Ice-hockey, fascist puppets and freeloading.

Sorry i haven’t updated the blog sooner – it’s been a busy old time what with Margot and Jerry arriving, the start of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and my latest (almost) freebie holiday.

Last week I was lucky enough to have four days in Prague courtesy of my second job, Corporate Wife. Mr Swift was attending a risk management conference and i managed to sneak along as his plus-one. The whole trips cost a measly 50 quid thanks to Easyjet. So, while my husband interviewed the great and the good of the insurance world, i dragged myself off sightseeing.

One of the strangest things about the Czech Republic is the national obsession with marionettes. I will confess to finding puppets a tad disturbing, but nothing could have prepared me for one window display i saw in a shop close to Prague castle. On a puppet stage hung four characters ready for a performance – Hitler, Harry Potter, Barack Obama and Captain Jack Sparrow! I would have loved to seen the synopsis for that play....sadly i don’t have a photo as the shopkeeper came rushing out when he heard my laughter and scowled in a manner which indicated that photography wouldn’t have been appreciated.

In the evenings i kept myself entertained by wrangling invites to a fair few drinks receptions, all in the name of Corporate Wife duties. The good Socialist in me did feel uncomfortable reconciling this extravagance in the current economic climate; however, the champagne-swigging freeloader in me had a great time.

It wasn’t all work as we did manage to escape to the ice hockey to watch HC Slavia Praha destroy some team i can’t spell 6-1. There was a very strange incident at the beginning of the final third when the hardcore fans all disappeared, only to reappear moments later doing the conga led by their mascot, Max the lion. As you can see, Max did take time out of his busy conga-leading schedule to pose for a quick photo.

I promise to update you on River Cottage Croydon goings-on next time. For now, I bid you fairwell; I’m off to harvest some chillies from the greenhouse.

The girls are here!

Just wanted to introduce everyone to Margot and Jerry who arrived this morning.

Chickens, Mice, Cats and Eglus

On a scale of one to super-excited, I’m probably a nine this morning. Why? I finally got the green light from the Royal Bank of Mr Swift to order my Eglu and chickens for the garden. A bit of deliberating over the eglu’s colour, but we finally went for my favourite - purple. The Eglu will arrive with two chickens, a Miss Pepperpot (Margot) and a gingernut ranger (Jerry).

Just need to work out how to break this news to the cats. I’m guessing Max will hide under the bed until at least Christmas, whilst Eli will retreat to his ‘situation room’ (the study) to plan his campaign of attack. Mr Swift and i fully expect him to lose an eye within the first week. On the plus side, Ron the goldfish might get a couple of weeks respite from the feline ‘shock and awe’ attacks.

On a slightly more unpleasant note i think we’re reached that time of year when i have to face my arch-nemesis , the field mouse. One disadvantage of living in a Victorian house next door to a gigantic field is as soon as the nights take a turn for the worse, said mice try and break into my home.

The first autumn we were here I was watching The X-Factor (in my defence there was nothing else on at the time and it was before I owned all seven seasons of The West Wing) and a mouse brazenly scampered out from under the sofa and sat eyeballing me from the middle of the room. The next day i laid out numerous humane traps and caught four of them. Mr Swift was dispatched to release them in the local park. I may hate them but i understand their house invasion isn’t an act of war, but a necessity; hence they get to keep their lives.

Having the cats around has reduced the numbers significantly but not removed the threat entirely. Last Christmas Eve I was sat in bed reading ‘A Christmas Carol’ (a long-standing tradition of mine) when Max came running into the room with a live mouse in his mouth. I think I’d rather have had a visit from Marley’s ghost.

So, imagine my sinking heart when Max spent the whole of last night in the kitchen, sat in the darkness peering underneath the fridge. If they are not in the house already then I give them week. Sigh, time for the humane traps and peanut butter to make a guest appearance.

RIP Summer

The past week in RCC has been tinged with sadness. We’ve reached that time of year where plants that have been flogging their guts out to feed you for weeks head into full-on suicide-mode right in front of your eyes. Despite the wretchedness surrounding the death of my trusty friends, their departure does signal the arrival of my favourite season, autumn.

What’s not to like about autumn? Crisp air, burnt orange leaves, the return of jumpers, Bonfire night and Strictly Come Dancing on the telly – need I go on?

Only one plant is refusing to accept autumn’s on the horizon and that’s the ass-kickin’ courgettes. The best (and least PC) analogy would be to compare them to a Japanese WWII solider who no-one’s bothered to tell the war’s ended. This morning I did see the beginnings of mildew on their leaves which is a tell-tale sign their days are indeed numbered (shhh – don’t tell them). Mr Swift was heartbroken when he learned they’d have to be pulled in a matter of weeks. Clearly he’s become attached to pole vaulting over the top of them on his way to peg out the washing.

So, this weekend we’ll say goodbye to summer with a massive clean-up operation of uprooting the fallen in order to make room for my least favourite gardening crop – the winter/spring brassicas. Call me fickle but I can’t manage the same level of excitement over cabbages and broccoli. For the sake of the blog I’ll do my best to sound animated.

P.S – get your thinking caps on. The blog is in desperate need of a name change seeing as the walk is well and truly over. The winning suggestion will receive a special prize of my choosing

One step closer to The Good Life

The American humorist Kin Hubbard once said "In order to live off a garden, you practically have to live in it".

The last four weeks have been a terribly busy, but rewarding time at River Cottage Croydon. The many months of toiling over fragile seedlings are paying dividends with a constant supply of food. On the menu at the moment are: tomatoes, lettuce, radishes, beetroots, celery, green beans, courgettes, pink chard, chillies, apples and sweetcorn.

From what i can see Mother Nature’s primary downfall is the inability to stagger a harvest, which requires you to adopt cunning ploys such as freezing and pickling to keep up with the glut.

Take the courgettes for instance. They are like the terminator – they absolutely will not stop producing no matter what you do to them! When I first started gardening I saw a book entitled ‘What will i do with all these courgettes?’ and couldn’t believe anyone would need such a thing. Two years on and I wish I’d brought that bloody book when i had the chance. Anna very kindly gave me a recipe for courgette muffins, which despite most people's initial reservations eventually went down a storm. Nigel Slater published a courgette frittata recipe in last week’s Observer magazine, so clearly he’s having similar issues.

Despite all this success I have to confess to a huge gardening faux pas. I planted what i believed to be calabrese (broccoli to the uninitiated) in my brassica plot only to realise this week that they look very similar to the chili plants growing in the greenhouse.... I expect to have my RHS membership revoked with immediate effect.

By far and away the most exciting news is the expansion of my self-sustainability experiment to include chickens. The girls – Margot and Jerry (a nod to the Ledbetters, long-suffering neighbours of Tom and Barbara in ‘The Good Life’) will hopefully be with me by the end of October. More on this later.

How much?

After the wedding Mr Swift and I spent a couple of days in Copenhagen, which is about all most mortals can afford without taking out a second mortgage. It’s by far and away the most expensive place I’ve ever visited.

This shouldn’t have been such a surprise as I’d recently read in the Economist that Denmark fares poorly on their ‘Big Mac Index’ which allows you to judge if a currency is over/undervalued by comparing the cost of a commonly available item, the Big Mac.

Being a vegetarian this didn’t resonate with me so I’ve developed my own version - the ‘how much is a pint?’ index. A 400ml beer in most bars and restaurants in Copenhagen is 50kr which at today’s exchange rate is £5.76. Extrapolate that up to 568ml and you’re looking at £8.18 a pint. Over eight quid for a pint!

Despite the obvious financial drawbacks Copenhagen is a lovely city and i was very impressed with its prioritisation of cyclist and pedestrian. The vast majority of roads have six foot cycle paths and practically everyone, young and old, are cycling around. I was very taken with the Christiana bikes (essentially a tricycle with a box at the front for carrying round children/shopping). As someone without a car they appealed to me greatly, however, i suspect their quirky Scandinavian charm wouldn’t translate well to Croydon.

The Christiana bikes get their name from the Freetown of Christiana, which is for all intense and purposes a long-established squatter’s commune on disused MoD land in the middle of Copenhagen. Barely tolerated by the authorities it is a 1,000-strong community that governs by consensus, has its own rules and even its own currency. I had a wonderful time wandering around looking at the amazing homes and gardens they have fashioned from next to nothing. Unfortunately their existence is under renewed threat as they occupy some pricey real estate and pay nominal rent. Let’s hope the Dane’s well documented spirit of tolerance will ensure Christiana’s safety.

Wedded bliss

Goede middag iedereen. Ik ben droevig ik heb bijgewerkt meer onlangs mijn blog niet. Ik ben aan een huwelijk in Denemarken geweest.

If Babelfish is to be believed that paragraph might be Danish for ‘Good afternoon everyone. I’m sorry i haven’t updated my blog recently. I’ve been attending a wedding in Denmark’.

And what a wedding – Ralph and Christina’s day was filled with endless fun, heartfelt sincerity and bucketfuls of love.

Ralph is Mr Swift’s ex-news editor and we were accompanied to the wedding by a couple of other ex-Post hacks who will remain nameless for the sake of their current and future careers on national newspapers.

If you haven’t been to a Danish wedding i suggest you befriend an engaged Dane immediately as they are riotous fun. Here’s what I’ve learned about gettin’ hitched, the Scandinavian way

• The Danes are exceptionally fond of toasting (Skål!) at any given opportunity

• The wedding reception—a bryllupfest—not only consists of toasts and speeches but other random activities such as mass participation singing (complete with lyric handouts) and multimedia presentations

• All this results in a five hour dinner feast. The only thing i can see that prevents it from running any longer is yet another Danish tradition: that the bride and groom must take their first dance before midnight

• There is a lot of kissing. Whenever the groom leaves the room, all the men rush over and kiss the bride (and vice versa)

• The guests can demand the bride and groom kiss at any time. Banging your plate with cutlery forces the bride and groom to stand on their chairs to kiss. Pounding your feet on the floor will force them under the table for a snog

• The first dance is to a Danish waltz. All the guests circle the couple and inch towards them until at last they have no room to dance and must kiss (again). The groom is then wrenched away, held up in the air while someone comes along and cuts off the toes of his socks.

I have to admit that last tradition scared the life out of me. It had a touch of ‘The Wicker Man’ about it.

Anyway, us Brits have a few traditions of our own, namely we’ll get steaming drunk and participate in some morally and legally dubious behaviour. For once, I can hold my head up and say that my conduct was exemplary; the same cannot be said for some of my companions. Here’s a compilation of learning that may or may not have come about from actual events. I couldn’t possibly comment.

• Trying to source cigarettes at a wedding in the middle of nowhere will involve a lot of grovelling, the local restaurateur, a taxi ride and £70

• Snoring at 100 dbs-plus in a communal dorm may result in you getting punched hard in the face and smothered with your own pillow

• The 19 year old you’re slow dancing with will turn out to be 47 and have an irate husband. When you accuse him of being her Dad it’s time to leg it back to the hostel

• Before taking a young lady down to the beach for an evening of amorous entertainment check everything’s in working order.....

• Pack shoelaces, otherwise you’re going to the wedding with makeshift clingfilm alternatives

Let that be a lesson to us all.