Her name was Lady Harlequin Harmonia (her scientific name of course!) but she was known behind her back as Lady Muck! And somehow she made her way to the home for waifs and strays. From the very beginning, no-one liked her except for the gentle folk that lived in the house. But they only liked her from a distance. Well this is how it all began.

       My name is Lady Bird, Lady Coccinelli Bird to be correct, and I am the one who stupidly helped the obnoxious Lady Muck when she landed ungracefully in my garden. She was covered in mud and in a great deal of pain so I took her into my home and nursed her back to health. That was the most stupid thing I have ever done! But my mother was Nurse Lady Bird and taught me how to help those of our kind. But then I discovered, that Lady blooming Muck was an imposter!

       ‘Why am I red and you are orange?’ was my first but not last question, and before she could answer, I added ‘and why is it that you have fifteen spots on your back and I have only seven?’

       Lady Harlequin Harmonia Muck turned her snooty nose in the air whilst her eyes stared at me. ‘Because,’ she fluttered her enormous eye lashes, ‘I am not your average beetle Miss Lady Bird. I am from far away!’

       Well why the heck didn’t she go back to far away, I thought and decided there and then she was not to be trusted. I called up some friends and explained my dilemma and asked that they pay me a visit. On their arrival, Lady Harlequin Harmonia Muck greeted them with an unmerciful smell. Believe me, she stank like dead leaves. Even I had to leave my own home. This is where it gets interesting.

        Having lost my home and my friends, I was desperate to get rid of this imposter. She had to go one way or another.

        Now the kind an unassuming man that lives in the house with the assuming woman, grow grapes. They hang in bunches across a large fence near the pond. Now I was told by a reliable source that the likes of Lady Harlequin Harmonia Muck has a tendency to contaminate grapes which upsets the grower.  Now I just needed the gentle folk from the house to notice this. Tricky!

             So the next day I had a plan. I knocked on the door of my own home. This made my blood boil but I tried to look calm.

             ‘Lady Harlequin Harmonia,’ I said as nicely as I could and through gritted teeth, ‘why don’t you come out and fly with me around the garden. I can take you to the vineyard if you so desire!’

             ‘Vineyard?’ the horrid Harmonia squealed. ‘Take me to the vineyard!’ she demanded and I had a terrible job trying not to laugh.

              So I did as she desired and took her to the grapevine. I watched in amazement, the speed in which she extracted the juice from the fruit. And I waited for the gently folk to arrive. And thankfully they did, just a little while later.

              ‘Look!’ cried the lady of the house, ‘it’s a harlequin ladybird! We must catch it a take it far away from here before it contaminates our crop.’

               So I watched as Lady Muck was gently caught and placed in a container, along with the bunch of grapes she continued to eat. I never saw her again. And I never want to either! But I was happy in the knowledge that she went back to where she came from, a place called far away!

Being at home on a sunny day is bliss! Being at home in the kitchen, drawing, writing and baking all at the same time is even more bliss! But being at home in the garden and doing all of those things is heaven. I just wish there were more days like this. But then again, would I get any serious writing done? I think perhaps I would, with a little bit of discipline.  

      And so I was up and out in the garden earlier than usual. There is something so different about letting the hens out when the sun is shining. They instantly embrace the day with gibberish chatter and a bit of gentle exercise. But there was one wee hen that didn’t want to join in. This was Twilight! She is still broody and hoping for a chick of her own. Any day now, we will have to make the decision of whether or not to adopt a day old chick and slip it under her. This is a big decision, too big for such a sunny day.

       So I planted out the broad beans. This is probably the only vegetable I don’t eat. Well, I will eat it if it’s on the plate but not without a fuss. But my kind and unassuming husband enjoys them with a passion so I gained some brownie points....not that I need points, but I really would like a wee chick for Twilight.

       After checking my e-mails, I made a cup of sweet tea and settled to do some writing. I have almost finished another book, after months of editing and already working on another but my mind as usual, wonders off in a tangent. I am quite positive, that if I didn’t have such a busy and sidetracked head, then I would have written a hundred books by now.

       So the day is almost done and I have drank many a sweet tea and written and edited many words. I have painted in the park and been to an art gallery with a friend. And although this is not a bedtime story, it is a day in my life at our home for waifs and strays.      

‘You are naive artist!’ my maths teacher said holding up my painting for everyone to see. ‘I know this, by the childlike simplicity by which you paint. You also have the attention span of a flea, especially in my class!’ She stuck the small painting to the blackboard and although naive, it was quite clear what I had painted beneath my table....the maths teachers face! Everyone laughed, except me and the teacher.

        ‘This is not an art lesson,’ she said, confiscating my portable palette of square paints.

        Ok, so I shouldn’t have been drawing, during maths lessons but nothing bored me more. The same sort of thing happened in geography class that same day.

         ‘Can someone describe a glacier?’ The geography teacher was a stern man and always used a long stick to point at the board. But this time he pointed it at random children sitting nervously in their chairs.

         'Stand up and tell the class what a glacier is,' he said to a number of children, whislt totally ignoring my hand waving in the air. Oh I couldn’t believe my luck. Just the night before, my father had told me of the time he went to Antartica and saw a glacier for the first time. I wanted to tell the class all about it.

       After he failed to get the right answer, he had no other choice other than to pick me. After all, I was still waving my hand in the air.

       ‘Stand up then!’ he shouted in my direction and so I stood but somehow the enthusiasm had diminished. What if I got it wrong? After being told on that very same day that I was a naive artist, perhaps I was a naive twelve year student all together.

       So I thought of my father and how his description of the glacier sent me dreaming of them all night long.

         ‘It’s just like a river of snow!’ I began then couldn’t stop. ‘It shimmer’s an emerald green hue as it travels gracefully over rocks towards the sea.’

         I had forgotten what my father said entirely and imagined the rest. Well it didn’t go down every well with the geography teacher. Twice in one day, I had a nasty shock.

         The long wooden stick came down with an almighty crash on my desk.

          ‘STOP!’ the teacher almost begged. My mouth was open but nothing was coming out as I looked at him.

          ‘Never, in my whole life as a teacher, (which was 30 years I later discovered) have I ever come across a child with such a vivid imagination!’

           I shook my head as if agreeing with him. I didn’t know what else to do.

           ‘Sit down!’ was the last thing I remember him saying to me, and not very kindly either. My father would be very disappointed, not with me, but with the teacher, for not letting me finish. I was about to get to the exciting bit, when my father slipped into the emerald green water and was rescued by a polar bear...I think he made that bit up to make me laugh. I guess it was just as well I didn’t finish, as I doubt anything could have made that teacher laugh.

           So I grew up, a naive child with a vivid imagination. I guess that child remains inside me because I still prefer naive art which warms ones heart and soothes the soul. And yes, I have a copious amount of vivid imagination. But, according to my kind an unassuming husband, it makes for an interesting life!

As I sit by my window and watch the sun set on another memorable day, I wonder what tale I shall tell you tonight. Shall I talk about the animals that live in our garden for waifs and strays? Or shall I tell you a tale about the characters that live in Gusty Gully? Or perhaps I should just talk to you, as if you were here in the room with me. Now that’s a good idea!

      I shall light the fire and sit in the old armchair besides it. You can sit in the chair opposite me, but be careful not to sit on the cat.

      If you’re in the mood for music, then we could sing-along with the old guitar, leaning against the piano. Or perhaps you would like to listen to some classical music or read poetry from one of the books on the shelf behind you.

      On an evening like this, I like to read Hiawatha, written by Longfellow in 1855. The names of the characters just roll off your tongue, like Gitche Manito, the peace-bringing leader and Mudjekeewis, father of the Four Winds. Then there’s Nokomis, who falls from the moon and becomes Hiawatha’s Grandmother and the book would be nothing without Minnehaha, Hiawatha’s childhood sweetheart.

By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.

      Perhaps it’s because I can identify with this fictitious character. I too, have the need for freedom, to feel the wind on my face, to walk barefoot, to stand in the rain with my face skyward. I too went on a journey when I was very young and did not return for many moons and many winters. I too stood on the shore and waved at my parting, but no-one waved back, for no-one saw me go!

       So you are still there, sitting in the chair opposite me, the embers are now cold. Take a blanket from behind you and place it on your knees and we shall sleep until tomorrow.

"I am weary of your quarrels,
Weary of your wars and bloodshed,
Weary of your prayers for vengeance,
Of your wranglings and dissensions;
All your strength is in your union,
All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward,
And as brothers live together.

When people come to stay at our home for waifs and strays, they almost always want to collect their own eggs for breakfast, unless it’s raining of course. They come into the house with a basket of freshly laid eggs and instantly ask why they are different colours. And the most popular question is which hens lay the blue eggs?

     Quite often, we find ourselves giving a talk about eggs over breakfast. People seem fascinated when we tell them to look at the colour of the hens ear lobes to discover the color of their eggs. They have been known to leave their breakfast to check out this fact.

     The truth is the breed of the hen dictates the colour of the egg. It’s genetic. Our Leghorns lay white eggs and the Orpington’s lay brown eggs. The Ameraucana’s lay the all time curious blue eggs and our Warrens lay brown eggs. But they all taste the same...wonderful!

     Other interesting facts we tell our visitors, is that eggs are placed in cartons, large end up to keep the yolk centered and the size of the egg increases as the hen gets older.

      The flavor of the egg depends on the hen’s diet. Here at our home for waifs and strays, their diet is varied and organic where possible. Their free range lifestyle enables them to consume the minerals they need for themselves and their eggs. Needless to say, their yolks are dark, whereas the eggs from a battery farm are lighter.

       The next time you eat an egg, remember that it took 26 hours for the hen to produce it and 20 of those hours were required to form the shell. They certainly earn their keep by laying up to 300 eggs a year. And when their egg laying days are over, they retire and enjoy a hard earned rest...at our home for waifs and strays.