12. Sep, 2020

One day I went to the shop to buy milk and came home with a goat called Billy! I had no idea what I was going to do with Billy, but I assumed it would all fall into place. I was wrong.

     My kind and unassuming husband was very surprised when I opened the gate to our home for waifs and strays with a goat in tow. The bearded animal snorted when he saw the garden. Heaven, he must have thought, a Billy Goats Heaven!

     I was a very kind but assuming wife, my husband said, to think that we could easily accommodate this animal that had one eye on the washing line and another on our prized allotment. But Billy was here to stay, at least for the time being.

     He didn’t make friends easily, which was probably due to his horns. These  had the potential to toss an unsuspecting person into the air. And they certainly scared many of our friends away.

     And he escaped, once or twice, could have been more but I hate to think about it. Oh, the trouble it caused. We thought that Gilbert the Great was a handful, but Billy the Goat beat him hands down.

     ‘A goat can live for twenty or more years,’ a friend told me kindly, ‘but I suggest you don’t tell your kind and unassuming husband that.’

    ‘He’s probably not far off old age,’ I replied and instantly felt sorry for poor Billy.      

     I knew we couldn’t keep Billy indefinitely, our home for waifs and strays just wasn’t right for him.

      ‘We could rent him out,’ I said jokingly, to my kind and unassuming husband many months later. ‘Someone must need a natural lawnmower.’

      He shook his head and said that Billy deserved somewhere permanent. I agreed.

       It was after Billy got into the allotment, that we sought a new home for him. I asked Tom the Egg (he really did exist) if he would put some posters around the villages and off he went on his new bicycle.

       Within two days, someone called and asked all about Billy. What he looked like, colour, size etc. When I had given them a full description, they asked if they could come to see him straight away.

        Well, what a surprise. Billy found a new home on the stage. He was to star in a play which was running for another four nights, then live the rest of his days on a farm close by.

        I have often been to visit Billy and delighted to write, that he is a happily retired acting goat.

 Goodnight Billy! I often wonder where you came from.

27. Jun, 2020

Tawny owls (Strix aluco) often frequent our home for waifs and strays. These adorable creatures are more vocal in autumn when territories are being established by youngsters setting up on their own. Many people think they go ‘twit twoo,’ but, the female calls ‘ke-wick,’ with the male responding ‘hooo-hoo-ooo.’ Well this was spring and the village where we live was extra warm and peaceful due to the glorious weather and lockdown. 

     We found the first owlet sitting on the floor beneath a large oak tree. It was late afternoon and the foxing hour was closing in. Thankfully, the weather was kind and we placed the young bird on top of a shed and watched for hours, from a distance. Its mother could be heard across the field and the wee owlet responded. We were sure it would be fed so headed indoors.

      The owlet was still there the following morning and down on the ground was its sibling. We made enquires and discovered it was quite natural for a young owlet to be out of the nest before it can fly and sure enough, both owlets would climb up the tree at night. Indeed, far wiser than we had thought. We decided to let nature take its course but monitored their safety until one day they could be heard with their parents, across the field. They had found their way home.

       Life at our home for waifs and strays is always busy and never ever boring. There is always something to fix or replace. Animals wonder through our garden, stay awhile and leave. Nature is always entertaining, especially around our wildlife pond this time of year. For me, there is nothing better than sitting on the old bench with a cup of sweet tea, watching the world at its best.






28. Apr, 2020

Life at our home for waifs and strays has certainly changed during the last few weeks. Covid-19 has seen to that. Of course, our animals are blissfully unaware that life on the outside is a troubled one. However, the garden has had time tenderly spent on it and is now looking like a thriving allotment with enough vegetables planted to keep us until autumn. The hens, bless their souls, are old but still present us with deliciously fresh eggs most days. And down in the pond, a battle has evolved, tadpoles versus newts, with the occasional kestrel watching from above. But, for now, I have a battle of my own.

     Whilst my kind and unassuming husband works tirelessly in the attic, I still go to work at the small but perfectly formed hospital near the city. The ward is quiet with cancer patients coming in and out for operations. We are typical nurses, who laugh and cry together as we share in the knowledge, that life will never be the same again. And despite not being on the front line, we are armed as a team with PPE, to fight the enemy we can only see in the fear and sadness on people’s faces. Some of us on the team have had or think we have had the virus but unfortunately, we were not tested. So, it’s onwards and upwards in a battle to help ourselves and others, survive this coronavirus war.


11. Jan, 2020

It’s late again and all I want to do is to sit by the fire with a cup of sweet tea. The foxing hours are upon us and the polecat is still on the loose but the hens are safely tucked up in their beds, safe for another night at least. And you are more than welcome to sit in the chair opposite me. It’s old but comfortable and when the embers die down please use the blanket that’s folded on the side. I think tonight, I shall play my guitar and sing a wee song my father taught me a long time ago. It’s called Streets of London. But before that, I shall tell you why I chose this song.

      This evening I saw an old woman lying lifeless on the cold, wet road. She had just been hit by a car. I quickly reassured her that help was on the way. She was thin and poorly dressed. Someone nearby said she roams the streets day and night and is always alone. I was heartbroken! Staring down at this woman, some mothers child, I wondered who she was and where she’d come from. Her name she could not tell me. And now, in the comfort of my home, I remembered the song that tells a story about loneliness and people, just like the woman who now lies on a hospital bed, alone!

       Close your eyes and listen to the lyrics. Picture the old lady and pray for her if you will.....

Have you seen the old man 
In the closed-down market 
Kicking up the paper, 
with his worn out shoes? 
In his eyes you see no pride 
Hand held loosely at his side
Yesterday's paper telling yesterday's news 

So how can you tell me you're lonely, 
And say for you that the sun don't shine? 
Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London 
I'll show you something to make you change your mind 

Have you seen the old girl 
Who walks the streets of London 
Dirt in her hair and her clothes in rags? 
She's no time for talking, 
She just keeps right on walking 
Carrying her home in two carrier bags. 


In the all night cafe
At a quarter past eleven, 
Same old man is sitting there on his own 
Looking at the world 
Over the rim of his tea-cup, 
Each tea last an hour 
Then he wanders home alone


And have you seen the old man 
Outside the seaman's mission 
Memory fading with 
The medal ribbons that he wears. 
In our winter city, 
The rain cries a little pity 
For one more forgotten hero 
And a world that doesn't care 

Do you know any lonely people? Make one phone call! Write one letter! A few words can make all the difference!

10. Jan, 2020

Ok, so this is a love story about two worms that live in the garden at our home for waifs and strays. I guess I might lose some readers, but hang on a minute! Worms have five hearts and breathe in air and breathe out carbon dioxide, just like us. So why not stay a bit longer? It wont take long. Their names are Wilma and Willmott.

     ‘Do it now!’ Wilma said. ‘While it’s dark!’

     ‘Why does it always have to be me?’ replied grumpy Willmott. ‘You know I’m afraid of the dark!’

     ‘You’re a grown worm,’ said Wilma. ‘Worms live in the dark and we need more air down here!’

     ‘But it’s scary up there. And those chickens bit off uncle Teds head, remember? I want to keep my head Wilma. Why don’t you do it for a change? I'm sure they wouldn't want your head!’

      ‘Willmott Wormery!’ Wilma shouted and some earth slide down the side of their sitting room, ‘you are a coward and Uncle Ted was a fool!’ she sounded very cross. ‘He went up in the daytime, what did he expect?’

      ‘Not to lose his head, that’s for certain!’ said Willmott quivering.

      ‘It’s dark now,’ said Wilma more gently, ‘I can’t go, I can hardly breathe!’

      Willmott  loved his wife. She was getting old and lucky to have survived as long as she had but that was probably because he had taken such good care of her, he thought. No, he couldn’t possible let her do it. He had to pluck up the courage and go himself.

      As Willmott slid up to the top of their burrow, Wilma made the sign of the cross. ‘Don’t let anything happen to him,’ she said silently, ‘he’s a grumpy old so and so but I still love him.’

      Willmott shivered as he stuck his head out into the open and breathed in the cool night air. It was good, he thought and almost forgot to check for predators.    

      ‘Be quick!’ shouted Wilma. ‘before you lose your head too!'

      Willmott began to drag bits of leaves and straw into the burrow. Wilma helped at this point, by reaching up to get them.

      ‘Ah that’s better already,’ she said. ‘I can breathe easier now.’

      Willmott dragged some tiny stones into the entrance. 

      ‘We’ll soon have lots more air in here Wilma,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Put some supper on! I’ll be down now in a minute!’    (Remember, these are welsh worms!)

      Just as Wilma was about to prepare the food, she heard an almighty scream. It was poor Willmott.

      ‘It’s a chicken!’ he cried, his voice full of terror.

      Wilma dropped everything and slid quickly up the burrow after poor Willmott.

       ‘He’s got me!’ shouted Willmott. ‘Goodbye Wilma!’

       Poor Wilma struggled to the top to see that Willmott still had his head on and was smiling.

       ‘What on earth are you playing at Willmott?’ she said breathlessly.

       Willmott turned and wrapped himself around Wilma. ‘I needed to know that you truly loved me,’ he said grinning, ‘and now I know that you do!’ Then he kissed her.