Lady Di and High St Ken v Bacon rolls on High St Fens

Oh Noah! I think I'll need an ark today rather than a car for my weekly trip to that great metropolis known as London.

Royal residence: Kensington Palace was the home of Lady
Diana from 1981. These gates were covered in floral tributes
after her death in the summer of 1997. Was it that long ago?

Ooh, arr, I'm venturing south, unlike my amiable 30-something neighbour who has never been to the capital.
"It's a lorng way, inet," he says with an accent you might perhaps associate with Long John Silver [YouTube, Talk like a Pirate, 1950s Robert Newton.avi] and the Singing Postman [YouTube, Allan Smethurst - Hev you got a loight boy?], all rolled into one.
"And what wud I wanna to goo there for? Everything I needs is 'ere. I'll stay in these parts, thank you very murch."
That's the Fens, folks.
It's a mucky, murky, horrible, dank day. Yes, we expect April showers, but it's cold and windy, with temperatures below average; it rains hard, then it stops; then there's more of the same. At least we had the odd blast of sunshine yesterday when the weather was more like a pair of my socks - occasional good spells, damp, changeable and certainly unpredictable!
Three weeks ago [April 5] our water authority declared a hosepipe ban because of drought conditions. Since then, we've had non-stop rain. And yet March was generally dry and temperatures were some of the hottest on record, according to the Met Office. Phew, scorchio!
Took my car for a good clean a couple of days ago but now it's almost as dirty as before. The Fen roads get very muddy and dangerous because of the agricultural vehicles going to and from the fields and signs saying "Mud on the road" are about the only concession farmers make to road users [see also Road Rage post].
The hens - Martha and the Vandellas - have really churned up their compound which is similar to the Somme battlefield even though we let them wander about in the paddock. Unlike our girls, the goats are very weather-aware and the first spot of rain sees them rush to the shelter of their stable. They are canny animals, though, and always post a lookout at the door so that when the rain stops they know it's safe to head back outside.
I will have to take care on these roads as I travel to the capital for a long shift in the office. Yes, the hurly burly of the big city. What a contrast it is to the wind-battered mucky Fens.

Square route: a place with history

Nice but pricey: the Scarsdale pub

Chelsea tractors [expensive four-wheel drive cars] instead of the genuine John Deere variety, clean streets without a hint of mud, smart, famous and expensively-dressed people tripping down High Street Ken(sington), heading for a trendy coffee shop or posh restaurant, spending big in expensive fashion outlets, browsing in antique shops or buying odds and sods from upmarket charity shops, because it makes them feel good. And all this activity against a backdrop of some beautiful buildings, many of them historic. And, of course, world-famous Kensington Palace, and the Royal Albert Hall are just a short hop away. Kensington Palace, once the home of Lady Di, has now reopened after a two-year £12million refurbishment. [http://www.hrp.org.uk/kensingtonpalace/]
Wonder what she would have thought about the Fens? She must have been aware of the area because we are less than an hour's drive from Sandringham, another royal abode.
But as much as I enjoy London and all her charms, I'm always relieved and glad to get back, away from traffic jams, road rage, congestion charges, friendless faces, the unreliable Tube [signal failures are rife in heavy rain] and exorbitant prices placed on the privilege of being in the capital.
We actually have a shop in our village, you know. Well, it's a general stores, off licence and Post Office selling everything and anything and the lovely people who run it work very hard and long hours.
They have withstood some sharp competition, too, but one of their competitors closed about a year ago and the other on our High Street shut down a few weeks ago. That will open again soon under a different guise, as a cafe and small bakery. Large bap for you, sir? Has Sid James walked in? Or would you prefer a roll? Not something you often hear in Kensington.
There's also an excellent restaurant and we still have a pub in this village.
OK, we don't have magnificent rows of Georgian houses like Edwardes Square which is just off High Street Ken and our recently-revamped pub bears no comparison to The Scarsdale Tavern which nestles in the royal borough's quieter quarter.
Yet my stay in good ol' London Town won't be for long. I'll savour that mug of steaming coffee when I return home, then slip on my old muddy boots and venture out into the windy Fenscape. Possibly at about the same time as some residents are putting on their Le Chameau Wellington boots and wandering through the private central garden in Edwardes Square.

I haven't spoken to my mother-in-law in years - I don't like to interrupt her!

It looks as though we might be in for another bad night as the curse of Alzheimer's strikes again.
I used to love Les Dawson's harmless, but amusing, jokes about mother-in-laws which are now so politically incorrect [I'm talking about the gags], such as:

• I can always tell when the mother-in-law is coming to stay. The mice throw themselves on the traps.
• I've just returned from a pleasure trip. I took the mother-in-law to the airport.
• I took the mother-in-law to Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors and one of the attendants said "Keep her moving sir, we're stock-taking!"

Rogue: but Sweep's a hit with old and young

Even my mother-in-law, who lives with us after the death of her husband, used to laugh as the brilliant Dawson reeled off his gags. And tonight she was smiling as she bade us goodnight before pottering off upstairs to bed at about 10.15pm. It usually takes her an hour to settle down ... but not tonight.
As we pass midnight, she can be heard stomping to and from her bathroom [in her shoes because the slippers have been swallowed up again in that great Bermuda-style dementia triangle], sometimes muttering to herself, sometimes singing old tunes.
Earlier in the evening, as we sat watching TV, she urged my wife and I to be quiet and to listen. To what, we thought? She pointed in the air, and said: "Can you hear that. They keep singing Happy Birthday. It sounds very nice but they've been at it for ages. I didn't know it was someone's birthday. How nice."
Alas, nobody was singing, but to an Alzheimer's sufferer, the songs can be very real.
A couple of days ago, she claimed someone was belting out It's a Long Way to Tipperary and last week she heard a choir singing various hymns. "It sounds lovely - it reminds me of the Salvation Army when I was a little girl."

On the march: an East Anglian branch 

Both dogs join us in front of the TV each evening, and my mother-in-law is particularly fond of lovable rogue Sweep. She was frightened of dogs before she came to live with us, but Sweep has changed all that. "I used to walk on the other side of the road if I saw a dog coming towards me," she often says. "But now... oh, I love this little doggy."
Watching TV can be quite demanding for her. We have subtitles on all the programmes to make it easier to follow but alas, reading as well as writing is becoming more difficult. She used to love writing, often read biographies and was a crossword fanatic. An Oxford English dictionary was always close at hand when we called in years ago. Those days have long passed. One down, causing pain or suffering, five letters, beginning with C. Yes, cruel. Bloody cruel.
And following a plot on TV is impossible because her short-term memory is just minutes. She thinks any programme she might be watching, whether it be a soap opera or a crime thriller, has ended as soon as there is an ad break. Whodunit? Who cares if you don't have a memory? Yes, she has lost the plot, and it really pains her during rare moments of lucidity. I might add that the emotion felt by a daughter who is not always recognised by her mum can be equally painful.
Ironically, the BBC were tonight showing a Louis Theroux programme about dementia and much of the show was based in Phoenix, Arizona, a place he describes as the capital of the forgetful and confused.
We decided to record it, rather than watch it with my mother-in-law.
Useful link: http://alzheimers.org.uk/

Tiger Lily update

The vet, a different woman from the one who visited last week but equally pleasant, gave Lily an injection of antibiotics. Reg, who is the leader of our small herd, stood close by and watched intently as the examination took place in the stable. If a goat's face could be full of concern, then he wore that expression, as did the others.

Leader of the pack: Reg looked very concerned about Lily

The vet reassured my wife and told her that using the iodine spray immediately was the correct and sensible thing to do. She says Lily seems none the worse for the episode and should be fine.

Watch this space ...

Tiger Lily in need of more tlc

Cuddle me, mum: Lily loves a fuss 

Poor Lily, who was two years old last week, has lost one of her horns - and the little thing still doesn't look like a beautiful unicorn.
She was debudded as a kid in Suffolk but the vet didn't do a great job and horns, of sorts, began to grow. One began to curl into her head so our own vet came out last week and gave it a trim. In the process, it was weakened and because goats constantly butt, usually playfully, Lily was left with the bloodied base of a horn last night.
The wound is quite fresh, and very pink [Lily the pink?], and there is a little dried blood on her head but Lily doesn't seem bothered and is eating and acting normally. My worried wife has given her few blasts of iodine antiseptic spray and she is anxiously awaiting the vet's arrival so she can examine Lily properly.
It's like an episode of All Creatures Great and Small, although you wouldn't neccessarily associate James Herriot with the tall, blonde, confident lady who will see our goat.
Lily is the youngest and most vocal of our five pygmy goats and she was bottle-fed along with Rupert, who is just a few days older. She's not the prettiest, but she's a cutey, enjoys a fuss and loves to sit with my wife on the garden bench while she is stroked and petted [the goat does, too]. That is until the others try to push her out of the picture as they vie for the attention of "mum".
Incidentally, my wife came up with these names for her babies because Tiger Lily was a friend of Rupert the Bear. Reg and Molly, the oldest who are twins, were named after a lovely elderly couple who are parents of goat breeder Heather's partner Adrian, and Ralph is named Ralph, well, because it suits him. So now you know!
By the way, did you know that good old Rupert the Bear, long associated with the Daily Express newspaper, is six years older than Winnie the Pooh and eight years older than Mickey Mouse?

How's my chum? Rupert looks worried

Fuelish stunt - Homer's Odyssey

Canny publicans are trying their best to lure us through the pub doors for a pint, as can be seen from the photograph taken a few days ago in a nearby Fen village. OK, Bud, the message might not exactly be Shakes-beer, but I thought it was amusing.
His message was a clever way of using the UK's fuel crisis to drum up valuable trade.
Petrol and diesel prices continues to rise and is approaching £1.50 a litre at most local garages.
My dad would turn in his grave. Weird expression that, don't you think? Using the dead to reflect an extreme level of surprise. Still, I don't think he'll be going anywhere fast - even if petrol was cheaper. My calculation makes that £6.75 for a good old-fashioned imperial gallon. OK, you might have had your fill as I pump this article with figures (stop booing the puns in the back row), but I suspect they might raise a few eyebrows in other parts of the world.
No wonder people were panic-buying fuel, causing long queues on garage forecourts when there was the threat of a national strike by petrol tanker drivers, especially in the Fens where public transport is poor and you need a car. Price rises really punish people living in the sticks, where folk are generally - I emphasise generally - more hard up than those in urban areas.

Ale and hearty: is this sign a first draught?

Food prices continues to spiral, again hitting poor families when it comes to essential items. A fresh loaf of bread, something that will always rise, costs about £.1.40, while that great British tradition, a pint of bitter, usually costs more than £3 at a pub. Admittedly, a pint of beer is not essential - although I can think of a couple of chaps and a cartoon character who disagree, eh Homer? - but it comes as no surprise to learn that people are shunning pubs and buying cheaper booze at supermarkets.
That trend is leading to the demise of old pubs even though publicans are coming up with many different and innovative ways of trying to attract customers. Live bands, karaoke, free wifi, decent pub grub, quiz nights and live football matches on big screens are among the popular attractions on offer in addition to booze.
But it will take more than a good Champions League game to get most people Sepp Bladdered in their local these days (sorry Mr Blatter, couldn't help myself).
PS: I'm not a Chelsea fan, but they did well to beat Barcelona in the first leg of that semi-final. And Ronaldo's winner for Real Madrid at the Nou Camp on Saturday night was a cracker, too. Barca are vulnerable after all.
PPS: Vulnerable? Terry gets himself sent off and Chelsea still go through to the final! 

Foreign policy in the Fens

It's hard to believe, but the fields in this area are a hive of activity for much of the year, throughout the day and night. And that's because of industrious migrant workers who toil in all weathers to harvest fresh vegetables for our tables. A few years ago, foreign agricultural workers tended to be hard-working Portuguese but, as the EU has opened up, there are now many Eastern Europeans who work tirelessly to earn a crust and send money back to their families in countries like Poland, Russia, Lithuania, Romania and Bulgaria.
They can be seen in the muddy, gale-torn fields in the harshest of weather often working deep into the night, the giveaway beams of spotlights in the distance signalling their presence.
Recent research for the East of England Development Agency (EEDA) states that the region's economy  would be hit hard if the flow of migrant workers slows in the recession.
Please don't try to preach about foreigners coming to the UK and taking our jobs. That's simply not true in the Fens. They're here because they are prepared to roll up their sleeves, get dirty and work really hard - even for the minimum rate. It's about having a great work ethic. Such people are always welcome.

 

One swallow doesn't make a summer

Flight of fancy: the first swallow is always a welcome sight 

Hold the front page! I've just seen my first swallow of the year (April 17) and what a heart-warming sight it was. My wife and I were driving on a stretch of country road about three miles from our home, at a place called Horseway where a series of impressive farms and smallholdings are situated, when the graceful visitor suddenly appeared.
He could be seen rising and twisting between roadside trees against a blue sky and white clouds on this breezy day.
It feels good to see our annual visitor back on these shores after such a long, hazardous journey from Africa where he avoided our weird winter. Smart fellow.
Can't wait for the long, lazy, hazy days of a proper English summer ...

Blowing in the wind

We really suffer from wind in the Fens. I’ll try to avoid rip-roaring jokes about flatulence in this instance, although we do have our fair share of farts. I mean strong gales. We don’t have many natural barriers to break wind (steady) because there are few hedgerows and trees, no hills or mountains standing in the way of this damaging phenomenon which batters our flat lands. Instead there are huge expanses of open fields, rich with Fenland soil perfect for arable farming.

This means that we sometimes witness something called the Fen Blow [see YouTube]. This is where a strong wind whips up dry soil and peat and creates a dark, mysterious, turbulent cloud which moves slowly across the landscape. Nothing on the scale of the dramatic twisters we see being chased on TV, though. The Fen Blow dissipates when the wind subsides and drops its contents, and the soil sometimes drifts, just as you might see drifts of snow in the winter. 

Dawn of an era: wind turbines on the Fens

The wind power can be harnessed into useful energy by using turbines for electricity and wind pumps for water drainage and pumping. In the old days, windmills were a common sight but they are now few and far between. Denver Mill, just over the county border in Admiral Nelson’s Norfolk, is a listed building and the nearest working windmill mill to us. However, I’m not sure if it is actually working at present because, with no irony whatsoever, local TV recently reported that one of its sails had blown off.

Wind turbines are popping up everywhere because they are lucrative for landowners and energy  companies, but there is little consideration shown to the people who live here. They are a real blot on the landscape, although they can add drama in a certain light (picture taken last summer at dawn). 

Seen up close, they look daunting and they are noisy. 

Yes, we have to think of ways of creating alternative energy and we have to be more green in our approach to every day life. But what about proper consultation with the residents. The attitude at seems to be: It’s only the Fens, so throw them up. 

A wacky pigeon fancier's tale (Laurel and a Hardy bird)

I'm hungry, so what's for tea? Sweep waits for grub in the kitchen

Sweep is turning into a pigeon murderer. He's such loving and lovable character, but he's also a quick dog and his hunting instincts get the better of him at times. That may seem incongruous, but the other morning there was a trail of feathers on our back lawn leading through to the the next section of garden where Sweep normally chews on his bone treats. This time, the lifeless body of a chewed pigeon lay on the grass. I thought one of the many cats that roam the gardens might of done the dirty deed.
However, my sensible wife was not convinced because Sweep had managed to catch the occasional bird previously (without killing them) when they dare to touch down on his territory. She was convinced he was guilty. I countered with a plea of not guilty on his behalf, so the jury was out, the evidence purely circumstantial, my lord. I even thought about entering a plea of insanity because Sweep is a lovely, but mad little bugger.
Tonight, confirmation that Sweep must have been the perpetrator. As we were locking up the hens and goats for the night, he appeared with a pigeon in his mouth. He ran into some bushes, but my wife gave chase and yelled at him. He initially dropped the bird, but then picked it up again and raced down the garden. I gave chase and bellowed at him. That did the trick and he dropped the terrified bird, which half flew, half ran into laurel bushes. I told off Sweep and headed back for the house with the dog, but as I opened the door, our rogue of a Spaniel did a U-turn and went off in search of the bird again. Sure enough, he reappeared with the same bloody pigeon.
I shouted loudly again and Sweep dropped the bird. But instead of flying off into the evening sky, it opted to fly fly past me, narrowly missing my wife's head and went straight into the kitchen, then into the hallway and through the cloakroom doorway.

Sofa, so good: Hector decides too much drama is, well, err, too much

This was turning into a farce. We must have looked like Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy to the intrigued neighbours, alerted by the kerfuffle. Or did it seem like a clip from Wacky Races, with Sweep playing Muttley and Dick Dastardly all rolled into one? Stop the pigeon!
Somehow, our bird was still alive ... and obviously quite tame - and trusting. Big mistake with Sweep about.
The bird was ringed and seemed to be a domestic racing pigeon which had lost its way or was resting. It chose the wrong place to pit-stop. He is now sitting on a neighbour's fence at the front of our house in safety, while Sweep is desperate to get back in the enclosed back garden to find another bird to play with. My wife is simply relieved there's not one spot of bird poo in the house. "That's another fine mess..." Fortunately, not this time.
Hector, meanwhile, appeared to have a look of complete disdain as the drama unfolded and he simply watched from a safe distance. It obviously seemed like too much effort to join in, so he retired quietly to the sofa ... again.

Night (and day) owls

Almost ran over a fox as I drove home following work late last night. Fortunately, I managed to take evasive action and swerve at the last minute, so old Reynard escaped an unfortunate end. Good for him. A barn owl also flew across the car's path, it's ghostly white wings captured in the beams of my headlights as I drove along a country lane near our village. A wonderful and very common sight in the Fens. Barn owls can often be seen in the day as well as the night, fluttering back and forth along the ditches before diving sharply, hunting for unsuspecting prey in the grassy embankments. Beautiful, fascinating birds. On a sad note, I have seen three dead badgers today, roadkill victims, it seems. Has the proposed national cull to beat TB in cattle already started in this area, I wonder? Poor old billy.

Road rage

I've got to get on my soap box ... or car roof. The roads in this region are atrocious, often leading to accidents and loss of life. And I don't just mean the occasional splattered pheasant or rabbit. Exaggerating? No, definitely not.
The landscape is crisscrossed with dykes and drainage ditches, some very wide and deep, and the roads which run alongside often have no barriers. Furthermore, there is considerable subsidence, so driving can be likened to a voyage over choppy seas as the road surface dips and rises.
A young man and his seven-year-old son died when their car plunged into freezing water next to a road a few miles from here days before Christmas in 2005. Six weeks later, a car carrying Portuguese factory workers clipped another vehicle and plunged down an embankment and into the icy water. Two drowned while one lucky teenager managed to smash the windscreen and swim to safety.

Troubled waters: the thin dividing line between life and death
Picture - Gareth Rees

Average speed cameras, a common sight in England, have been installed on some stretches but they don't solve the problem. Many Fen families know of a relative or friend who have had close calls after skidding down the embankments of these dykes (drains). 
Driving at a safe, even slow, speed along one of these roads on a cold winter's day can be quite unnerving. Many crashes are down to driver error and high speeds, but some are not. One road safety campaigner has been raising money to have safety barriers installed (by a private company) along a stretch of water near aptly-named Bedlam Bridge after a nine-year-old girl died in the water several years ago after the car she was travelling in left the road. But we are living in times of austerity and Ordinary Joe is subject to wage freezes and spending cuts. 
The Fens tend to be overlooked when it comes to real investment. OK, the population is sparse, but we still cough up as much for our council tax as those living in large urban areas who are spoilt with facilities.
But the government, the highways department, the county council, the district council, or whoever is responsible, still refuse to pay for the type of barriers used on thousands of motorway miles.
Life can be pretty cheap in the forgotten Fens.

Some like it hot

The American serviceman is on the move. Our neighbour is being posted back to the good ol' US of A after about a decade in Europe, mainly in Belgium and here in the UK. He's really up for it but his Belgian wife, whose French accent is a delight - move over Inspector Clouseau - is not so sure. She's worried about disrupting her son's education so soon after settling him in his first school in our village. They're a great couple but we haven't seen much of him because of his work on one of the bases not far from here and his stints in Afghanistan.

Scary? Yes, the farmer really is using a genuine scare crow, folks

His missus is obviously much closer to her family here than she will be in the States, but he can't wait to get back to a much warmer climate. As an all-American Texas boy, he likes it hot. Really. It seems as though his wife will 'ave to speak to her mozzer on ze pheaun more often.
The removal vans have been coming and going for a few days and they up sticks and move on outta here tomorrow. They're nice guys - we'll be sad to see them go.
Mind you, there are some strange sights around here (picture taken this time last year) that would frighten away anyone.
The big question now: who will be our new neighbours? [End with Pink Panther theme].

Tarantino meets Fantastic Mr Fox

Devastation. Imagine walking to the chicken coop and coming across a scene of blood, feathers, dead bodies and gore. No, you're not on the set of a Tarantino movie. It's them thar pesky animals, goddammit. Foxes are prevalent in these parts so that means you have to be very careful if you keep hens, ducks and small livestock. Cuddly, bushy, fluffy, fantastic Mr Fox pops up everywhere, but he can be a blood-thirsty creature. If you like fresh eggs for breakfast, remember that he's is a predator and will wipe out a coopful of chickens if a door is left ajar or wire netting is not secure.
If you fear for the safety of your girls, as we do for Martha (pictured) and the Vandellas, then your sympathies may be divided when it comes to culling Reynard who can occasionally be seen in the fields behind us during the day as well as in the twilight and long hours of night. He is a persistent, intelligent fellow and is not easily frightened off. Many locals feel a blast from a shotgun or rifle is the easiest way to deal with him, although a cleverly-laid humane trap can sometimes solve the problem, too. Catch him, release him elsewhere and just hope his inbuilt satnav doesn't work when he tries to find his way home. "At the first opportunity, turn round and go back..."

What are you staring at? Martha has great attitude 

Treating a wild animal in such a humane fashion reminds me of welfare-friendly mousetraps. Good idea and certainly fashionable, but have you tried them? They don't always work, do they? You can't really beat a mischievous moggy or a cheap basic wooden mousetrap laced with something tasty when it comes to resolving your rodent rage.
I also notice that the mole catcher in our area advertises humane traps on the side of his van. Some of the older gentlemen in our village, who have worked on the land for most of their lives, are amused by such a notion. "Set a few scissor traps and you'll soon get rid of the buckin' little sods," advised old Tom when referring to the small hills of soil appearing in the neighbour's large garden. Mole control, by old-stager Tom. Yes, pop pickers, a vague reference to Space Oddity. You have to think outside the box if you live in these 'ere parts.
By the way, did you notice the subtle way Tom replaced "f" with "b"? It's a Fenlander's way of being polite while swearing. Manners maketh man.

Killing fields

Result! My dear old mother-in-law settled quickly and not a sound was heard after 2am. And for the first time this week, nobody was out killing birds or animals at first light. Good news if you're trying to sleep and even better news if you're part of the wildlife, the definition of which is pretty wide-ranging in this part of the world. The killing fields at the back of our house are calmed ... as are the wind turbines in the distance.

Home is where the heart is

In the slow-beating heart of the Cambridgeshire Fens, the cool April night is finally still. No gunshots tonight, thank goodness. A day of sun, showers, strong cold wind and mountains of cloud formations has been and gone. The straight-line drainage ditches are beginning to swell despite East Anglia's official drought, while the Fen Blow has still to whip up treasures of the dark earth managed by farmers like old Despisely [not his real name, you understand, but more of him later].
Furthermore, Martha and the Vandellas are safely tucked away in their coop, while the pygmy goats - Reg, Molly, Ralph, Lily and Rupert - sleep soundly in their stable after another busy day of doing plenty yet bugger all. Hector, the laidback black Labrador, has parked himself on a battered sofa in the kitchen, while Sweep, the mad Cocker Spaniel, has dived into the dog bed, resting for the time being, at least.
Sadly, the mother-in-law is not at peace. She was such a lively woman, active in body and spirit, and to be honest, a bit of a pain. Now she's a very pleasant, dotty old lady... with very little memory or commonsense. Even as I write this, with the midnight hour fast approaching, Lady Gaga can be heard creaking around upstairs, packing her clothes and moving ornaments and books, chuntering to herself as she does so. The nickname is not meant to insult; it is meant to bring a little humour to an otherwise  desperate situation. Poor old girl has Alzheimer's Disease, you see, and tonight the tormented soul has decided to "go home"... again.
The fact that she's lived here with us for more than three years means nothing to her. Experience tells us that her home, for the next few hours, is likely to be a mixture of addresses from her past; the house in Bedfordshire where she was born 84 years ago, where so many of her memories now lie; the 1930s semi where her girls were conceived; or could it be the bungalow in Buckinghamshire, where she and her husband lived in retirement?

At peace: calm waters soothe the Fens

Tonight, home is anywhere but the Fens. She will be in and out of bed, the toilet will be flushed dozens of times [sorry Anglian Water], clothes will be stacked, handbags emptied or stuffed with odds and sods,  and my dear, long-suffering wife will probably speak to her at least three times during the wee hours - incontinence is also big problem for Lady Gaga, not my wife - in an effort to settle the old girl. One thing for certain, there will be little sleep in this house tonight.