The Ghost of August Holiday Past - or - Haunted in York

York is proud of its spiritual reputation and quite rightly so. The Minster dominates the skyline, overlooking many other churches and chapels along ancient streets, and all bounded by even more ancient city walls. In fact, there are no buildings taller than the Minster in the city; no other building is allowed closer to heaven.

York also has more pubs per head (allegedly) than any other city in England, serving spirits in liquid form.

And York prides itself on the quantity and quality of its ghostly spirits. Which, judging by the quantity of ads for ghost walks, haunt every available street corner. I lost count of the ghost-walk pamphlets I was handed.

Peter and I didn’t take up any of these offers but we did visit ‘York’s Most Haunted House’ at 35 Stonegate. This is the house made famous on TV’s Most Haunted show, where the ghost hunter, Derek Acorah, was once ‘almost strangled’ by a spirit. Well, hmm…

After collecting leaflets with a £2.00 off voucher (per booking, not per head!) we saw no reason why we should have to pay as a couple. So naturally we decided we didn’t know each other – never met before! – and paid our separate admissions with separate leaflets.

Inside the tiny entrance hall, a very small, and very tearful, boy of maybe seven or eight, sat on a wooden bench, red eyed and pale cheeked, twisting a paper hanky round and round in his fingers and sniffling quietly to himself. I kid you not: the child was visibly trembling.

The matronly figure at the pay desk told me that his mother had taken him into the Haunted house, and the poor wee scrap had been so terrified by the dark and the atmosphere, and his over active imagination, that he had just panicked and run. His dear sweet mother, having seen her offspring out into the light, had promptly vanished back into the house to finish her tour – leaving this wide-eyed and trembling infant to the kindness of strangers.

It was all there – the pathos! the fear! the anticipation! As an example of all that the ‘Haunted’ experience could promise it was hard to beat. But ideal parenting? Not for me to say. It’s probably not an ideal place for sensitive kids – so be warned.

We had a short wait before we could enter the house and spent it watching infra-red images on the security screens of bewildered people already inside wandering through darkened rooms, stopping to stare around them and not a word passing between than that I could see.

Every few moments the camera showed tiny white blobs streaking across the room; some slow, some fast, some in straight lines and others weaving around. Well I’ve watched Most Haunted. I know all the terminology. I know that those are ‘orbs’ according to the ghost hunters. Or moths, depending on your perspective…

I am open to new ideas and experiences. I can and do sense many things that are not easily explained. Yet when it was our turn I was in two minds on how to approach it. Clairvoyant? Or sceptic?

Once inside that decision was made for me when an over-loud voice-over began its monologue on the house and its history. For most of the tour I was struggling to tune out that piped voice. I wanted to ‘sense’ what was around me. To soak up the atmosphere and let the imagination run riot.

Yes, there was a spot in a small room full of pictures where I could detect a tremble, and in the séance room a faint, intermittent, chill played on the back of my right hand. I am sensitive to atmosphere, and know for sure there are more things in the world than can be explained, but I failed to get anything like the sense of menace or sadness that I have in other times and places. I was left feeling that the very thing the venue promotes is being razzamatazzed out of existence.

Entertaining, yes, and the tales were sad enough, and tragic enough, but the radio-theatre style re-enactments were just a little too stage-managed to create any genuine sense of verisimilitude.

But don’t be put off making the trip yourself, however. It is entertaining, and I could see how it was ‘spooky’ enough to cause a small boy to run screaming. It’s a great way for any devotee of the ‘unexplained’ to while away an hour.

Pilates Madness

I go to the local leisure centre twice a week for Pilates classes.

For those of you not familiar with Pilates it is a holistic exercise that involves body and mind.

A calming and strengthening process where quiet is not just preferred, it is essential.

But this week?

Madness ensued!


For some inexplicable reason the Centre Manager swapped the classes round (local politics we are led to believe) - so that the Pilates class (18 people) was swapped from the dance studio to the Dojo – and the ball and step aerobics class (6 people) was put into the Dance Studio.

On the face of it that sounds fine – except that the Dojo is half the size – being an old undersized badminton/squash court – and thus has room for just 15 yoga mats – meaning 3 of our number were out in the corridor!


Plus... the Dojo also has short walls. I.E. they do not reach the ceiling – an open plan ceiling if you will – and every sound from the weights room on a mezzanine directly above; from the new squash courts; from main hall where both badminton and bowls club were meeting, yes, EVERY sound, echoes through every section.


It - was - noisy.


Now... there we were in an ancient padded cell - it had padded floor and half padded walls (the other half being peeling paint effect). The Dojo's floor was also filthy because some lovely person had walked round it in muddy shoes (even though footwear is, of course, forbidden in the dojo).

You get the picture?

Conducive to relaxation this was not.

But nothing ventured we began the class.

Then... rattle, rattle, rattle. Where was that coming from?

Was it the ratchetts on the weights? No. Far more rhythmic than accidental.

Was someone trying to wind us up?

One of our happy band raced up to the mezzanine to ask the weight jockeys to shut the **** up...

But these poor muscle mules are innocent!!

Unbeknownst to us a band of guerilla toddlers had occupied the crèche in the next door room.

Now we had a handful of hyperactive toddlers – complete with entire percussion section. Xylophone, drum, triangle – you name it – bashing away at full pelt.


Then the rain began – in the way it can in the Peaks – onto a corrugated metal roof.


No amount of turning up the volume on the new age cd can get over the wall of sound – especially when it's competing with howls of laughter from the class.

And the Leisure Centre had one last spoke to stick into the proceedings.

Or to be more precise into the Leisure Centre's own roof!

It leaks. Like the proverbial...

Class was finally not so much dismissed as dissolved.

But laughter is also good therapy you know.

It’s Not Easy Being Green (or safe)

I don’t have an especially large veg patch.

But currently I do have a glut of green sprouting broccoli. Loverly!

Nothing wrong with that.

Pick ’em, cook ’em, eat ’em is great for the most part. The flavour of really fresh veg is so very different from the tired specimens in any supermarket; and its home grown organic veg at that (she adds – piously)

And as for having a glut of fresh grown veg? No problem. After all - we do have the technology (a newly purchased chest freezer) specially bought for the expected excess.

No. My problem is not with the quality or quantity of the garden’s bounty.

It’s more with the zoology.

Firstly - the cat problem.

Getting anything to exceed 2 inches in height with 3 cats digging around is not easy. My barricades of canes and nets and birch twigs is a testament to cat-proofing ingenuity.

Getting anything grown under the onslaught of the pigeons is like wise a matter of sticks and string and old cds set to flutter and clatter and deter these feathered vermin. (In this sphere the cats actually come into their own – or at least young Oberon does - he being the relentless hunter).

So what else is there?

The large toad population, as well as our local hedge-pigs, are waging a sterling anti-mollusc campaign.

No. My current problem is harder to spot with my bumper broccoli bonanza.

We pick the florets, we (carefully) wash the florets, we cook the florets, we eat the florets…

We find two beautifully sautéed green caterpillars in the bottom of the cooking pan…

And I can’t get the image out of my mind!

If there were two small green corpses at the bottom of the pan… how many stayed in the broccoli… that went onto the plates… that… aaaaargh!

Camouflage is a wonderful thing… in moderation.

Cats Hate Water (?)

When I settle anywhere in the garden why do my cats seem to see it as their cue to show off?

So – its a tranquil June evening and I am sipping tea in my favourite spot for a sunny evening - beside our ‘tiny’ garden pond - and I am watching the red and blue Damsel Flies flitting across the water - the scene is set.

Enter stage left and right; Oberon and Dilly Dumpling.

They flounce and bounce, tails curled into furry question marks, and play endless rounds of ‘tag’; rushing back and fore - closer and closer to where I sit as they dash from one hedge to the other – rolling around the grass in a hairy ball for a few seconds in pretend fights.

Yes – getting closer with each pass – to the water.

Cats are supposed to hate water. So why do my three seem hell bent on sampling its delights?

Oberon catches up with Dilly, leaping two feet in the air before crashing down on her head to clout her round the ears. They tussle, rolling over and over…

And sploosh!

Oberon has over-egged his jump and tail and bum are sub merged for… oh – a nano-second at the very least - before he is air-born and legging it into the hedge. Highly indignant he peers at me from under the hawthorn – sneezing and blinking his embarrassment.

But it’s a short lived recess. In a few minutes they are back to their unending tag.

Closer and closer – skirting the edging stones on the pond - jumping over my outstretched legs.

Oberon hides behind a large flower pot waiting for Dilly to rush by. He crouches. He wriggles. He leaps – executing one of his more enthusiastic ‘Tigger’ bounces with at least two feet of clean air between him and the ground...

But Dilly is wiser to him than he knows. She swerves. She dodges. She turns in her own length – so graceful and so fast. Confident in her skills of evasion! She is a cat! A supreme being! She can do anything! She can walk on water…

Wrong!

Two strides across the duck weed – and then…

Sploosh!!

Dilly's rear end plummets beneath the greenness. Before I can even begin to giggle she performs a perfect vertical take off – taking tips from Tom and Jerry – out, across garden, and in through the window - strewing duck weed and pond water in all directions.

Floorshow over for the evening? Not a bit of it.

Enter the heavyweight contender - Betty Poop. Regal - bulky - and none too bright.

She strolls into view – sees Oberon rolling in the dust on the edging stones – and tries a tentative, elephantine, gambol. She pats his tail. Oberon is up and dancing! The contender in his sparring ring. He pats her chubby bum - leaps over her – she rolls – trying to catch him as he glides over head … and…

Sploosh!

Betty slides gracefully into the shallow end of the pond.

Here the traditional pattern of sploosh-and-sprint is broken. Unlike her more agile - and more aware - pals Betty does not run on contact with that despised element 'water'. No. She sits, leaning against the sedge grass, blinking, looking around her, totally perplexed…

Sorry to say – I could only sit and laugh - in rib busting howls - as she sits, top leaning into the undergrowth and gazing down at her submerged bottom half. You almost hear her - 'What happened? How did I get here?'

After a good twenty seconds she finally heaves her podgy body out of the pond, and, pausing only to shake each sodden leg in turn, stomp, very slowly and deliberately, back down the lawn to the window from whence she had come just a minute before.

I am laughing at the crying stage now - and she pauses at the window to glare at me., Because the one thing cats hate more than water? Being laughed at!!

Head up – tail erect – haughty distain spoiled only by the duck weed clinging to soaked and bedraggled fur – she hops through the window to sulk for an hour.

Oh yes – Cats and water J The cats may disagree – but from where I am sitting? Hours of endless entertainment.

Newsflash!!

Burke and Hare have gone! Hopefully they have found a new home!

Assorted Flavours? Sorted!

Recently a combined team of chemists from the Royal Society of Chemistry and Keele University descended on the courtyard of Burlington House in Piccadilly.

Why?

To carry out a taste-test on Cadbury's and Hershey's chocolate bars, as part of the Royal Society of Chemistry's ‘Food 2009’ survey of food production, transportation, storage, consumption and waste.

300 members of the public from around the world, (almost 200 of whom were raised outside of the UK), were handed squares of American Hershey Bar and British Cadbury Bar chocolate.

Results showed that 74% preferred Cadbury’s and 26% preferred Hershey's.

And of those raised in North America 71% preferred Cadbury’s!

Go Cadbury!!!

Under Seige - or - The Battle of the Greenhouse

This week I am reporting on the Battle of the Greenhouse - The latest bulletin on those skinny old bags of bones.

Burke and Hare…

Burke and Hare are very affectionate and cry to be fussed whenever I go into the gar

den. The slightest attention sends them into deliriums of joy.

But they are also consumate claim jumpers - who appear to feel that - failing all attempts to move into the house – taking over the greenhouse is next best thing.

Which would not be a problem if they did not swear at me every time I go in to water my veg!

Apparently watering pots on the greenhouse staging - when they are kipping underneath - is not appreciated... but as they are always there its that or let my plants die of thirst. And worse? They are now treating one corner as a potty... which is not good for for my tomatoes I can tell you! -

Though possibly some sort of statement on Burke and Hare's parts ref. the enforced cold showers...

But the war raging over possession of the Greenhouse is as nothing compared with the veritable siege being waged on the house.

They grow bolder by the day!!

I can no longer leave a door or window open for even a few minutes - by the slightest chink – or they are in!

When I call Obi, Betty and Dilly in to eat I have to take a head count as they race past, or else find all five seated by the kitchen counter waiting for their supper.

I am starting to feel like a club bouncer as I utilise all the defensive tactics at my disposal (barricades, water pistols, yard brooms etc ) to dissuade these old darlings from rushing the door every time it opens.

And I am constantly forced to physically move them aside to gain either access of egress.

Every evening, for the past few weeks - come rain or shine and way into the wee small hours - these poor old codgers sit outside the back door peering into the kitchen and looking pathetic – half standing if I go near them in the hope that at last I will finally relent and and let them into the warm.

Now that I can get closer to them I can see they have huge bald patches. In fact poor Hare is almost completely bald in the belly! They must have been neglected for far longer than the two months that they have been in my garden to get into this state.

(sigh)… but no, no, no – I can’t have 5 cats… I mustn’t!!!

But what can be done?

They are sweet old boys - but 5 cats? Not on... however cat-obsessed I may be...

I have tried contacting both the CPL and RSPCA – both of whom are chocolate teapots with no suggestions beyond offering to pay ‘some’ of the vet fees to get them fit and MAYBE get them on a list for rehoming in a few months time; and meanwhile I will, of course, home them at my expense, etc, etc!

Anyone reading this want to adopt two cats?

Burke and Hare

Our three cats are great

But what to do about the pair of moth-eaten black and white toms from along the terrace?

Something of a problem is looming and getting ever loomier.

Gossip has it locally that the owner of said pair has locked them out of the house because they don’t ‘get on’ with her baby. Is she still feeding them? I have not the slightest clue (She is not the sort of person you approach with such a question.)

Nor do I have any idea what these two feline assassins are called - but I have dubbed them:

Burke (a long haired cat, so hard to tell how thin he is, but shedding hair in big bald spotswhere his hair is falling out). and Hare (long, skinny and moth-eaten - with matchstick legs and even more bald patches than his brother) So why Burke and Hare, you ask?

For the swathe they are cutting through the local wildlife. Nothing is safe. Nothing! Rodents, birds, amphibians. They will catch and eat pretty much anything!

Last weekend Burke was even on the pub roof after the jackdaws nesting in the chimneys – and being mobbed for his pains. That has to be one hungry cat attempting to storm a jackdaw colony three storeys up for his next meal!

And now B & H are desperately trying to move in with us. Sneaking in doors and windows every chance they get – to steal food in the main. But also, I suspect, for some warmth.

Of course our pampered trio never turn a hair. Only this morning Dill was sitting on the window sill and did not even look up when Burke flew past her head like a hairy torpedo. He had been sitting on the landing just three feet away from her - having polished off the remains of the cat breakfast.

I think he would have been quite happy to stay there all day – and was only legging it because he saw me in the kitchen.

(I have that affect on some humans as well.)

But what to do? The RSPCA’s answer is that unless there is obvious cruelty they can/will do nothing – but that I can catch them and take then to a vet if I like.

Oh yeah. Like that’s going to happen…

I feel so sorry for them - yet what can I do?

At this rate I can see us ending up with five cats...

Anyone know where I can buy a purple hat?

Name(ing) of the Beasts

You realise once an animal comes into the house that names you thought might fit… just don’t.

So once our feline trio had got their paws under the table it became very apparent very quickly that so far as the girls are concerned? Deities they are not!

Thus Freya and Frigga became – respectively – Dilly Dump and Betty Poop; Dilly and Betty in polite company.

But our striped lad? A bundle of mischief, so Puck was the obvious choice. But not something I fancied calling out late in the evening.

Would you want to go out into the yard and shout Here Puck! Pucky, pucky. pucky pu-u-u-ck…

Just a bit too easy for our elderly neighbours to mis-hear.

But in keeping with a fey theme – my first name I had considered for him was Oberon. Obi for short. And it suits him.

And that they answer to Betty, Dilly and Obi - its official!

Cats on a hot plastic blog

You wonder what there is worth putting onto a blog.

And then you go and get yourself three cats. Yes, that’s not one, or even two, but three. After our old lady died we swore we would not get another cat at least for a while.

But you miss their company - miss sitting at the computer with a feline pal zedding away just in hand’s reach.

And as I sit here now I have two of them in my study doing just that. The third one? Well… more of her later.

Peter and I saw some cats on the Cat Protection League website. Two handsome cats in need of a home. Okay they were 5 years old, but looked like they needed some tlc. So I duly emailed the CPL about them. We got some information and rang the owners of the cats. She had done a moonlight. Moved away leaving no trace – I hope she took the cats with her.

So we tried again. Got the CPL home visit and was offered several cats pairs (we wanted two, they are company for each other). There was Nelson and Admiral, both a year old, and yes... both were missing an eye (each). No one knew how they were injured but they had turned up together in need of vet care.

We were very tempted. How could you refuse two that needed a home so much?

But closer to home was a pair called Jessabelle and Suki. Smoke grey (blue?) and white ladies about a year old. So we arranged an appointment to see them.

Meanwhile back on the hillside a pair of scraggy local (ex)tomcats were trying to move into our house and sneaked in given even half a chance. I discovered they belonged to a neighbour who was shutting them out during the day as they did not get on with her year old child. Nice enough cats, but obviously quite old and frankly somewhat mangy… quite literally; with huge bald patches on their hind quarters,. Though whether this was actually to mange infestation or that they were being plucked bald by an enthusiastic toddler I am not sure.

But back to Jezz and Su. We toddled off to see the pair and that was it. Once seen? Had to have! But in the same pen was a smoke grey tabby names … wait for it... Smokey… he was just seven months old, and making desperate attempts to attract my attention.

Well I could not leave him there… now could I?

So we paid our ‘voluntary’ amount and there we were the same day with three cats.

That evening I had a call from a friend.
‘you wanted a cat didn’t you? I know someone trying to find a home – for free.’

The following day I was stopped by the neighbour asking if I wanted to adopt the afore-mentioned black twins… I declined that offer a little more readily given that one of them had deposited half a dead pigeon on my doorstep that very morning!

We had cats coming at us from all angles.

But we are content. We have our three cats, albeit with pretty naff names.

So - we thought – lets go with a mythological theme. Oberon and Titania and…? no third name came to mind. Okay so Loki, Freya and Frigga? Perfect!!

Loki is a little menace, the trickster incarnate.(He has climbed the yucca and tipped it over twice, tries very hard to catch washing through the glass window on the machine, and teased his adopted sisters night and day. )


Freya is a walking stomach who located the cat food cupboard, dried biscuit jar and the fridge within half a day. Gentle but determined; a perfect lady with great guile.




So far so good.

But Frigga? Alas, poor Frigga. She is very pretty, with delicate features and sleek attire – but a bear of little brain. And, further more, with the lamentable habit of using the space behind the tv in lieu of the kitty loo… despite all attempts so far to dissuade her.

Her regal name has been rapidly dropped in favour of something more in keeping with her peculiar nature.

Yes folks – make way for Betty Poop.