Mr Lavender at the match

Frequently our British summers are capricious and it is as likely or not I'll pack a jumper or two to take with me to a cricket match. Not the other week - Sunday last was a bursting-out-all-over-heat-filled blue & green scorcher, almost perfection and at one of the nicest grounds I have had the pleasure to visit, Sandford St Martin.

Mr Lavender came too. He enjoys a bit of cricket, so long as the sun is out and there is a nice tea.

Despite the gorgeous surroundings, Mr Lavender, Andy's mother and myself decided to do a little exploring; too tempting a road to resist and there was a glorious poppy field on the dege of the ground.

The village itself is not directly in our patch - Sandford St Martin is a plush little place on the other side of Chipping Norton.

Prosperous looking even by Cotswold standards. We are in serious commuter belt here, handy for the cities of Oxford and London, making house prices *interesting* despite the quaint rural appearance.

Mr Lavender had a thigh high view from my combats pocket.

At last though the sun got too hot for me; Andy's mum is a lizard and can soak it up all day - I am made of frailer stuff. We were back just in time for tea and Andy smuggled a plate out for us. It was the best tea I've had in many a year, if not THE best. All home made and the softest, moistest, plumpest Victoria sponge imaginable, like a mother's welcoming lap, just begging to be dived into.

Somewhat over-full, we read the latest Jeanne D'Arc Living (which matched Mr Lavender's colours) and watched what turned into a very tight and exciting match.

But despite the best efforts of young Sam, Andy's top weapon, things did not go in our favour. Poor Sam was 99 not out and missed his century.

We lost, but it was a good, sporting match - jolly nice team and all that. And a tea to die for. Hopefully a fixture to be repeated.

White stuff

Ooops...another little forgetful moment and Andy's last remaining cricket whites are white no longer...looked at in real life, they are a delicate aquamarine. The trousers are a dainty blush pink (I managed to ruin them last season, they are on the line courtesy of my Beloved to point out the rainbow effect). We have two matches at the weekend, one against West Midlands Police. He may come in for some stick. Or as his Facebook entry today read;


"Andy now has some turquoise grey 'whites' to go with his 'peachy pink' whites, I fear it may be a long weekend in the sledging department"

For those not in the know, sledging is the banter used in the field by teams amongst each other and aimed at the oppo. It is often obscure, unless you know everyone, and frequently sweary. Especially our lot, Eynsham CC, seen (and heard, at volume) at Stanton Harcourt village last Tuesday night. An apparently 'friendly' match at a neighbouring village, with the Stanton Harcourt batsman 'Gherko' getting a bit of ribbing. There is something very funny about the way he is got out, but you have to know about cricket to appreciate the joke. It's a bit beyond me. It was all very good humoured, even though we lost in the end. Andy is the very tall one seen on the right hand side, in the pale cap - a tender reminder of how pristine his whites once were.

(EDIT - bleaching doesn't work, sadly - it just makes it look worse).

Dorchester away

THWACK! It's the cheerful slap of leather on willow as we start another cricket season. Last year was frankly miserable, weather wise, but we were blessed last Sunday with near perfect Spring weather, as we opened with a friendly match in Dorchester-on-thames. I love watching cricket, but sometimes six hours or so sat on the boundary can be a little too much. So I sloped off with my camera to investigate the village centre. Dorchester has it's very own Abbey - and on this Sunday afternoon I had the place entirely to myself. It is small, but ancient; there has been a place of worship here since Saxon times, circa 635. The first altar you see on entering, displays some rare 14th century paintings which miraculously survived Cromwell's thugs.




The floors are paved with memorials and burial stones, from the sublime -





- to the sinister...




...this one being the most heart stopping I have ever read.





'Reader! If thou has a Heart famed for Tenderness and Pity, Contemplate this Spot. In which are desposited the Remains of a Young Lady, whose artless Beauty, Innocence of Mind and gentle Manner once obtain'd her the Love and Esteem of all who knew her. But when Nerves were too delicately spun to bear the rude Shakes and Jostlings which we meet in this transitory World, Nature gave way. She sunk and died a Martyr to Excesive Sensibility. Mrs Sarah Fletcher, Wife of Captain Fletcher, departed this Life at the village of Clifton on the 7 of June 1799 in the 29 year of her age. May her Soul meet that Peace in Heaven which this Earth denied her'.


I wondered (as must have so many others) just what 'rude shakes and jostlings' the poor soul had endured, and sent her a kind thought, because she died so young and so lamented. (EDIT - I've found an almost identical photo on Flickr, with the full and tragic story, here).





Every pew displayed an exquisitely colour co-ordinated set of kneelers and the still Sunday afternoon air was drenched with the heavy scent of lilies from elaborate displays. Quietly I wandered into the Shrine Chapel, where a thirteenth century Crusader knight lies, not on his back in pious prayer, but unusally poised for battle action.





Here too is the shrine to the founder, St Birinus, with bright carvings hidden in the upper niches






The Chancel and the East window are spectacular, but too grandiose for my taste. I prefer the simplicity of stone and paint.




Outside, the sweetest of cottages, sitting slightly wonkily behind the gravestones.






I headed back to the ground, my peaceful touristing done, and returned to a rather more earthly entertainment.




As usual I came prepared with the bare necessities and some work.




It was the first properly warm day of the year and in my sheltered corner I kept half an eye on our chaps, while getting on with the penguins. We won. Andy was 57 not out. He acknowledged his half century with a modest twitch of the bat.




If only it stays this way for the rest of the season.

Grey Goosie

There was a time in the dim, distant past when I could get a new toy made in a couple of days...oh happy Land of Faraway! Now I am reduced to scrimping time, as a mouse hoards cheese rind, and my toys are fussed over in odd moments. Poor Grey Goosie, born on the edge of a cricket match, has taken longer than most. I do have orders...but I have to have one of my own going at the same time. Just - because.

Actually, Grey Goosie is now a fully fledged cricket expert - she has visited quite a few over the weeks, and was a great help at the last home match. She made sure the fielders were in the right place -




She helped Andy bowl at the oppo -




She helped lay out the tea - although she didn't make it (well, she is only small and a sandwich is so large to a toy goose).




She even made sure the umpire was keeping score properly -




She is also a bit of a real ale buff now, and enjoyed some Wadworth 6x while looking after Andy's bat.





And later, when both teams retired to the Queen's Head, she said a respectful hello to old Hobbs, the pub cat.




So although she has taken weeks to finish, I think she is the most educated of all my toys.

Overheard at the boundary

The characters -
Head Monkey
Grey Goosie
Wise Monkey
Custard
The Great Stabber (unseen and unheard, but definitely there)
and a rather grumpy bottle of beer who becomes more subdued as the scene progresses.

The scene - A Sunday cricket match in a rather chilly June. We are near the boundary, listening to the assorted shouts of exasperated bowlers and cheering team mates. The dying sun casts long shadows across the field as the match draws to a close. If we listen carefully, we can just hear a whispered conversation coming from a small group of friends...

Custard - 'Is that our chap out there bowling?'
Wise Monkey - 'I think so - hard to tell from here, they look the same from a distance, and all dressed in white.'

Grey Goosie - 'Can someone tell me who I am, where am I and why I am please? I'm only two hours old.'
Head Monkey - 'You are a mere babe! We saw you being created by the Great Stabber. You are at a cricket match and your name is Grey Goosie.'
Grey Goosie 'What is cricket? Who is the Great Stabber? Why? How? When?'



(momentary distraction as attention reverts to the match)

Head Monkey - 'Oh good running sir!'
Custard - 'I wish I could run like that, but alas, I am legless'
Bottle of Beer 'Well don't blame me! I didn't ask you to stick your great yellow snout into my neck!'
Wise Monkey - 'Calm down, Beer, he meant legless as in legless, not as in legless. But then, you are a rather fine specimen of Fiddler's Elbow, so you must expect to be drunk, if you pardon the pun.'

(The bottle of beer subsides, grumbling, then squeaks as it is plucked from its resting place. When it returns, it is somewhat quieter).

Grey Goosie - 'So why are we here? What are we doing? Who are you all?'
Custard - 'Well I am waiting for my legs, then I will be going to my new home. I have heard that she is a lovely, gentle lady who lives in a magical palace filled with wondrous materials and treasures.'
Head Monkey - 'I have been waiting for the rest of my body for weeks...I am destined to travel far across the ocean to sunny climes' (he shivers as a breeze cuts across the field) 'and not before time - this country is far too cold for a monkey. I have heard that my new mistress is a talented artist who creates delightful books for children. I am to be her special toy, all her own. I would jump for joy, except I am only a head...'
Wise Monkey - 'And you have been made in my image. I belong to the Great Stabber. Before that I belonged to her father, and he brought me from a far hotter country than you are destined for. Although I too am missing some limbs, I am very old, and one of her prized possessions.'
Grey Goosie (breaking in impetuously) - 'What about me? What about me? Where am I going? Who will love ME? More importantly, why haven't I got a proper grown-up beak?'

(There is a startled gasp from the beer bottle as yet again it is lifted from the table top, to a mysterious Somewhere high above their heads).

Wise Monkey - 'Oh impatient youth! Barely three hours old and already seeking the answer to everything. For every creature there is a home. It is written in the stars'
Custard - 'We have heard tell of Mavis, who stayed on the toy shelf for many weeks, but at last found a home and flew hundreds of miles to live with a fairy artist. She even laid an egg on her journey. You will find your Someone, one day. When there's a bit more of you.'
Head Monkey (grumpily) - 'I wish there was a bit more of ME!'
Wise Monkey - Now hush, my children, the sun is sinking and the wind is gathering...let us snuggle into our basket and I will tell you stories of toys who were found, and we will dream...'

(As the curtain descends on the drowsy scene, the beer bottle is heard gurgling emptily off-stage, before silence falls, disturbed only by tiny snores emanating from the sewing basket).

All kinds of everything

It's quiet...summer is dribbling into autumn and there is a touch of melancholy to the mornings. Cricket at the moment involves wearing enough warm clothes not to get exposure, while watching one's beloved thwack a few balls and take a spectacular catch on the boundary. On Saturday, thunderstorms swept West Oxfordshire, raining off dozens of village matches. But where we were, the only downpour obligingly occurred during in the tea break, (time enough to scrounge a hot cup of tea and some wickedly gooey chocolate cake) and we watched the clouds rumble over Chadlington, to assorted cries of 'go over Charlb'ry way!' Which we later learned they obligingly did. Oh yes, and we won.

Sometimes our little cat Mouse sits and stares. And stares. And stares. She may be working out algebraic formulae, but I don't think so. She is a simple soul, and even simpler since wandering out in front of a car. Never been quite 'all there'. Something vacant in her eyes. So when I saw her gazing earnestly into the drinking bowl, I thought she was having one of her 'moments'; perhaps trying to work out who the strange staring cat in the water was. But she was actually watching this tiny chap floundering about. He was so tired, he was quite content to rest on my finger for his portrait.

And then there was this...another SOSF delivery from my lovely and talented friend across the sea. Quite undeserved and unexpected. My favourite nougat 'pie' and brittle honey seedy nutty snacks and natural chewing gum and - and - herbs and spices, and a gorgeous card. Oh yes, did I mention coffee? There was Greek coffee too...and now I know how to make it, as she cunningly posted the recipe for it here.

There has been an enthusiastic response to the call-up for SOSF participants. Remember, the closing date is 21st of September. So there's still time for all fairies - everywhere.