Shall we stay in or shall we eat out?

This was a headline over an article in a newspaper and I liked the sound of it. Perhaps you've had this conversation?

Shall we stay in
Or shall we eat out?
It's your turn to cook
But I know you'll shout
At the lack of
Ingredients. You
Have no flare, no verve,
As seen in the food
You usually serve.

Shall we eat out
Or shall we stay in?
The waste of money
Is really a sin.
OK I'll cook,
You seldom do.
Wish I'd snared a chef
Instead of you.

aka 'Psycho'

I never thought chickens had any personality but this one certainly changed my mind

BLOD

Blodwen is a little brown hen, half the size of her companions, underweight and under brained, fossicking around in the dirt for what she can find. Scratching and pecking for tasty morsels, she sambas her way around the garden, taking a worm here, a cabbage leaf there. She sees me digging and sprints over to the action, muttering and grumbling if I’m not fast enough. Fingers and toes are pecked in her impatience to get to the hidden grubs. Squawks of frustration rend the air if the fork gets in her way, and she has escaped death by decapitation only be dint of my lightening reaction in deflecting the guillotine spade away from her.
Having had her fill she’ll wander away for a quick raid on the lettuce bed and then it’s off to find a favourite spot for a bath, where she’ll dig a hole and, with showers of dust and small stones, she busily complete her ablutions. After that, if the weather’s good, she’ll have a nap in the sun, lounging on her side, with her legs stretched out and one wing spread like a sail; for all intents and purposes dead to the world.
Lulled into a false sense of security by this inertia the dog, who is a new addition to the family, approaches for a surreptitious sniff of discovery, but Blodwen is like a coiled spring and is instantly on her feet. She enters the metaphorical phone box of her mind and emerges as …….PSYCHO!
She is as a peacock, displaying her might. She is 3 feet high, 2 feet wide and bristling with armaments, from her razor sharp comb to her burnished spurs. A fighting machine ready to take on all comers. Rambo? Puh, a wimp. Arnie would crumble at the sight of her; she is the Terminator. Her beak is a lethal weapon. She lives hard and is prepared to die hard, too.
She stares at the dog, who hesitates, and while he makes up his mind whether to continue, her expression says: “Are you feeling lucky, dog?”
The dog’s not sure and tentatively wags his tail, edging his nose closer.
“Go on, make my day, punk,” is Psycho’s reaction, as she stretches her head higher, fixing him with her beady eye.
The dog is an idiot, however, and doesn’t recognise the signs. Anyway, he’s bigger than her, isn’t he? What possible harm could she do? He takes a step closer and … Bomp! Dog with pecked nose runs down the garden, and hides behind his master, looking embarrassed. Perhaps he’ll learn his lesson one day, but I doubt it.
Psycho, meanwhile, ruffles her feathers and changes back to Blodwen, calmly going about her daily business, continuing her never-ending search for food
However, it is not only the dog who feels her displeasure. She is a nightmare on any street; the chicken run becomes a killing field if any newcomer enters her territory unbidden. With a “Back off, Sister!” she imposes her authority as she rakes her handmaids’ tails, until all are submissive. She is the queen of the roost and the others had better not forget it. She may be the smallest in stature but she’s the biggest in personality and will be sorely missed when she goes.
Moreover, I’ll miss the daily egg she lays for my tea.

My Friend Eric

We have a Hell’s Angel living opposite us. He comes out of his house most days, clothed from head to toe in black leather. As he stands, legs astride, doing up his gauntlets, he challengingly surveys his surroundings. The scene is reflected in the shiny black visor of his helmet behind which hides today’s mood. He cuts a menacing figure as he strides to his garage and wheels out the bike, a shiny Suzuki. Mounting, he opens the throttle and the machine roars out its challenge to the neighbourhood like a lion staking out its territory. A few final adjustments to gauntlet and helmet and he’s away, off to explore the countryside, over dirt tracks in the mountains and to far flung towns to the north. He’ll be gone for two or three hours then the deep rumble of the Suzuki will announce his return, another day well spent.
His name is Eric and he is eighty one years old.
Born in Brynamman in 1925, he was the eldest son of Ita and Amelia Jones. Grandpa Isaac Jones had a smallholding nearby and Eric spent a lot of his early childhood there, helping with the work and acquiring his lifelong love of horses at this time.
Once a much industrialised locality, Brynamman in the 1930s saw the closure of the brickworks, many of the mines and the only remnant of the ironworks was a huge slagheap. Most of the fathers in the village were miners and, pre-Welfare State, times were very hard. Ita Jones was a mechanic and part time lorry driver so Eric perhaps suffered a little less than his schoolmates but the whole area was very deprived. It was during this time that a group of miners got together and opened up their own drift. The workers were divided into 6 shifts with each shift working a week at a time. They received, in lieu of wages, 2cwt of coal a week for which the only payment was tuppence delivery charge. The biggest difficulty facing them was getting the coal to the surface. They rigged up a large steel drum to which they attached a long handle on each side. A steel hawser was wound around the drum and then affixed to the tram at the coal face. Two men on each handle painfully and slowly hauled up the coal filled tram. Eventually they came to Ita for advice. He rigged up an old lorry engine to the contraption and a crowd, including Eric, gathered to watch the result. The engine was switched on, the drum revolved and the coal steadily rose. Ita was paid the same as the miners – 2cwt of coal a week - and honour was satisfied. Although he didn’t understand the implications at the time Eric now recalls it as the first time he witnessed socialism at work. “For the people and not for profit,” he says.
Although the Amman Valley was very rugby orientated Eric was not much interested, preferring to spend his time at the smallholding, but when he went to secondary school in Ammanford he became more attracted to sport. He discovered a love of athletics, played rugby and cricket for the school teams and in his final year won the Victor Ludorum Prize for sport.
On leaving school he started an apprenticeship at the Lewis Foundry in Ammanford. It was about this time that he bought his first motorbike and even an accident in which he broke his collarbone did not put him off. He soon sold this machine for a more powerful one, something he would repeat until marriage and a family necessitated the purchase of a car. He also gave up sport at this time but in its place he returned to an old love, singing. His fine tenor voice earned him many first places in Eisteddfodau, and he was a member of many choirs and Concert parties. He studied with Madam Holloway-Morgan, a famous teacher in Ammanford, and sang in numerous operettas.
Meanwhile his enthusiasm for horses was not forgotten and he took up trotting racing. Buying an American brood mare, he bred two first class colts from her and won more awards to add to his collection. Travelling to courses in England meant leaving home at midday on a Saturday and not returning until two or three o’clock on Sunday morning, so he and a group of fellow enthusiasts got together to purchase land at Tairgwaith and set up a course there. Although he no longer has horses of his own he is still very much involved with this enterprise, having been Chairman for eighteen years.
In the 1960s he decided to set up business on his own, and with his usual flair and determination was soon taking commissions from local factories and mines for spare parts and repairs. Even the loss of the tips of three fingers after an accident with a grinding machine didn’t slow him down, but it wasn’t until he retired that he returned to motorcycling as a hobby.
At the beginning I called him a Hells Angel, but in view of his very active life and the two knee replacement operations he has undergone, perhaps I should have called him ‘The Bionic Man’.

A Bit More About Me.

My name is Jan, a feminine corruption of John, meaning ‘Gift of God’. Ironic that my mother should have chosen that name; I’m sure that at the time she was unaware of its meaning as she certainly didn’t treat me as such. I learned from an early age that my best strategy was to keep very still and quiet when she was around, so as not to invoke her anger.
I was often farmed out to relatives when I was very small and those were the best times. However, despite her many absences my mother had a great influence on my character.
I inherited my selfishness from her, but also learned resilience and rebelliousness in order to cope with her. Through her, I learned to assess the prevailing mood in any given circumstance and act accordingly, an attribute that has stood me in good stead all my life. Her volatility has come down to me but, unlike her, I have learned to hold my anger unless I can put it to good use. Her impatience is also mine and I, too, do not suffer fools gladly. However, my ability to be happy with my own company is a direct result of not being able to communicate with her at all.
Happily, her inverted snobbery and bigotry have completely passed me by. In fact, I think it was precisely because I was exposed to such behaviour at an early age that I formed my own opinions in direct opposition.
I did not like my mother when I was a child and, even with the benefit of hindsight, can see no reason to change my mind. However, it must be admitted that she had a lasting affect on me, mainly for the good, strangely. Growing up I was so desperate not to become like her that I actively squashed any tendencies to do so, and hope I am a better person because of it.

The Disciple

I don't usually go in for politics much, I get too angry with the lot of them but sometimes you just can't help yourself, can you?

The Disciple

(With apologies to the Kinks)

Well, he’s a dedicated follower of Maggie.
He say’s he’s not,
But yes he is,
A dedicated follower of Maggie.

He came to save the people,
To scrub out greed and sleaze.
He wants to cut corruption
And wipe out me, me, me’s
And he speaks with clear sincerity
Our misgivings to appease,
And, people, do believe him
He only aims to please.
And while he goes about it
He’ll have the country on its knees
‘Cos he’s a dedicated follower of Maggie
He say’s he’s not,
But yes he is,
A dedicated follower of Maggie

He wants to look after us
And save the Welfare state,
But if we want some treatment
We’ll have to sit and wait.
He’ll stop us doing all the things
He’s truly come to hate.
He wants us all to love him
And tells us we’re all great.
But he’s not so nice to Gordon
Who’s supposed to be his mate.
‘Cos he’s a dedicated follower of Maggie
He say’s he’s not,
But yes he is,
A dedicated follower of Maggie

He says he is New Labour
And is coming from the Left
But he positively strains
The Party’s warp and weft.
He doesn’t have cohesion,
Of policy bereft,
But he is the country’s Conman
And his sleight if hand is deft
When he borrows from the Tories.
Or is it down right theft?
Yes, he’s a dedicated follower of Maggie etc.
He say’s he’s not,
But yes he is,
A dedicated follower of Maggie

PS

And here's a little footnote on the same subject

PS
Oozing a glutinous slick
of sincerity
He has the temerity
To think we’ll believe him.
The prick!

I AmThe Greatest Procrastinator in the World-bar none

A while ago I was asked to give a talk to my local Women's Institute three months in advance of the due date. Plenty of time to marshal the facts and type up notes you'd have thought. Not a bit of it; on the afternoon of the big day I couldn't put it off any longer so I sat down at the computer and this was the only result of my labours. The last verse was added after the event. God knows what I actually said for half an hour!

The Talk

"Oh no" I wail with heartfelt sigh,
I’ve got to talk to the WI
No wonder that I shake with fright
The date’s today. In fact tonight.

I haven’t written it all down,
I’ll look a fool, a very clown,
I’ll be laughed at, booed and hissed.
I wish I could get Brahms and Liszt.

When I was asked three months ago
I thought it would be fun and so
“Of course,” I said, “I’d be delighted.”
But now I feel my life is blighted.

I’ve made some notes after a fashion,
But what they’re looking for is passion
Not words read out as if by rote,
I know they’ll get stuck in my throat

Oh how I wish that I’d said no
I really do not want to go,
But it’s too late, I cannot stop it
I’ll have to go or else I’ll cop it.

* * *
And now it’s done, the applause was loud,
They really were a friendly crowd.
I don’t know why I got so vexed.
I wonder who will ask me next?

*** Not surprisingly, no one has!

Ravings

As I get older I find I get more and more irritated with things. Anything here you recognise?

RAVINGS OF A GRUMPY
OLD WOMAN

Inconsequential prattle
Is quite enough to rattle
My equilibrium

The biscuits in their packet
That needs an axe to crack it
And turns them into crumb,

People who burst out singing
And set my eardrums ringing
As tuneless tunes they hum,

Those who, drinking, slurp their tea
And chew, open-mouthed at me
All make my nerve ends thrum.

The stupid man who dithers
While driving gives me shivers,
Send him to Kingdom Come!

The silly chit who giggles
At nothing really niggles;
I itch to smack her bum.

The racist and the bigot
Both make me blow a spigot.
I think of them as scum!

I’ve little toleration,
But I’ve had my peroration
So now I will keep schtum.

Alliteration

SILENT SEEKER
With a whispering sussuration
The grass snake slides over sand and shale,
Skin steely in the shimmering sun,
It searches for sustenance, tasting stale
Traces of prey passed. Its tongue senses
The scent of the slime of a snail,
Long dried and sere by passing stretch
Of time. Soon it follows another trail,
Turns, finds, kills. Seeks out some shade
Wherein to rest. Waits for the sun to pale.

The man in the corner

THE MAN IN THE CORNER
As usual, the train was crowded and Jane was unable to sit where she felt most comfortable, in one of the sets of four seats, facing the direction of travel. Stupid that it should matter, after all most of the journey took place underground, with nothing to see, but she felt more comfortable somehow. Here, in the corridor seats, as she called them, she had to put up with other people’s baggage bumping into her face or having her feet trodden on. Not for the first time she promised herself she would get up earlier every morning and avoid some of the rush. She really hated these seats. She couldn’t turn her head to stare out of the window, watch the tunnel lights flash by and lose herself in her thoughts. She never read a book or newspaper while she was travelling, frightened she’d miss her stop, and that was another thing wrong with these seats. She liked to be able to read the station names as the train pulled in, and from here they were sometimes obscured by standing passengers. Like now. She began to feel hot and claustrophobic with the press of people around her. As the train doors closed she craned her neck and caught the name of the station they were just leaving. Oh, God, another eight stops. She sighed, closed her eyes and tried to make herself shrink further into her seat.
During the next couple of stops the carriage almost emptied. She thought about moving seats but decided to stay where she was. After reading the adverts she gazed at the people opposite. There was a man reading a newspaper - The Times by the look of it. How had he managed to read it when the train was crowded she wondered? Two girls were huddled together, giggling. “Talking boyfriends,” she thought. Next was a rather large woman knitting - knitting! She smiled to herself and the woman glanced up and grinned back. Flushing, she looked away and then she noticed him. The man in the corner looked ill, his face had a greenish tinge and he was sweating profusely. She examined him further and saw that his hands were shaking and his eyes were darting everywhere, he kept licking his lips and he seemed to be having difficulty breathing. He looked nervous and he repeatedly looked at his watch.
Jane was just about to go over to offer help when a terrible thought struck her. She had noticed a haversack on the floor by his feet, and he was wearing a padded anorak, even though it was mid summer. Looking harder at him she saw that his skin was swarthy and his hair jet black.
“Oh dear God, he’s a suicide bomber!” She felt her stomach turn over and she began to tremble. She tried to stand up, to get as far away from him as possible, but her legs wouldn’t work. She began to whimper, her lips moving in silent, frantic prayer. The man raised his eyes and looked in her direction. Desperately she tried to smile, perhaps if she looked friendly he wouldn’t blow the train up while she was on it. He ignored her smile and again looked at his watch, pulling his coat closer. She felt the train slowing for the next stop and tried once more to get to her feet so she could jump off, but she was totally paralysed with fear. She saw the man reach forward for the bag. She opened her mouth to beg him to stop but no sound came. He began to rise. As the train drew to a halt she screwed her eyes tight shut, covered her head with her arms and cowered in her seat, waiting for the explosion and the pain.
“Are you all right, love?” said a concerned voice.
Jane unclenched her teeth and took a deep shuddering breath. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked round for the man. He was gone, she caught a glimpse of him on the platform, leaning against the wall, looking as if he was about to fall down. Heart still thudding she looked up at the woman who’d leant across the aisle to help her.
She smiled shakily, embarrassed, and said “Yes, fine. Thank you, I… I’ll be all right. Just felt a bit faint. I feel so silly…”
“No need for that, love,” said the woman. “Felt a bit hot a stuffy myself. And did you see that poor chap who just got off? Right state he was in, I tell you. Now, you take deep breaths. That’s right. Are you sure you’ll be OK? I’m getting off at the next stop, but I’ll stay with you if you want.”
Assuring the woman she would be fine Jane even managed to wave cheerfully as the woman left. Nevertheless she was so shaken by what had happened that at the next stop she got off herself, and caught the next train home. She phoned her office to say she wasn’t feeling well and spent the rest of the day alternatively berating herself for her over active imagination, and weeping at the sheer horror of the experience.
She felt no better the next morning and decided she needed more time before facing the tube again. By late afternoon she had recovered enough to laugh at herself.
“God,” she thought. “I was like some Victorian miss, having the vapours. I could never tell anyone how stupid I was.”
When morning came, however, she didn’t feel so good. She had a blinding headache and felt sick and shaky. At first she thought it was psychosomatic, an over-reaction to Tuesday’s events, but as she started to get ready for work she knew it was more than that. She felt so hot, she was sure she had a temperature and she couldn’t stop shaking. As she sat at the kitchen table, trying to force down some coffee, she heard John Humphries announce-
“We have just been issued an urgent health warning by the Government. Would everyone who was travelling on the 07.20 Upminster to Richmond District Line train on Tuesday 25th June, or was in the vicinity of platform 3 at Charing Cross Underground Station at 0845 contact 0800 123654 immediately. It is essential that you stay indoors. I repeat, do not leave your house, or allow anyone living with you to do so. A man, who collapsed and died at Charing Cross that morning, has been identified as Dr. Yousef Mohammed, a research scientist at Porton Down. He was found to have been suffering from an unknown and very contagious viral disease.
As she listened to the message being repeated Jane’s blood ran cold. It was her train! It was the man in the corner, he had been a sort of suicide bomber after all, albeit unwittingly. She laid her aching head on the table and quietly began to weep.

The Truth? Could be.

I've called this story "The Truth", and who knows, perhaps this is exactly what happened


THE TRUTH
Well, hello. Sso nicce to ssee you. Ssuch pleassure to have a vissitor, not many people bother thesse dayss.
Oh, you’re from The Garden Newss, and want to hear about Them you ssay? Well, I’m jusst the persson, I’ve been wanting to have my ssay for a long time now. Right o, assk away.
My name? Oh, I’ve lotss of namess, not all of them nicce, but in the ‘casst lisst”, sso to ssay, I appear ass ‘The Sserpent,’ but you can call me Nick.
Right, let me sset the record sstraight. Sshe wass ssuch a lovely girl, young and innossent , sshe used to come and ssit… Oh look, thiss iss ridiculouss, would you mind awfully if I dropped the accent? Those sibilants are such hard work and I only do it for effect. Supposed to make me sound sinister or something. Stupid idea!
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, Eve.
As I say she was very pleasant, always had a friendly word, used to sit with me for hours whenever she wanted to get away from him.
Mmm, him. All that ‘dominion over the creatures that crawl on the earth and inhabit the sky’ stuff went to his head. Strutted around like the lord of all he surveyed, giving his orders, even to her, poor thing. It was “Eve, do this,” “ Eve do that,” “ Eve fetch this,” “Eve carry that,” all day long, She never had a moment’s peace when he was around.
That’s why she spent so much time with me, of course. She used to sit on a branch with me coiled round it - and round her too sometimes - talking about this and that. You know, who was doing what with whom, what the rabbits were getting up to, the meaning of life, that sort of thing. Ooh, and fashion. That’s how she started playing around with leaves and things; putting a flower in her hair, or making a necklace out of leaves and berries. Suited her, I must say, she was a beautiful girl. Mind, it got a bit out of hand when she found the fig leaves. You know what they say, the more you cover up the more alluring you look. Well, that was the start of it really. That and the rabbits. She asked me what it was exactly that they were doing and, of course, I told her. Well I didn’t see any harm in it, after all it was going on all over the place. She didn’t understand at first, and it took me ages to explain. I can see her now, thoughtfully chewing on an apple, and then the penny dropped. She looked at me in horror, her face all red and tears in her eyes.
“Oh, that’s disgusting!” she cried.” I could never do that!”
“Just as well, Ducky” I said. “Hasn’t the Landlord put a clause in the lease, forbidding it? No, Deary, you just forget all about it. Ooh,” I added, trying to change the subject, “Doesn’t that blackberry look nice, just there, in your navel?” But she’d gone all quiet. She left soon after that and I didn’t see her for days, then she suddenly turned up, sobbing her heart out.
“Oh, Beelzebub,” she cried, (her little pet name for me, you know) “Oh, Beelzebub, I’m so miserable. He won’t leave me alone. He’s on at me all the time and I can’t stand it anymore. What am I going to do?”
Well, it turned out, she’d gone and told him about the bloody rabbits, silly cow. I was so cross I could have stamped my feet.
Eh?.. Oh, yes, but you know what I mean. Anyway, don’t interrupt.
Once he got the idea into his head he wouldn’t let it drop. It was pester, pester, pester all day long. ‘Course, in the end she gave in. Apparently he pulled rank on her - you know “I was here first,” “ I’m older than you,” “It’s my garden and you’ll do what I say,” that kind of thing. And he sulked. Need I say more? The first I knew of it was when I next saw him, big cheesy grin, extra bit of swagger in his strut, smug look on his face. Git!
Anyway, he made such a big deal of it, boasting to all and sundry, that the Landlord got to hear of it. Well, was He angry. Down He comes in a thunderbolt, all billowing clouds and sound FX, very Star Wars! Ranting and raving about broken clauses and threatening all sorts of reprisals. She was ever so upset, kept saying she was so ashamed and really sorry, and in the end she ran off - right out of the garden!
As for that Adam, slimy sod, - well he blamed it on her, would you believe.
“Oh, Your High and Mightiness”, he grovelled. “She made me do it, Sir. She was gagging for it, Your Reverence, dressed in all those leaves and flowers, and as for that blackberry… Bit of a slut if you ask me, You’re Eminence.”
Now I’ll say this for Him Upstairs, He doesn’t like crawlers. (Well, look at me,) Anyway, He pointed His Finger and Proclaimed:-
“Shut up! I will hear no more. You’ve sinned and that’s that. You’ve got responsibilities now. What if she becomes a Mother? You will leave the Garden and find her and cherish her. And until you learn to treat her with respect you are banished forever. Now sod off.”
And with that He was gone, in a great big POUF!
Adam just stood there, quivering with fear and whimpering, then he saw me.
“It’s all your fault,” he snivelled.
“Don’t you start on me,” I told him. “I didn’t invent it. No, and neither did you, you nasty little worm, though you seemed to think so, the way you acted once you’d got your own way.” Ooh, I was so cross!
“And as for all that blaming her, that‘s evil, that is,” I said. “I thought I was supposed to be the nasty one round here, but you take the biscuit. Now, trot along, little boy, and do what Daddy told you to,” I sneered, and with that I turned my back on him and left him to it.
Well, that’s about all there is to the story really. He was just like all men, chasing after it as if his life depended on it, then when he gets it, he’s doing the woman a favour. Makes me spit! And he obviously didn’t learn his lesson ‘cos they never came back, and the Garden became a ruin. I was made redundant, and that’s why I’m here, in this ‘Home for the Fallen’.
Sex has got a lot to answer for, if you ask me.

Bitter and Twisted?....Moi?

NO RHYME OR REASON
Or
A thought on the subject of competition winners


They don’t like poems that rhyme any more.
Keats, ‘Byshe’ and Wordsworth would turn in their graves
No praise for their work today that’s for sure
Rhymeless meanderings get all the raves.
Full stops and commas are missing throughout.
Iambic pentameters no longer hold.
It makes no sense and you’re left in some doubt;
Is this a pig in a poke you’ve been sold?
Free form’s the thing but how anyone knows
The point of the thing I just cannot guess.
I can write that but to my mind it’s prose.
Call me old fashioned and I’ll agree. Yes
I’m told by the pundits I’m way out of line -
Romantics are out but nonsense is fine.

A good read

The Spanish Bride
I first started reading Georgette Heyer historical romances in my late teens, early twenties. A master of her genre her books are not to be compared with the mawkish muck churned out by Barbara Cartland by the er… um, cartload. True, her heroes are, for the most part, cut from the same cloth, being, usually, the strong, masterful type, but her heroines are far removed from the milksops swooning and simpering in Cartland’s books. Heyer’s women are feisty, often not overburdened by beauty and brimming with common sense. That said the books themselves make light reading, the sort of books you take out to the garden and read while lazing in a hammock, and they are perfect for an early night when flu threatens. They won’t tax your brain, they raise the odd chuckle and, although somewhat formulaic, they are an enjoyable indulgence.
I have read most of her books two or three times over the years but I recently came across one I was not familiar with and this one is very different. Called The Spanish Bride, the action takes place in Spain during Wellington’s campaign against Napoleon. It opens just before the bloody battle for Badajos; the British defeat the French and in the aftermath horrific reprisals are meted out to the townsfolk by the rank and file soldiers. Two sisters, members of the Spanish aristocracy, flee the carnage and throw themselves on the mercy of the British. The elder is married and wishes to find her husband who is serving in the north, but she seeks asylum for her fourteen year old sister, Juana. Enter our hero, one Harry Smith, who falls instantly in love with the girl. They marry and Juana, refusing to be sent back to Harry’s family in England, journeys with him throughout Spain, as Wellington pursues the French. A year of war follows and we watch Juana grow from a hot-tempered girl to a heroine worthy of the name. She is resourceful, brave and cheerful, loved by all who are in contact with her, and fiercely protective of her husband’s welfare. Heyer’s knowledge of Wellington’s strategies is masterly, and her depictions of the battles are horrific, as are the deprivations suffered by our pair as they progress, with Wellington, to victory.
The novel then charts Juana’s fortunes in England where she is left alone, with neither friend nor language, while Harry is sent to fight in the American War of Independence, and culminates in the butchery of Waterloo, again described graphically in sickening detail. We experience the terror of the horses as they are ridden to death and cower from the constant bombardment of shells. We hear the screams of the wounded and weep for the loss of friends we have come to know and love. However, the writing is such that we have no desire to skip the more harrowing passages and are gripped to the end.
As I said, as far removed from Cartland as chalk and cheese, and because of all the military detail would possibly appeal to men too. However the most incredible thing is these people actually existed and their adventures as detailed in the book are all true. The exploits of Harry Smith in later life are well chronicled and make interesting reading. Among other things he served in South Africa and is famed for making a 700 mile ride in just 6 days. He later became Governor of the province and the town of Ladysmith was named in honour of Juana. Search for him on the web and you'll be amazed.

Justice

As I've said we keep a few chickens as egglayers and pets - definitely not for the table! Here is a short poem which illustrates my feelings

JUSTICE
“Poor Flo,” he said, “is getting thinner,
We’ll have to have her in for dinner.”
The very thought made my heart sicken.
She is my very favourite chicken.

“We can’t do that,” I cried in horror.
“Oh yes we can, do it tommorer.
Casserole or fry or stew,
I’ll leave the method up to you.”

I went to get the kitchen knife
I knew I had to take a life.
His attitude made my heart harden
So now he’s buried in the garden.