Along The Lanes To The West

I cannot be bothered to detail the problem that has developed with my probate application, except to say that I have received an e-mail rejecting my completed form for a reason that doesn’t make sense and asking me to submit a new one. Without sending a duplicate form I replied and received a standard automated response. This will involve a further 8 weeks delay.

Today was dry, dull, and cold. After a Tesco shop this afternoon we took a drive into the lanes to the west of the forest.

Despite the ice remaining in the ruts and puddles along the verges and in the fields,

daffodils bloomed on the green at Neacroft.

Crows seemed to be playing musical chairs from oak to oak and from wire to wire, of which there were a few in evidence along

Bockhampton Lane, where we thought it must be draughty in this

dilapidated building.

The golden glow we noticed on the horizon did not live up to its promise of some sort of sunset.

This evening we dined on more of Jackie’s spicy chilli con carne and rice, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the chianti.

The Anguished Cockerel

How do you amuse yourself and gain relief of tension while listening to bank muzak while holding on for 75 minutes waiting for an “adviser” to sort out a problem?

You spend the time patiently reading and commenting on blogs you follow and, when you need a pee you ask your wife to put the phone to her ear while you take a break.

What do you do when you are sent a “smart” form to complete to get the bank to do what they should have done three months ago and failed, resulting in regular scam payments having been stolen from your account, and when you reach the end of what wasn’t exactly the straightforward process you were given to understand you are required to complete a puzzle to prove you are not a robot that does not make itself clear?

You blow a gasket, you scream with frustration, rave, swear, stamp, and chuck things about, until you try something that miraculously works.

Then you go out for a Chauffeuse-driven ride in the forest.

We began with a visit to Ferndene Farm Shop where Jackie enjoyed a smooth shopping trip without delay, and I watched a robin while wondering whether we would see ours again.

Our next stop was Elizabeth’s where we admired her recent tree work which has really opened up the front of her property affording a view across fields opposite.

On the verges of Pilley Street the constant clanging of a nearby cattle grid left a group of fly-ignoring, cud-chewing, cattle completely unperturbed.

Had the cockerel across the road been equipped with a tail, that appendage would surely have stretched between its legs as, after proudly strutting under a gate, it dashed squawking and clucking back out and off up the road.

I have photographed this building before, hoping to preserve its memory before it falls down. A very elderly gentleman is sometimes seen seated on the plastic chair or leaning on a gate. Did the anguished cockerel play any part in the egg production, I wonder?

This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent beef pie; boiled new potatoes; crisp cauliflower; crunchy carrots; tender runner beans; and meaty gravy with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Syrah.