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!!!

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.

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.

I like words that dance off the ol' tongue, but often these words do not play a role in every day conversations and trying to fit them in can be challenging. You may have noticed the use of the word 'phantasmagorical' in a couple of my posts. Saying that word makes me feel the way Maria Von Trapp felt as she spun around on the mountaintop bursting with song. Why, I can barely utter it without spinning around my living room, dodging Edgerton's big screen TV. But trying to fit it into a conversation with the supermarket checkout lady can be tricky. And Edgerton just doesn't take me seriously when I use words like phantasmagorical.

Speaking of Edgerton, he sometimes demonstrates an interesting use of the English language. Just yesterday he said that he did something "just for poops and giggles". Okaaaaay, then.

Being a Scot, Edgie also has the habit of overusing the word 'bloody' and The Youngsters get called 'little buggers' quite regularly. Also, in the way of the Brits, he tends to modify words by shortening them and adding "ie" on the end, as in sarnie for sandwich, bickie for biscuit and brekkie for breakfast.

Edgerton has introduced me to a couple of my favourite dancing off the tongue words: lovely-jubbly and fandabidosie. Such joyful words. Fandabidosie has to be the happiest word in the English language. But not all of my favourite words represent happy things. In fact, sometimes I don't like what they represent at all. Take muttonchops, for example. Great word. Giant sideburns? Not so much. And how about gibberish? Another fun word, but who wants to listen to a load of nonsensical crap? Ooooh - nonsensical. That's a good one.

Now I must take my leave as the day is young and I must find an opportunity to use the word serendipitousness (which isn't a real word but should be).

If you have a moment, please comment below - what's your favourite word?

I cracked the ol' whip and got Edgerton moving on revamping the Old Biddy Rambling blog. It wasn't too difficult - I only had to make reference to Captain Jean-Luc Picard by saying "Make it so" and so it was. In warp time velocity speed the Old Biddy had a facelift! (Edgie loves it when I talk Trekkie to him.)

So what do you think of the new look? Is it as fetching as a freshly coiffed blue rinse hairdo or as disappointing as a run in your dark beige control top pantyhose? The Old Biddy wants to know.

(Although Edgerton didn't create the graphics he hooked me up using a funky blogger template - see link at bottom of page).

I think Shaun Majumder and I could be BFF's. And here's why:

He's from Newfoundland - I'm from Newfoundland

He's kinda ebony - I'm kinda ivory

He's funny - I try to be.

He has Mussels In The Corner listed on one of his playlists - I once killed Mussels In The Corner on the accordion.

See what I mean? If that isn't BFF material I don't know what is.

I'm tellin' ya - if I ever got hold of Shaun Majumder I'd grab him by the cheeks and shake his head back and forth saying, "Who's a funny boy then? Huh? Who is it? Is it my Shaunie? Yes it is! Oh yes it is!"

Is this blog post confusing you? It's not about my dream life on the Yorkshire Dales, it's not about my dear persnickety Edgerton, it's not even about my three children whose constant needs keep me months behind on Coronation Street. So where did the whole Shaun Majumder/BFF thing come from you ask? I'll tell you where. CBC's Canada Writes. Shaun is one of the judges. I listened last week and his talent is undeniable. He tickles me, I tell ya. Cracks me right up.

If you ask me, Shaun Majumder fits right in here at Old Biddy Rambling. He and Edgie would get along, I'm sure of it (I must find out if Shaun appreciates fine coffee made in the most anal of ways), and I am sure Edgerton wouldn't mind if Shaun appeared in one of my dreamy Yorkshire Dales posts (after all, there's room for three around the open fire inside my charming thatched cottage).

Yes, Shaun would be a perfect BFF. I can see us now, sitting atop a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. It's beautiful. It's picturesque. The cold wind is eating the faces right off of us. The waves crash against the rocks, the noise preventing me from hearing anything Shaun says, but I watch his mouth moving and I laugh - oh how I laugh - because whatever he's saying is most certainly funny. It would have to be. It's coming from the sweet lips of Shaun Majumder. My BFF.

I went to coffeegeek.com today. I actually went to a website with "geek" in the title. Will wonders never cease.

It's all dear Edgerton's fault. It all started when, on spying his brand new shiny French press on the counter, I suddenly had a craving for coffee. Many moons ago I would have just thrown a few spoonfuls of Nescafe in and sploshed in some hot water on top of it. A hasty plunge later and I'd be drinking what, at the time, I would have considered a decent coffee. But not now. Not since Edgerton.

As I typed coffeegeek.com into the browser I knew my anal retentive husband would be proud. As I preheated the carafe and carefully measured out the freshly ground Ethopia Yergacheffe Aricha Organic coffee beans from 49th Parallel Roaster I knew that, had Edgerton been watching, a tear would have come to his eye. As I stirred my coffee concoction precisely six times with the coffeegeek recommended chopstick, I realized that my husband had turned me into a coffee snob.

I have to admit - Edgie makes THE best coffee. But now I am spoiled. Tim Hortons, once acceptable, now makes me want to hurl. When Edgie's not around, I suffer greatly ... but I shall suffer no more ... not now that I have coffeegeek.com as backup.

Having Mr. Persnickety as a husband can be trying at times, but how can I complain when I am so often the recipient of lovingly made cappuccinos, often delivered with a latte art heart? I am proud of my coffee geek. In fact, on entering the coffeegeek's website I think that the front page image should be Edgerton himself , smugly sipping a fresh brew, the air of superiority wafting off the page. And that, would bring a tear to my eye.

There are many words spouses fear hearing from their significant others:

We need to talk.
I don't love you anymore.
I've found somebody new.
It's not you, it's me.

Scary words indeed. But nothing frightens my husband more than:

Maybe we should consider....

Seems harmless enough. I suppose it would be if what followed was along the lines of:

... putting in another flower bed.

or

... having roast beef for dinner tonight.

But I have never followed "maybe we should consider" with the above phrases. Here is what I am more likely (and have) followed it with:

... moving to Germany for six months.
... getting a dog.
... having another baby. (to be clear, that one was AGES ago)
... doing a home exchange.

So, you see, "maybe we should consider" puts poor dear Edgerton on edge. His body stiffens, his eyes narrow, and the pens in his pocket protector shake from his rapidly beating heart. Ultimately, what happens is this - my smashing idea is rejected before it's even uttered. So I need a new opener. And it can't be "So I was thinking" ... that has already been exhausted and is now in retirement. Any ideas? Please post below.

I looked at my face the other day. Really looked at it. I have this big crease across my forehead. I showed my husband. "That's from years of wearing a grumpy frown," he said. I went back to the mirror. I frowned. No, that wasn't it. Frowning appeared to be the cause of the smaller wrinkles at the top of my nose, between my eyes.

So what was the cause of this ginormous gash in the middle of my forehead? I practiced some other faces in the hopes of finding out.

Feeling hopeful, I smiled. Nope, that wasn't it.

Wondering if perhaps I have spent most of my life surprised, I widened my eyes and channeled a sense of wonder. Nope, that wasn't it either.

Then I put on my incredulous look. Bingo! The crease deepened, the length and depth of it revealing just how often I have made that face over the years.

As I examined my incredulous face my head was instantly filled with echoes ... echoes of my own voice ...

Yeah, right.
Puh-lease.
What a bloody moron.
People are idiots.
What a jerk.
What was he/she thinking?
Are you outta your freakin' mind?
What the hell?

It may appear that I have spent most of my life thinking people are idiots and pshawing every five minutes, but on further reflection I realized that my incredulous face is also one I use quite often in an amused "you're such a jerk, that's why I love you" kind of way.

Am I bothered by the fact that my incredulity has left its mark on my once smooth forehead? Nah. Whatdaya gonna do? So I have a big wrinkle on my head ... so what? At least it wasn't caused by years of frowning. That, I'd regret.