Ok, so this is a love story about two worms who 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,’ said Wilma bossily, ‘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?’

      ‘Willmott Wormery!’ Wilma shouted and made some earth slide down the side of their sitting room, ‘You are a coward and Uncle Ted was a fool!’ she said crossly. ‘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 sod but I still love him.’

      Willmott anxiously 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 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!

I looked out of the window today and saw a most inspiring sight.

     There were a few birds, jackdaws, magpies, sparrows, all collecting bits of twigs to build their nests. But what really caught my eye was a blackbird. She was obviously new to the game for she struggled to get it right (I know that she is female because she is a sort of brownish colour). Now I have discovered that Turdus Merula is Latin for blackbird so let’s call her Mrs Merula!

      Mrs Merula had managed to collect a sizable bundle of scrappy bits and pleased with herself, zoomed up in the air. But no sooner had she zoomed up when she zoomed straight back down, still clinging onto her bundle. Well actually, she was pulled down by a piece of grass that was still attached to the ground.

      Poor Mrs Merula was determined to take that piece of grass with her so she tried again. But once more, she was pulled to the ground. Her eyes were wide and her tiny heart must have been beating like crazy. But she continued to persevere as I watched helplessly. Of course, I wanted to run out and snip the stubborn piece of grass but I knew that it would be a waste of time.

      I could empathise with Mrs Merula, as I too have often struggled to do something or another and sheer determination (or bloody mindedness) has forced me to persevere. This often brought results but at other times has got the better of me. It’s knowing when to push yourself that little bit harder or stopping before going too far.

     Well Mrs Merula knew when to stop and cut her losses. She secured her bundle (minus the grass) and took off in a flash to a nearby tree.

     Well done Mrs Merula, I look forward to seeing you with your family, in the near future.

It’s rather late and certainly later than I thought it was, to think up a bedtime story. But as I’m sitting here looking out at the darkness, the words ‘bedtime story’ bring back memories of my unusual childhood.

     I hardly ever had to be reminded that it was bedtime. I couldn’t wait to get under the covers with my torch and a book. It was my escape at the end of every day, whether is was perfect or not.

     Quite often as I began to read, I would hear my father playing the violin or his harmonica. It became a way of life, a bedtime story in music. I would close my book, switch off my torch, nestle down and listen. Sometimes he would sing Puff the magic dragon, probably because we lived by the sea. But mostly he would sing sad songs and when he did I would sometimes cry myself to sleep. No, not because his voice was awful, but because he sang songs with meaning and I began to see that there were stories in these songs too.

     Now going back even further, my father’s mother (my grandmother) used to tuck her children up in bed (all eight of them) and play the piano in the hall downstairs. She played and sang the same old tune every evening, my father once told me. It was called, ‘When you come to the end of a perfect day’. I have found the words and put them here for you to read. But before that, I would like to say that not all days end perfectly, sometimes that is how it is. Remember though, that tomorrow is a new day, a new beginning, look at it from a different angle and enjoy.

When you come to the end of a perfect day
And you sit alone with your thought
While the chimes ring out with a carol gay
For the joy that the day has brought

Do you think what the end of a perfect day
Can mean to a tired heart
When the sun goes down with a flaming ray
And the dear friends have to part?

Well, this is the end of a perfect day
Near the end of a journey too
But it leaves a thought that is big and strong
With a wish that is kind and true

For memory has painted this perfect day
With colors that never fade
And we find at the end of a perfect day
The soul of a friend we've made

Once a month I leave our home for waifs and strays to go to a ‘Knit & natter’ group in another village. I have to say, that more natter than knitting goes on. It is on these evenings, that I get a lot of ideas for my books, especially characters. Take for example, Phil the fish.

     Now Phil the fish is a man who loves to chat, usually about fish. He can tell you where in the bay you can get the most mackerel and what tackle is the best to use. An awful subject if you’re a vegetarian!

      ‘Have you seen Phil the fish lately?’ said Jan the van at the meeting the other night. This is her real name and she is a farmer who drives a van usually full of farm things like straw and animal feed and sometimes the animals themselves.

       I saw him talking to Huw the news in the shop the other night, I replied. They were talking about fish again. No surprise there.

      'You have to send your thoughts down the line,’ he was telling Huw, ‘if you want to catch the fish!' Then he looked at me.

      I had no intention of catching any fish, I told him, so he talked about women instead or rather, he moaned about the lack of them in his life.

       ‘Bet he asked you to find him a woman,’ said Bev the bee (you guessed right, she is a bee keeper).

        He did, I said, and I promised we would keep an eye out for a woman who liked fishing and boats, especially dirty smelly ones like his.

       We all laughed and agreed that this could take forever.

       ‘What about Dan the man?’ said Bev the Bee, ‘I heard he was having a hard time on the farm now that his father’s died.’

       ‘Give him time,’ said Jan the van and he’ll be asking us to find him a woman too.’ We laughed again but half heartedly, as everyone was fond of Will the milk. He was a true character and would be well missed.

       The following ten minutes was spent dissecting poor Don the loaf’s impending divorce and the cause of his marriage breakdown.

        ‘He’s spent more time delivering the bread than he did making it,’ someone said, ‘and now we’ll have a generation of children growing up to be bakers!’

         We laughed but we knew that that was not the case, Don the loaf was a good man and so was his wife.

        We talked a little more about Tom the milk and how his business is struggling because of the big stores and we ended with Jack the plasterer, who had fallen off a ladder and broken his leg.

         I was glad my kind an unassuming husband was nowhere to be seen. He would not want to hear the gossip of these women and would be ashamed of my participation. But there was no harm meant, there never is. It’s just the way of village life...a sort of natural counselling service you could say.

         Perhaps knit and natter clubs should open up all over the world. It would certainly do more good than harm....I think!        

Two magpies sat on top of a high tree and watched in horror as squatters took over their home.         

       ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Maggie, ruffling her black and white feathers, ‘they’ve stolen our home!’

       ‘It took us eight years to get it perfect,’ cried Morys, ‘eight long years!’

       ‘Don’t upset yourself,’ said Maggie, trying not to let her feelings show, ‘we can build a new home in the valley or somewhere away from those black devils!’

        Morys shook his head and looked at his wife. ‘But I will have to do all the work,’ he said frowning, ‘whilst you sit and watch!’

        Maggie turned her head away, she knew it was true. Anyway, she thought, it would be her job to clean their new home and look after their chicks.

        They continued to watch...and hope...that their home would fail the test and the crows would fly away.

       This is exactly what happened today at our home for waifs and strays. Even I looked shocked to see the devil dark crows (or perhaps jackdaws) take over the magpies nest. There was nothing I could do of course, but hope that the decoration would not be to their taste and they would leave. But time passed and they didn’t go, in fact they looked quite happy with their new home. They did not care about the owners watching them from above and I had the feeling that if the shoe were on the other foot, perhaps Maggie and Morys would have done the same thing. Nature is very strange and so is life in general.

       Don’t worry Maggie and Morys, there is still room available in our dovecote!