been in need of a ‘haircut’. I agreed a trim had been needed, but this looked like an army sergeant’s Number 1 and I’m still not sure if the bushes will live to sprout another day. I was forced to stand guard by the bushes for the next half an hour or so to prevent the clippers devouring more of them. The lesson is, be careful about letting a practical person loose with garden clippers. I’d heard of the Cyprus haircut, but this was ridiculous.

A bend in the road

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I’m waiting for winter. I thought it had arrived a few weeks ago when we
were hit by a cold snap with temperatures below zero at night. Now the sun
is shining again, the birds are singing and I’m wondering when the rain will
come. The landscape around the house has changed a little in the last few
weeks and although I can still see the tropical line of palm trees
silhouetted against the horizon, instead of fields of dry earth and yellowed
patches of grass and scrubland, a few green fields have popped up and the
road is edged with bright green grass.

I’ve also been walking again. The tracks across the fields that were too hot
to venture onto in the summer heat, now offer a pleasant walk. Although it’s
not quite Nottinghamshire’s rolling fields and hedges, there are different
things to look at. The houses dotted around the landscape can fairly be
described as scruffy, painted in shades of yellow and ochre, with numerous
outbuildings, lean-to shacks and machinery lying all around. Sheep have been
pulled into ramshackle pens beside farm buildings and there’s a lot of
baa-ing and bleating mixed in with cockerels crowing and dogs barking from
behind wire fences. Fruit that should have been picked in the summer is now
fermenting on the trees and a few deep brown over ripe pomegranates hang in
an abandoned orchard next to the track. But oranges and grapefruits are just
becoming ripe and they provide a splash of colour in the greenery of nearby
gardens and fields.

There’s a bend in the track which leads through a darkened area lined with
tall pines. The first time I walked this route I hesitated about walking on,
wondering what would be around the corner and if I wanted to walk below the
overhanging branches such a long way from the main road. Having walked for
whole days in Italy on my own without meeting a soul, I ploughed on, and the
towering pines were soon behind me, giving way to familiar olive groves and
a tumbled-down stone house perched on a rise above the track. I had a
destination in mind. In the distance I had spotted a wood on a small hill,
where I knew there was an ancient church I’d visited before. Taking that
unknown curve in the road meant I had eventually reached my goal and around
another bend on a small hill, a tiny stone church came into view nestled in
amongst the trees.

Leaning against the stone walls warmed by the sun, I thought about the path
and the bend in the road. I wasn’t sure it led to where I wanted to go and
it could even have been a dead end, but I would never have got there if I
had turned back or stopped walking because I wasn’t sure. Now I’m thinking
curves in the ‘road of life’ are exciting….you never know quite what’s
coming and that’s the beauty of it.

New year hats

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Four days into 2014 and no resolutions broken… mainly because I didn’t make any. I thought the year would hold enough challenges for me without adding in any more.

And sure enough before the old year was over the first challenge arrived with the news that our one and only daughter is getting married. This puts me in line to become a real live mother-in-law, in the not too distant future. How on earth has this happened? It really seems like yesterday that I was discussing the risks of her taking the bus into Nottingham to shop with her school friends. Before too long I could well be knee deep in flower arrangements and shopping for hats…

If there is one thing I’m particularly fond of it’s hats. My colourful hat boxes are currently in store with various favourites crammed inside – some looking a bit dated, others slightly crushed and a few just plain wonderful. Here in Cyprus I’ve been enjoying the sunny variety, with an old leather cowboy hat making an occasional outing and my favourite crumbling straw hat being thrown in the back of the car on any trip from beach to town. This became so battered over the first few weeks here that I had to invest in something more decent, one that didn’t have huge holes and moult straw crumbs over the floors of shops and cafés. Now I am the proud owner of a smart boater, purchased in the capital. Much as I like the hat, I’m not convinced it’s wedding material…I am thinking something with a peacock or a parrot on top might be just the thing. Surely, the whole point of the Mother of the Bride (MOB) is to make her hat (and possibly outfit) a talking point of the day? I’m very interested in thoughts on wedding hats and what works best. Suggestions on a postcard please, or just comment here.

In terms of outfits for the big day, I do have something rather amazing that was a surprise Christmas gift. I’m only concerned that it could be little hot, depending when and where the wedding is. It has a safari feel about it and completely transforms me and most of all it is so comfortable. Shoes could be an issue though and I really don’t know which handbag would tie in best, but with built in headgear there should be money in the budget for those. One thing is for sure it could be a first for MOB outfits and I really think it might start a new trend. There’s only one word for it….’weddingonesie’ here we go 🙂

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good mummy league

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It’s rather strange being a physical mummy again. Of course you don’t ever stop being one – the worrying, the advice, the listening ear – but for about 4 months I have been a ‘virtual mum’ to our three children. Contactable only via Skype, Facebook or even What’s app… I have seen their faces on a computer screen, sometimes happy and excited, occasionally a bit stressed or worried, and often just wanting to catch-up, let me know all is well and for them to check-up on us.

Now there is someone asleep upstairs who calls me ‘mum’, amongst other strange names, and who lies in, waiting for me to take up a cup of tea in the morning. It is good to have him here, to share meals, jokes and talk face to face without worrying if the internet will give up or he will have to rush off somewhere.

Being a mum is something I’m still learning about. I’ve felt myself standing at the starting blocks as the other ‘mummy runners’ beside me have streaked ahead…from carrying the first newborn out of hospital and into the car feeling totally unqualified to look after the tiny human being in our care, to thinking what to put in a school lunchbox and how to organise interesting school holiday activities that didn’t involve putting on a Disney film! There are quite a few ‘hero mums’ that I have looked up to over the years, several of them army wives…

There’s the ‘enthusiast mum’, who has endless energy with her children and others for that matter. Struggling with flu symptoms, didn’t deter her from dosing up on paracetamol and organising a tea party for the children, while she cleaned the house at the same time. Everything was tackled with boundless enthusiasm and energy, and her patience when fights broke out or there were moans over food, seemed never ending. Taking the children to her house, meant I could sit back and enjoy the entertainment, trying not to feel inadequate.

‘Earth mother’ is another one I’ve admired. The whole house is dedicated to children and there are usually plenty of them. While she is breast feeding one on the settee, she will be supervising a huge Lego construction with the older two and reading to another cuddled in beside her. As for school lunch boxes, she is queen of these. There will be fruit and chunks of raw vegetables, homemade cookies and wait for it, little messages and jokes hidden inside…at this point I might as well resign and sign them up for school dinners. Not only does she excel at packed lunches, she also carries everything you could possibly need in her handbag, from glue and scissors, to spare pants, a packet of drink and little boxes of raisins ( Please note: not sweets). The garden is bound to have a sand pit and a den or even a tree house. We did succeed in having a tree house in one house, but this only revealed my lack of ‘good mummy’ qualifications, as one of them created a urinal made from an old Hoover tube, with unpleasant outcomes, while another child fell out and broke his arm…so much for healthy outdoor play.

There was also ‘education mummy’. She is not one to stand beside at the school gate. You can guarantee she will know telepathically when it’s going to rain and as the first spots start falling, she will pull out that fold away umbrella and two mini rain macs for her children as they run through the playground for shelter. Rather than mislaying the numerous school letters scattered all around the house, she will have noted all the relevant dates and deadlines in her diary and will remember to send the children with harvest donations on the correct day as well as ensuring they don’t wear uniform on mufti days. Unlike mine who frequently raced up the drive as school was starting shouting, “It’s mufti – I need a £1 too”, as they shot up the stairs to unearth clean jeans and a un-ironed top.

So, judging from ‘top mums’ I have known, I’m probably looking at a fail on organisation – my children were still quite young when they were forced to make their own packed lunches or starve! At one point I had letters for three different schools to contend with. I managed to find all the important dates a week after the event and arrived consistently late to anything from parent teacher meetings to Christmas concerts. As for enthusiastically organising extra curricular activities, I might have scraped a pass with making my own play dough and the odd baking afternoon, but that would be weighed against the amount of film quotes the children can now recite.

Still, pass or fail in the ‘good mum league’, I prefer ‘real’ mum to ‘virtual’ every time…roll on that January reunion with all three.

cold showers and poison

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My life has been under threat in two different ways over the past week. I was in danger of getting hypothermia and poisoning myself at the same time, but it’s all been for a good cause – in the name of saving money and reducing the household budget.

I’ve had my share of cold showers over the years, but the last few weeks have been stretching it a bit. You see we have solar power to warm the water here and most of the year that means piping hot showers all day. As the seasons change and the hours of sunlight are reduced the water is no longer hot in the morning and hot showers have to be grabbed in the afternoon, but not too late, or that tank on the roof has cooled off again. This is all very well, but what about the odd cloudy day? Of course there is no hot water. We do have an easy solution to the lack of sunshine though. It’s called an immersion heater. Switch it on and in half an hour you have lovely hot water again.

You might be wondering why I’ve been having cold showers. It isn’t because we don’t have an immersion heater, or that it has broken. It’s just that somebody – let’s call him Chicken Licken (CL) – is too stingy to use it and claims the cost of using it will be prohibitive and that ‘the sky will fall in’ when the next electricity bill arrives.

I’ve been patient about this for a while, humouring CL and doing my best to understand his ‘electricity bill’ phobia. However, this week it reached tipping point and after two or three days of shiver-inducing cold showers in the morning, I ran upstairs and flicked the switch, much to his distress, but we both enjoyed a hot shower for a few minutes. Although, there was sighing and nashing of teeth about the cost..

The problem is immersion heaters are not the only factor that may make ‘the sky fall in’…it seems paying for vegetables now comes into that category.

CL recently had a little windfall when two sacks of potatoes literally fell off the back of a lorry in front of him. Not wanting to waste them, they were bundled into the back of the car and brought home. Now Cyprus potatoes are the best and we’ve been enjoying them for months. They make amazing chips and are also delicious mashed or roasted. These didn’t look like the ones we’d been buying from the shops, they were smaller and there was a lack of red mud. But they were free and there were lots of them and more importantly, we weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so I promptly peeled a few for that evening’s meal.  Later on the bags were stored in the shed and I continued cooking them for a few days.

The threat of rain meant the sacks were back in the kitchen within a week, and that was when we noticed some of the potatoes were sprouting roots. On closer examination the wording on the sacks seemed to indicate they were from Holland. Pausing, potato peeler in hand, I said.. “I hope they’re the edible kind of potatoes and not  just for planting… perhaps it doesn’t matter – aren’t all potatoes edible?”  A small portion of the smooth skinned spuds were bubbling away in a pot ready to be roasted later. “I wonder….” said CL and went off to google the name on the bags and the company where they were from. Munching on them later, we decided they tasted OK and hoped for the best.

The next day an email appeared from Holland, advising us that these were in fact ‘seed potatoes’ for planting and had been treated with various chemicals, so best not to eat them…oops! Bit late for that. CL reluctantly agreed to pass the sacks onto a friend with a bit of land who could use them for planting, rather than cooking and I went off to buy…yes purchase and pay for that is…a bag of Cyprus potatoes that would not poison us.

So, after a slow poisoning incident and too many cold showers, I am counting myself lucky to be alive!

The electricity bill hasn’t arrived yet, so not sure if the sky will fall in when it drops into our letter box. But we have now figured out how to use the gas boiler, which is a sheer delight. I can turn on the tap day or night and out pours hot water! Life is full of luxuries, like hot showers and poison-free potatoes.