Before I begin this story I'd like you to get to know my dear husband, Edgerton. Here are some words that describe him (oddly enough, all beginning with the letter P): Particular, Persnickety, Punctilious and Precise. So when he told me he was going to build a fence for our backyard I knew that a Painstaking Process was about to begin.

THE PREPARATION

After snorting and pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Edgie began by working on his spreadsheet. Yes, a spreadsheet. You see, earlier that week, he had recoiled in horror at seeing our neighbour's newly built fence with its vertical boards of UNEVEN SPACING. He had pulled me to the window to show me.

"Just look at that."

"What?"

"The neighbour's new fence."

"What about it?"

"Can't you see it?"

"See what?"

I think poor Edgerton thought I was toying with him here. But I wasn't. Really. All I saw was a perfectly respectable fence.

"The bloody fence. Just look at it. The bloody boards are not evenly spaced. Are you bloody blind? Do you need your bloody eyes checked?"

So I started to laugh, as I always do when Edgerton is Permeating with Puzzlement and Perplexity.

"It's not funny, you know. It's a bloody atrocity. And they've bloody well nailed their boards in. Not screwed, NAILED!"

Uneven spacing. An atrocity, indeed. So to avoid a similar abomination, Edgie went to his trusty computer and entered a bunch of old gobbledygook. Then, after Pressing 'Print', he Pretentiously Produced a Print-out of a Perfectly Precise Prospectus. Looked like Poppycock to me.

THE PROCESS

Edgie is a geek, this is true, but I must admit he is quite a manly geek. When it came time to actually build the fence he took off his plaid shirt and Pocket Protector and put on his testosterone laced coveralls and went to work. As handy as he is, however, the fence was not built in a day. The reason: Plumb. Yes, every single board had to be Perfectly Plumbed.

I was given a level and asked to help. Edgie would hold the board and my job was to level it so that he could screw it in.

I looked at the bobbing bubble. That'll do. "Okay," I said, "go ahead and screw it in. It's level."

But Edgerton would never be able to press the button on his electric screw gun thingy until he checked the level for himself. His eyes widened.

"Level? What do you mean level? That's not level. Can't you bloody see that? Look at the bloody bubble."

I shrugged. "Looks like it's centered to me."

Edgie became Peremptory and Pompous. "Look at that fence over there," he huffed. "I do not want ours to look anything like that. I do not want our fence to be banged up in a couple of hours in a willy-nilly fashion resulting in wonky and skewiff boards."

(Did I mention that Edgie is a Brit, hence the use of words like "skewiff"?)

THE PAYOFF

So after two weekends of meticulous calculations and a lot of elbow grease, Edgerton has built us a lovely fence. Each board is lovingly screwed in perfectly straight and the spacing is exact - no skewiffiness in sight.

I enjoy my backyard now and sit out on every fine day. With my neighbours now blocked from my view, I pretend I am in a meadow on the Yorkshire Dales. The yapping of the neighbour's dog has been transformed into the pleasant baaing of a sheep. The birds seem to sing louder now that we have a fence. I lie in the grass thinking about going to the Delightful Dales pub for a Ploughman's Lunch, a beer, and a chat with the locals but change my mind when the baaing of the sheep suddenly turns intense, frantic. Oh my good God! Could I be faced with a veterinary emergency? What would James Herriot do? Think, woman, think. Then it comes to me. I'd read about it a million times in All Creatures Great and Small. That sheep was birthing a lamb!!! I leap over the seven foot fence (in a single bound, of course) and assist in the birthing process.

"Get your hands off my dog's ass!"

I am brought back to reality by my shouting neighbour and skulk back to my backyard. But, miraculously, once back within the confines of my new fence the nasty episode with the dog/sheep instantly dissolves and I am in the Yorkshire Dales again. James Herriot appears and tells me I made a bloody good effort with that pregnant sheep and that my neighbour could have been a bit more grateful. He says that us veterinary surgeons are unappreciated and why doesn't he take me to the Delightful Dales for a pint. Ahhhh. My newly fenced-in backyard is wonderful!!!!

So now I have a new P word to describe dear Edgerton - Prestidigitator - because that fence is magic! My Perfectly Plumbed Palisade is Pure Paradise!!!

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been nine months since my last blog entry. I have been busy. Very busy. But something has pulled me back into the blogosphere. Or should I say, someone. And that someone is Justin Bieber.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm about to start a rant. A rant about the crap music of today. About the hollowness and shallowness of today's youth and their choice of music. You're thinking the Old Biddy is back to compare today's music with that of yesteryear's more legitimate, deeper offerings. You're thinking the Old Biddy has had enough of the likes of Justin Bieber and decided it was time to join the masses and trash the kid, take him down a peg or two.

Au contraire, mon frere. The Old Biddy has resurfaced to unleash a fury, that's for sure, but a fury with the purpose of defending, not defaming.

I'm back to say: Lay off The Biebs!

No, I do not have Bieber fever. But I'm a Bieber believer. I believe that he has the right to be the latest teen idol without relentless scorn from the forty-something year old peeps who seem to have an obsession with knocking the J-Bieb. Oh, I've seen your Tweets and your Facebook posts and your blog entries. And now it's my turn.

Dear Bieber Bashers:

Guess what? You are not Justin Bieber's target audience. You're not supposed to like him. If you are not a twelve year old girl, move along. There's nothing to see here.
And for all of you middle-age, balding males who make up the majority of Justin haters, get over it and accept that your hatred comes solely from hair envy. Buy yourselves some Rogaine and move on.
Please stop harping on about the music industry today being all disposable pop and manufactured teen idols. You might as well sit on your front porch with a cane and scream "Turn the volume down, you little whippersnappers! You call that music?" Sheesh. You sound like a bunch of grumpy old farts.
Dudes, he's sixteen. SIXTEEN! Some slack, maybe? If you were walking down the street and saw a sixteen year old boy looking like a poncy git would you punch him in the face? Of course not. But give that boy celebrity status and a head of perfectly coiffed hair and suddenly it's acceptable to punch him in the face, figuratively speaking, with constant name calling and unnecessary put-downs.
Finally, lose your air of superiority. Yup, you're cool. The music you used to listen to back in the day was way cooler. Now stop tweeting about how talentless Justin Bieber is and get back to your Loverboy CD.

I'll leave you now with something to chew on - some recent tweets from J-Bieb himself:

To all the haters out there i wish u the best. U cant bring me down. I wake up everyday grateful 4 the opportunity and grateful to the fans

It’s funny when i read things about myself that r just not true. Why would certain people take time out of their day to hate on a 16 yr old?

Why indeed.

Until next time,

Old Biddy (former Shaun Cassidy fanatic)

Dear Wii Fit,

Please stop telling me I am overweight. I’m getting a complex and am starting to hate you. No matter how many minutes of yoga I do with my virtual trainer, Bjorn Blickensderfer (I named him) I can’t helped but get filled with violent feelings upon receiving my Body Test results. The Wii Fit exercises and games I have no problem with … I think we can all agree that there’s nothing more invigorating than a spot of virtual hula hooping. My issue is with the damn Body Test … well the Body Test results to be precise. You see, when I begin a Wii fit session my confidence is at an all time high. I puff my chest out, tighten my butt muscles and stand on the Wii Fit balance board in my Lululemon look-a-likes thinking I’m all that and a bag of Baked Lays. Bring it on, Wii Fit. I think. Bring. It. On. I channel Jane Fonda and put in a valiant effort in the aerobics category. Then, with a wave of my magic wii-mote, I get all Zen and stuff with a pretty decent yoga session. After smacking some soccer balls around with my head and doing some slalom skiing , I decide it's time for the Body Test. I stand on the balance board (shoulders relaxed as instructed) and listen to a singy-songy voice: "measuring... measuring... measuring". I feel optimistic as the results are calculated. This’ll be good, I think. I’ve worked hard this week. I bend over and put my hands on my knees and wait for the results to appear on the screen. I wipe my brow and, although exhausted, I maintain a confident, almost cocky, look on my face (think professional athlete at a televised event). Then, the horror. The results are in. The little black line appears. Up, up, up it goes… I am sure I hear a snarky “as if” guffaw as it slides past the Underweight Range ... then it passes by the Normal Weight Range so quickly, so unhesitatingly that I want to puke ... and finally it glides, as smooth as silk, into the Overweight Range where it nestles smugly into a comfortable spot. Oh how I’d like to snap that little black line in half and stick one half up Shigeru Miyamoto’s arse and the other down his throat. (But kudos, Shigero, you know, for the whole Mario thing)

As you well know, Nintendo, it is quite normal for one’s body weight to fluctuate daily. So if I happen to go up one pound since my last session please don’t barrage me with questions like “Why do you think you are gaining weight?” and then present me with a list from which I must choose one answer like - too many snacks or not enough exercise – and then when I pick "I don’t know" please don’t act as if I am lying by saying “Are you sure you don’t know?” Haven’t I been humiliated enough?????? Okay, so maybe the giant Toblerone in the cupboard called my name a few times that week. Must I have to explain everything to you? You are not my keeper.

Ring ring. Hello? Nintendo? It's Guantanamo Bay. Can you send us a couple of Wii Fit video games? To hell with water board torture. Wii balance board torture would be a way more effective way of humiliating and degrading our remaining detainees.

Oh, and one more thing. Every time I stand on that dumb balance board and hear the little automated voice say “oh!” as if it is surprised at the amount of weight that just stood upon it, I die a little inside. Couldn’t you have just programmed it to groan or let out a pained scream ‘cause that condescending little “oh!” is killing me with its oozing of fake innocence. It’s like “Oh! Goodness gracious me, did someone have a little bit too much Haagen Dazs this week?” Well let me tell you something Wii Fit people, I’ll be emitting my own “oh!” soon enough when I smash the balance board with a hammer. “Oh! Goodness gracious me. Someone’s got an itty bitty boo-boo”.


Sincerely

Heather Smith

PS I have attached some photos to illustrate my plight.

Starting out positive with some hula hooping.



The Jane Fonda within - getting hot and sweaty with aerobics.



OHM! Attempting Tree Pose while the automated Wii Fit voice keeps saying "Your legs are a little shaky."



What a workout!


Hopeful for great results!

And the results are in... will my weight be "Normal" today?

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Damn you, Wii Fit.

I recently decided to step away from my young adult novel, Ballycatters and Bugs, and write a fictional piece about life in the Yorkshire Dales. Here is an excerpt:

She told me this place would be good. She had escaped to this place once before and had told me that the air was fresh, that it smelled healthy... and I believed her ... she was known for her incredible olfactory system. Even now, as she stands at the top of the hill, it's her nose that takes in the beauty of what surrounds her and when I see that familiar wrinkle form on the bridge of her nose my heart skips a beat.

She catches me looking at her. My instinct is to look away in embarrassment but I can't - she is so beautiful. She looks at me cheekily. I am momentarily confused as to why but when she smirks and runs away I get it - a race! As we run through the grass I feel so much happiness that I can't help but give little jumps of joy no matter how dumb it looks.

We reach our destination. It's perfect. A rustic, cosy cottage. It's been a long journey. We curl up together in a quilt close to the fire. I try to rest but in these new surroundings I find myself alert, edgy almost. A knock on the door and I almost hit the ceiling. We look at each other and freeze. Only when the footsteps fade do we exhale.

She tells me she is hungry. No fancy dinner will be served to us here. How will we cope on our own? Perhaps we should have stayed where we were ... perhaps we shouldn't have bit the hand that fed us.

She becomes increasingly more vocal about her hunger. I must go find food. But the footsteps are back followed by a high-pitched voice at the door ...

"Chet? Is that you? Nutmeg? Are you there?"

It's the mad woman.

"Mama misses you, my itty-bitty babies. Come back to Mama. C'mon my iddle-widdle piggie-wiggies."

I look into Nutmeg's eyes. I'll let her decide. I'd follow her anywhere. The eyes say nothing but the nose goes into overdrive. The mad woman has stuck a piece of curly parsley through a crack in the door. Nutmeg's favourite.

I guess this is it. Bye bye Yorkshire Dales, hello life behind bars. And I didn't even get a chance to look dapper in my miniature Barbour Wax Jacket. Pish.

So I had a long conversation with the new guinea pigs, Chet and Nutmeg, last night. It went like this:

Here's the skinny, guineas, I'm gonna tell ya three things - listen carefully, learn well, and we'll get along just fine:

1. The Youngsters aren't going to wait forever for you to come out of your hiding spots and become the cuddly creatures that we promised them you would be. So get over yourselves. The coy thing is getting a bit old.

2. I promise to feed, clean, and cuddle you critters but in return I expect happy noises and "popcorning". I want entertainment, damn it!

3. I hope you are adventurous little piggies for in your future is a trip is to the Yorkshire Dales. Sitting in the pockets of my Barbour Wax Jacket you can enjoy the countryside, protected from the birds of prey that circle above. Perhaps you can even wear mini Barbour Wax Jackets of you own - how cute - rugged, yet dapper.

Basically, piggies, your cute faces and adorable furry bodies will only get you so far. It's time to start acting like you like us.

Chet and Nutmeg listened quietly during my entire speech, nodding with interest at the first two points, and tilting their heads quizzically at the third. When I was done I stuck a finger through the cage bars and said "Deal?". There was a slight lifting of each of their paws. I took that as "shaking on it".

Not yet used to guinea pig noises and their meanings I heard what sounded like a chuckle as I walked away. Perhaps it was the happy noise I had asked for in point two. Yes, that's it. They really listened to what I had to say. What obedient little furballs!

But as I walked up the stairs I heard it again and couldn't help but shake the feeling that perhaps I was being mocked...

I really am an old biddy. Forty years old with the aches and pains of an eighty year old, and, I tell ya, this damp spring weather is killing me.

My doctor understands. He's ancient. We're like that (my arthritic index finger is wrapped lovingly around my arthritic pointer finger, protecting it from the chill).

"Go on holiday," Doctor Oldie says. "Go to Mexico."

Mexico. Let's see. Aches and pains or Swine Flu? Swine Flu or aches and pains? Hmmmm. In Canada, with my best friend the heating pad, I shall remain.

Got me thinking though. Maybe I should consider a trip south. But where? The only place I've ever really fancied is the Yorkshire Dales ...THE YORKSHIRE DALES??? Holy Swine Poop! What was I thinking? Here was me with visions of sitting in my thatched cottage, drinking tea in front of the fire, listening happily to the sound of the wind and the rain hammer the windows ... I didn't consider how my poor old hips would feel about it ... I never gave a second thought to my wrists or to my knees! No, I was just going to drag them along with me on my adventure - unwilling participants as I frolicked through the dales and performed strenuous veterinary procedures as I joined the local vet on his rounds. How would my shoulders feel about pulling lambs from their mothers in drafty barns? How would my knees feel about standing in a field giving vaccinations to a herd of cattle in the driving rain?

I have been selfish. Perhaps I should reconsider this wild and crazy dream. Perhaps I should pick a new place to obsess about. Do they have thatched cottages in Morocco? Could I wear a Barbour jacket and khaki wellies in Egypt and go fly-fishing in the Nile? No, of course not. I need to face facts. My Yorkshire dream is all the more appealing because of the occasional rainy and damp day. My thatched cottage and open fire is all the more charming when the out of doors is soggy and drenched.

So screw the joints. Damp weather? I'll cope. And anyway, on days when my hips act up, old Mrs. Thompson from Happydale Farm will drop by with a hearty stew to warm my soul. And the local veterinary doctor won't mind if I'm not up to following him on his rounds, in fact, he might even be relieved.

There's only one place where I can frolic ... I know that now ... and that's the Yorkshire Dales.

Dear Billy Bob,

My last letter to you was one of anger and repulsion but today's letter is much, much different. Today's letter is one of heartfelt gratitude. Can you feel it, Billy Bob? Can you feel the love?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I don't know what you're talking about."

Well, let me explain. You see, had you not been a complete knob to Jian Ghomeshi I would never have had the inspiration to write a scathing song about the whole ordeal for the CBC Canada Writes online challenge and been subsequently crowned the Online Challenge Winner.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking "I'm not sure what that means."

What it means, Billy Bob, is that I am thanking you for being a horse's ass.

What's that you say? Would I say that to Tom Petty? Um, no. 'Cause he isn't a horse's ass, but you, my dimwitted friend, are the epitome of the hindquarters of any member of the Equidae family.

Yeah, yeah - you don't know what I mean by that. I get it. Again, I'll explain. The Equidae family is the horse family - horses, zebras, asses. What that means is that you are not only a horse's ass but a zebra's ass and yes, you even qualify as an ass's ass.

Anyway, Billy Bob, good news ... your knobiness has won me an iPod touch. And I feel so indebted to you I might even consider putting a Boxmasters song on it, preferably a track on which you were to too sulky/lazy/childish to play the drums.

Sincerely,

Old Biddy

Following one's favourite celeb on Twitter can be quite exciting. When I first entered into the world of Twitter I was thrilled to know what Jamie Oliver was having for lunch and Stephen Fry's clever and witty posts always caught my attention.

Wow. Stalking from your easy chair - what could be better than that?

That's what I thought for the first week anyway. And then some of the celebs started to share too much ... and shattered the illusion of who I thought they were.

For example, one of my favourite singer-songwriters posted this: Would you rather eat your own poo or drink someone else's vomit?

Had this been a post from some random person on my list I would have rolled my eyes at the dumbness of it and immediately hit the Remove button. But I didn't. And why didn't I? Because of this person's celebrity status?? Boy am I sad.

Question is, do we really want to get to know our celebs? I am not sure that I do.

I even had a little scare with my man, Jian Ghomeshi, when I joined his Facebook fan page. There, "Jian" posted regularly and shared lots of pics. Sounds great, doesn't it? Well it wasn't. I didn't really want to see photo upon photo of Jian and his girlfriend! Another illusion shattered. And the photo album entitled "Beer, booze and babes" really turned me off - where had my charming, respectable radio host gone???

Turns out this fan page was run by an impostor! Phew, now I can go back to my fantasy world of thinking Jian is mine and only mine.

Following the stars on Twitter or Facebook is a gamble. The info they post can either be endearing or off-putting. Do I want to follow their posts and get closer to their real lives or do I want to live in my fantasy world and maintain the image of who I think they are? When the posts are of the poo/vomit variety I think I prefer the latter.

As anyone who reads this blog knows, I love to read books by James Herriot. I describe them to people as comfort books - feel good reading material sure to give you the warm and fuzzies. However, I have always added a disclaimer when recommending James Herriot saying that, while they are lovely books filled with lovely anecdotes, don't expect a great work of literature. But now, as I am re-reading James Herriot, I realize what a disservice I have done to him - what a bloody good writer he was!

Here is a passage from Vet in a Spin. In this scene he describes Roddy Travers, an interesting character who shows up in Darrowby to do odd jobs:

Roddy stayed around the Darrowby district throughout the summer and I grew used to the sight of him on the farms or pushing his pram along the roads. When it was raining he wore a tattered over-long gaberdine coat, but at other times it was always the golf jacket and cordouroys. I don't know how he accumulated his wardrobe. It was a safe bet he had never been on a golf course in his life and it was just another of the little mysteries about him. I saw him early one morning on a hill path in early October.

It had been a night of iron frost and the tussocky pastures beyond the walls were held in a pitiless white grip with every blade of grass stiffly ensheathed in rime.

I was muffled to the eyes and had been beating my gloved fingers against my knees to thaw them out, but when I pulled up and wound down the window the first thing I saw was the bare chest under the collarless unbuttoned shirt.

"Mornin' Mr. Herriot," he said. "Ah'm glad I've seen ye". He paused and gave me a tranquil smile. "There's a job along t'road for a couple of weeks , then I'm movin' on."

"I see." I knew enough about him not to ask where he was going. Instead I looked down at Jake who was sniffing the herbage. "I see he's walking this morning."

Roddy laughed. "Yes sometimes 'e likes to walk, sometimes 'e likes to ride. He pleases 'imself."

"Right, Roddy," I said. "No doubt we'll meet again. All the best to you."

He waved and set off jauntily over the icebound road and I felt that a little vein of richness had gone from my life.

Aaaah. I can't wait to wear my wax jacket as I walk the tussocky pastures of the Yorkshire Dales. Grass stiffly ensheathed in rime? No problem! I'll have my fetching khaki wellies to keep my feet warm and dry.

I will never again state that silly disclaimer when discussing James Herriot. He may not have been a Pulitzer Prize winner but his works are truly remarkable - not only because of the charming semi autobiographical stories but because of the way in which they were written.

If for some reason, my James Herriot books were taken from me, a little vein of richness would be gone from my life as well.

To find out more about James Herriot (Alf Wight) click here.

In my brother's latest blog post (Travelling With Gershom), he ponders our interactions with strangers - when people we don't know strike up a conversation with us how do we react? Do we engage them or do we nod and make a quick escape? Maybe the stranger shared way too much information - do we recoil?

My reaction is usually a negative one, especially if there was a bit TMI involved. In general, I tend to walk around thinking people are idiots. Maybe this is something I should work on ... I don't think it's conducive to my crunchy granola aspirations.

My brother's wife suggested that when strangers talk to us we have an opportunity to brighten their day. Hmmm, interesting. She's right. Why not spend an extra two minutes at the corner store and respond to the shopkeeper ... why not add something to the conversation instead of trying to think of a way to politely end it?

I think I'll try this. And maybe if I approach it genuinely, without the sense that I am humouring the stranger or sacrificing my time, I might just get something out of it ... the good feeling of making a connection with a fellow human being. Reaching out and engaging with a stranger could prove to be a very positive and uplifting experience ... as long as the stranger doesn't act like a bloody idiot.

I haven't blogged in two whole days now and it's Billy Bob Thornton's fault. Man, that whole Billy Bob/Jian Ghomeshi really got to me. But I'm over it now. Really I am. I've written a ranty song for CBC Canada Writes about it. I've posted disparaging remarks and bad publicity links for Billy Bob on Facebook. I've even twittered (tweeted? twitted?) about it. It's out of my system now. Completely. Billy Bob who?

Now that I've calmed down I've had a chance to reflect on why I got so angry. I mean, in an earlier blog post I wanted to throw a brick at BBT's head. That's not me. I'm not a violent person. I do yoga for God's sake. I meditate. I am the epitome of peace. I could replace the dove.

So here's the deal and I know I'm not alone on this ... but as someone who is at home all day with a young child, CBC keeps me company ... it provides me with some adult conversation. In years gone by, this wasn't so much of a problem for moms who stayed at home. Edna or Ruth or Marge some other old biddy from next door would pop over for a cup of tea and a bickie ... but it's not like that now ... not where I live anyway. All I have are my BFFs from CBC - Jian Ghomeshi in the morning, Rita Celli at lunch, and Aamer Haleem in the afternoon. I can't talk back to these people, granted, but I feel I know them quite well. It's like they are right there with me at my kitchen table - Jian and Aamer with their coffee (one sugar for Jian, black for Aamer) and Rita with her green tea (she's very health conscious). I sip my tea and listen to their titillating conversation, nodding in agreement as they discuss the serious issues and laughing loudly at the occasional hilarity. When Jian speaks I often look in his direction flirtatiously. "Oh, Jian" I say. "You are SO right about that. Good point."

So you see, when some bonehead with a hillbilly name (nothing like the sophisticated sounding Jian Ghomeshi) struts into my home, knocking over the good pottery mugs that I had laid out for my guests (the biggest one for Aamer, coffee is his fuel) and looks down his nose at my no-name digestive biscuits, I get riled. Even more so when he disrespects my guests and my country.

That's how it is with CBC and me. These hosts are my old biddy neighbours ... so if you're an egotistical celebrity with an holier than thou attitude you'd better think twice before messing with my Edna or Ruth or Marge - 'cuz this peace-lovin', yoga-crazy hippie will get a bad case of blog rage and through the power of the almighty rant will turn your name to mud.

See? Told ya. I'm over it. It's out of my system. Completely.

There's too much trash on TV these days and it's causing me to have unclean thoughts about All Creatures Great and Small.

Last night I was watching series five, episode six - A New Chapter. In it, James is gone to a lecture on metabolic diseases, leaving Helen home alone with a pot of liver and bacon. Soon, James' boss, Siegfried Farnon, arrives. Helen, who is packing boxes in preparation for a big move, complains to Siegfried that she fears James will be hitting the pub after the lecture and will drink too much. Then the following exchange:

Helen: I've got liver and bacon in the oven and now he says he's going to have a sandwich on the way.

Siegfried: Liver and bacon? Don't tempt me.

Helen: You hungry?

Siegfried: I'm always hungry ... but I mustn't trespass on your hospitality.

Helen: Oh please do (she passes him a drink and sits down next to him). It'll only be wasted and I can do with the company.

Siegfried: Could you? (he put his hand on her arm and leaves it there)

Helen: Well it is a bit depressing packing up ones home.

Siegfried: I expect it is.

Helen: Oh please stay and keep me company. (Then, coyly) Unless you hate liver and bacon.

Siegfried: (smiling like a fox in a hen house) Oh I like liver and bacon.

They smile at each other and chink glasses.

Had I been watching something other than All Creatures Great and Small I would have believed what was in the back of my mind ... that they weren't really talking about liver and bacon. But, let's be real here, there's no way Siegfried and Helen would go at it while James is away. It's unthinkable ... yet, for a moment, I thought it. I have been jaded by modern TV and it's racy story lines.

So how do I watch this delightfully pure show when impure thoughts keep worming their way into my head? All I can do is repeat the following mantra: There is no room for rumpy-pumpy on All Creatures Great and Small, there is no room for rumpy-pumpy on All Creatures Great and Small.

You crossed a line, my friend. Nobody and I mean NOBODY disrepects my Jian the way that you did today.

You made a big boo-boo, Thornton. Canada loves Ghomeshi. LOVES him. You lost some fans today, dumbass.

Canada too reserved for you, huh? Prefer playing in joints where people throw stuff, huh? Well, Billy Bonehead, I'm one Canadian who likes to chuck stuff around and I got a nice big brick here with your name on it.

You know what, Billy Bob? You can kiss my arse. And you know what else? Your band can kiss it too. At first I felt sorry for your crew, sitting awkwardly in the Q studio while you acted like a COMPLETE MORON. But their silence only made them look like weak, cowardly jerks. They should be ashamed.

FYI, just so you know, you're a dipshit.

Sincerely,

Old Biddy

I will never again try to have a deep and serious discussion with Edgerton while he is drinking an espresso. Last night, while we were standing in the kitchen having a serious chat, I was distracted by a peculiar head jerking motion Edgie insisted on performing every time he took a sip from his Illy cup.

"What the hell are you doing?" I finally asked.

"What?"

"That thing. With your head."

A blank stare.

I sighed. "The head jerk thing."

Nothing.

I demonstrated with my imaginary cup, almost giving myself whiplash.

"Oh that," said Edgie. "It's the proper way to taste an espresso." He then gave an explanation that described when to inhale, when to exhale, when to enjoy the coffee flowing over the tongue and when to swallow. Man, he's anal.

I think this Father's Day, just to be evil, I'll bring him breakfast in bed, a cup of instant Folgers placed lovingly next to his toast. Somehow I don't think it'll be the best part of waking up.

I'll post the pic.

The supermarket is not super. Far from it. It is a boring building in which one does a boring thing - food shopping. It is my dreaded Monday morning chore. Up and down the aisles I go with Goo, the littlest youngster, who rides happily on the front of the cart. Far too disorganized to bring a pen I try to mentally check off my list as I go knowing that I will return home without some vitally needed items - it's always the way.

Oh look. Roast beef is on sale. Pitter-patter goes my little heart. Not.

Time to pick out the best buy on toilet paper. Edgerton's voice fills my head. "Remember: look at the cents per sheet." Edgie thrives on this sort of thing. Not me. I couldn't wait to get to the end of my list.

Bu then something remarkable happened. The muffled monotony of the Muzak suddenly became clear ... is it? Could it be? Annie's Song? John Denver?

The supermarket was transformed!! No longer an uninspiring stink-pit of doom, it was now a place of wonderment.

You fill up my senses like a night in the forest
Like the mountains in springtime, like a walk in the rain

There was a bounce in my step as I headed off towards the dairy section. I gave a happy nod to the old lady who was blocking my access to the cheese. Did I wink? Yeah, I probably did.

Like a storm in the desert, like a sleepy blue ocean
You fill up my senses, come fill me again.

As I hummed along, I noticed for the first time the vibrant oranges of the cheese. I was like a newborn lamb taking in the beauty of the dales.

Oh, how the Pillsbury Dough Boy smiled at me as I read the ingredients of his Pop'N'Fresh dough. My heart brimmed with happiness at how he never lost that doughy grin, even when I gently laid him back down again due to an over abundance of artificial flavours.

Let me drown in your laughter, let me die in your arms
Let me lay down beside you, let me always be with you

Yes, John, if only you were still with us.

The song came to an end but not my new found optimism. No, that lingered for a long time afterwards ... because that's what John Denver does to me. I've said it before and I'll say it again. He fills up my senses.

I stumbled across a lovely website yesterday called MyFavouriteDales.com. Cees van der Veen has enjoyed his yearly vacations to the Yorkshire Dales so much he created this website as a tribute. The welcome page is something special with its video slide show of the Yorkshire Dales through the seasons. Cees van der Veen writes: Join me during my rambles over the hills, and down the vales. Share with me some special moments. And so I did.

One of my favourite videos is the montage of cottages in which he has stayed from 1990-2007. He seems to know the area quite well and he demonstrates great taste when it comes to picking cottages. I might start stalking him.

I was quite excited to see some webcam links. Lambwatch caught my attention. A click later and I was watching the Yorkshire Dales from my comfy chair. Not much happening - just a lamb-less piece of land and a bird feeder swinging in the wind. But it was peaceful. "I will keep watching until I see a little lamb walk past the camera," I thought. Doo-dee-doo. Where are they? Asleep, maybe. Getting shorn, perhaps. Dum-dee-dum.

Edgerton was sitting next to me. He had his laptop, I had mine. I was sure he didn't have Lambwatch on his screen - but thinking that perhaps he might think it neat that I was watching the Yorkshire Dales, I filled him in enthusiastically on my new obsession. He looked at me with what may have been pity, I'm not sure.

Wow, the wind was really picking on the dales. I'll definitely need a Barbour wax jacket when I go there for real some day.

"OH MY GOD!" I shrieked.

Edgie jumped.

"THERE'S A WOODPECKER ON THE BIRDFEEDER IN THE YORKSHIRE DALES."

Edgerton looked at me with pity, I was sure of it this time. He said something about getting a life but my attention had already turned back to my computer screen where I stared, fascinated, at the bird on the feeder, hoping to catch a glimpse of a little lamb walking by in the background.

Yesterday, The Big Youngster was on a riddle kick. It was one riddle after another for hours on end ... and he got me every single time. At the dinner table that evening, in an attempt to stump him, I smarmily challenged him with the following riddle:

A man and his son are in a car accident. The father dies on the scene, but the child is rushed to the hospital. When he arrives the surgeon says, "I can't operate on this boy, he is my son!" How can this be?

The Big Youngster looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Half-laughing and using the most condescending tone he answered, "The surgeon is the boy's mother." Then, to add insult to injury, he held his hands out and looked around the table as if to say "What the-?"

I was amazed. Not at how The Big Youngster had scoffed at my riddle, but how he had answered it without hesitation ... of course the surgeon was the boy's mother ... who else? You see, perhaps I am dating myself by saying this, but back in my day the thought that a woman would be the surgeon would not have entered the minds of most. I remember this riddle being quite a perplexing one.

Oh how times have changed! I was so happy that my son had shown no signs of male chauvinist piggyness, I overlooked how haughtily he had dismissed my riddle.

I was just listening to CBC radio's Spark, a fantastic programme about technology and culture.

I was struck by a piece entitled "Al Rae on Facebook Mea Culpas". Al Rae masterfully told his story of reaching AA's step nine, making amends with the people in your past, and doing so ... though Facebook.

It was a well written, touching, and funny piece, the best line being "to think you're the worst person in the world is another form of narcissism. It's like you can't just be a horse's ass, you have to be Seabiscuit's ass".

I googled Al Rae afterwards. Turns out he's the Artistic Director of the Winnipeg Comedy Festival. No surprise there. His talent as a comedy writer came through loud and clear in this Spark piece.

Listen for yourself by clicking the link above.

Well I finally did it. I convinced Edgie to move to the Yorkshire Dales. In Spring 2010. For one year. I can’t wait!!

We’ll be living in a quaint hamlet called Foxup in the valley of Littondale.

It was an amazing turn of events. Edgerton's company is opening a branch office in nearby Harrogate. I almost pooped myself when I heard. I didn't need to say a word. Before I could open my mouth sweet dear Edgie said "I'll put in for a transfer." I jumped on him. I did a number on his back. I felt bad. But then I thought about springtime in the Dales and immediately felt better.

The picture above is an actual photo of Foxup. Click to enlarge. Our cottage is the one in the distance to the right. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!

I will frolic with The Youngsters across the countryside. I will visit the local pub. I will stalk the local veterinarian and assist him in the birthing of the animals whether he likes it or not. I will be one with The Yorkshire Dales.

My wildest dreams will be realized.

Yesterday, I was listening to Richard Stursberg (CBC's executive vice-president of English Services) on Ontario Today. He was taking calls about the recent CBC cutbacks and did a great job explaining the reasoning behind some of the difficult cuts that had to be made.

One of the callers caught my attention. An older man who had been a CBC radio listener for forty years asked why the older generation are being left out of the target audience. An old biddy at heart, I had been thinking the exact same thing recently.

I am a devout Q listener and thoroughly enjoy The Point, but lets face it, the old folks sitting around the home won't be tuning in, will they? What are they supposed to do? Listen to Kixx? That'll surely result in a premature and painful death.

What we need is a new radio personality. A Bill Richardson/Jian Ghomeshi combination. Someone with their finger on the pulse of both popular culture and the good ol' days... 'cause let me tell you, the only fingers on pulses these days are the ones checking if the CBC-deprived oldies have died of boredom.

So CBC, as a defender of old biddies and crotchety geezers everywhere, please, when you are in a position to do so, give us a cross-generational radio show. Something fun. Something witty. Think BBC's Just A Minute. Come on, you're a talented bunch! I know you can do it!