So here’s a thing. I’ve been tagged. Twice! Once by Nats and once by Grandad. How popular am I eh? Eh?! No, I don’t know what it means either but, hey, we’ll work through it together (it’s a bloggery thing). So, over to the lovely Grandad, over at Head Rambles to explain the rules:

Post 5 links to 5 of your previously written posts. The posts have to relate to the 5 key words given here (family, friend, yourself, your love, anything you like). Tag 5 other friends to do this meme. Try to tag at least 2 new acquaintances (if not, your current blog buddies will do) so that you get to know them each a little bit better.

Righty ho, then. Here’s ma links:

FAMILY: I’m going ‘Small Boys - a User’s Guide’. Fibs, burps and toilet troubles. It’s all here.

FRIEND: It’s got to be ‘J’s Life Lessons’. Who couldn’t love a friend sage enough to admit that ‘Six cocktails do not make you more attractive, witty or a great dancer’. Damn!

MYSELF: Ahhh, my post on being ‘Blonde‘. Restoring the clever/dumb balance.

MY LOVE: Well, I’ve already mentioned my lubly family in the first one, so it’s got to be KleptoBert. Well, it has, hasn’t it?

ANYTHING I LIKE: Ooh, this is hard. I think my fave post was on Earth Day. Enjoy.

Now, to tag some people. Actually, this is quite exciting….who to choose….:

ISITJUSTME: Obviously, because she’s on my wavelength, and she loves shoes and cooking and gossip and shoes and…

MANUEL THE WAITER: Because I’ve seen him on ISITJUSTME but never been formally introduced. And because instead of ‘comments’ on his blog it says: ‘14 people trying to get the waiter’s attention’. Heh!

73MAN: Because he’ll bloody hate doing something as mainstream as this, and because he’s so disgustingly intelligent that sometimes he writes whole posts that I don’t understand.

WEE JEN: Because her recipes make me droooool.

ANNIE: She’ll bloody hate it, but she’s a good ol’ girl so she might do it. By the way have a look at her STUNNING pics of Iceland while you’re there.

Right, a bit of girl power today. So boys, you can go and… er, do whatever boys do normally: build something, make a mess - whatever. Off you go. So Hubby and I were chatting to someone the other day (I won’t embarrass them by saying who) about shopping, and they happened to mention that their wife (a veritable cleaning demon) gets through two Toilet Ducks and a bottle of Pledge every week, has different cleaning products for different floor surfaces, and actually cleans the windows. This evoked a bemused response from Hubby: ‘hang on’, smirks the King of Smirksville, ‘do we actually own a bottle of polish?’ and an embarrassed cough from me. And no, we don’t. In fact, I think I’ve only dusted once, when we bought that really cute feather duster thing and I wafted it about a bit near the ceiling. I’d like to point out here that I’m not the only total retard when it comes to household management. Remember Bea’s classic take on housework? She said that her sum total of dusting was to spray polish about so it smelled clean and wipe the telly with her sock when it got too dusty to look through.

It’s not that I’m lazy. Oh, hang on, no, it actually is because I’m lazy. But it’s not that I’m dirty, exactly. My cooker’s immaculate and I’m careful not to let the toilets get too minging, but somehow the rest of it kind of passes me by. I can find so much more interesting stuff to do than tidying up or wiping down the inside of my fridge (nope, never done that either - it’s cold and it works, that’s where we part company). If I notice fluff, I’ll pick it up eventually, but it might have to sit there for several days while I procrastinate by making cakes, reading magazines, going shopping or, well, anything really, until I’m really, really bored and then I’ll get the hoover out.

I love my boys though. I wasn’t a good baby mum (as their Grandparents will no doubt testify), but you can’t beat the snorty, hold-your-sides, belly laugh that a clever 12 year old can deliver. They get loads of cuddles, yummy food, silly jokes and generally enough clean school uniform to last them the week. We dance manically round the house to Sweet Home Alabama, take great pleasure in throwing wet, cold flannels at each other and calling each other ‘ignorant boob’, we stay up too late, have inappropriate giggly conversations about balls, and we have loads and loads of fun. How many times have you compared yourself to another woman and though ‘ohhhh dear, I’m sadly lacking’, when you should be thinking ‘hey, I’m crap at housework/dressing smartly/ socialising, but I’m great at …….’ (fill in your own skill here)? Or the next time someone whips up their own choux pastry for a dinner party and you slink home to a freezer full of ready meals, well, sod it, you’re probably great at your job, or making people feel good about themselves, or putting up wallpaper or something.

Anyway, my point: we should all stop trying to be bloody fantastic and start being ‘good enough’. It’s going to be my new mantra. Nope, my house is never going to gleam and sparkle, but it’s clean enough to keep Kim and Aggie at bay, and my kids’ laughter fills the house on a regular basis (along with very loud guitar versions of Enter the Sandman and Smells Like Teen Spirit, but that’s another story).

It’s bloody freezing here. It’s almost like travelling into another time zone or something - the weather can be perfectly fine in County Meath and then as soon as you’re over the border into Cavan, wallop: the wind howls, the rain lashes down hard enough to dent your head and a frost can last all day. We did have a bit of a panic about the heating oil, though. I’m somewhat trigger happy with the heating controls (I like it warm: think Majorca - no, think the Maldives) and although we’ve got one of those houses that was built with energy efficiency in mind (or we could just be really gullible and the builder is currently residing tax free in the Bahamas), which means that we’ve got some sort of special, really thick insulation in the walls (makes hanging pictures a bit difficult - tap too hard with the hammer and you’re up to your elbow in insulation) and a weird bio-flow system that converts your poo into…er…something else less pooey. Look, I’m not an expert, okay? Where was I? Oh yes, the oil. So this heating system is supposed to be energy efficient, but since we haven’t brought any oil since October, we were starting to panic that we might suddenly run out. We had all sorts of arguments about who should go out into the rain and find something that we could stick into the oil tank (keep it clean, people) to find out how much we’ve got left. Anyway, Hubby lost (ha) and went out to find something that would make a suitable dipstick in the garden. He found a bent one and after an argument about whether his reading would be affected by having a bent stick (all very technical), it turned out that we’ve got half a tank left! How good is that? We were very impressed, and this started a chat (along the lines of our previous chats about growing our own veg and the yes/no/yes/no chicken debate). No, not the one about Felicity Kendal’s bottom, the one about self-sufficiency and renewable energy and solar panels and wind turbines and all that stuff.

I need to bring J into this because I know that C and her were looking into having solar energy in their new house but not sure what happened. I think it was looking rather expensive, but then I also heard that you can get grants for such things. Friends of ours got a grant for their pellet boiler, but it’s turned into a bit of a pain as the pellets keep getting damp and clogging up the system and our poor mate keeps having to dive in and free up all the soggy pellets. Yuck. I’ve also been having a little email chat with Moon about such things as well (he lives in California and Arnie’s very hot on renewable energy, oh, and he happens to be married to a solar panel engineer - Moon, not Arnie, that is).

So. Homework for today then chaps: anyone know anything useful about solar energy, how much it costs, if it’s possible to get a grant and…er…I think that’s it. Off you go then.

The boys are back to school today. No, of course I didn’t heave a huge sigh of relief. I’m not that kind of heartless, uncaring, ‘get thee back to school’ mother. Admittedly I did do a quick bit of Toni Basil (’Oh Mickey You’re So Fine’) cheerleading with some imaginary pompoms on the landing when I got back to my empty, silent house, but hey, nobody’s perfect.

Hubby and I had to go to Dublin, and after Friday, when we went out for a Chinese with D and the kids and came back to find that Bertie had chewed my beautiful new double doors, we decided not to try shutting him in the kitchen again. Gordon knows I’m not houseproud, (Hubby hoovers more than I do and I hate dusting with all my kidneys - what a pointless occupation) but he keeps getting up on the sofa and I don’t really want my guests to be competing with an enormous, territorial greyhound every time they try and sit down, so I’m trying to wean him off it. This time, then, we shut the lounge doors, all the doors upstairs, and left him with the run of the rest of the house. This worked incredibly well as when we got back several hours later, all seemed absolutely fine. He got a revolting, hairy pig’s ear as a treat (I won’t touch them, which is why Bertie loves Hubby so much - he’s prepared to run the hairy gauntlet with the pig’s ear box).

When I went upstairs, however, I noticed that #2’s door couldn’t have been shut properly as there was a little Bert nest on the bed. This consisted of one of my pink wellies, one of Hubby’s Dr Martens, two pairs of the boys’ trainers, my Ugg boots, a pair of pyjamas, a furry cushion and an empty Lenor bottle lifted from the utility room. Actually, I’m quite impressed. What other creature would think to entertain himself with a little ‘It’s a Knockout’ game, rushing up and down the stairs collecting various discarded items (all unharmed) to stash in their little duvet nest carefully scraped and scrunched into a comfy shape?

I wonder if he’s half Womble??

To further her quest for world greyhound domination, J recently rehomed a rather enormously large ex-courser to a lady who lives relatively near us. Finding this out, we naturally invited said lady and her hound for coffee. Well. You should have seen Bert’s face when Gorgeous George appeared, along with petite, pretty and just-as-gorgeous Ger. This, ladies and gentlemen, is not a greyhound, this is a small horse.

Still, after his initial shock (how dare we bring another greyhound into the house - a bigger, beefier one at that), they got on rather well, giving each other a good old waggy welcome. Bert was well aware of his diminutive stature (not often a bloody great lump like Bert gets made to feel small) and kept a respectful distance as George had a jolly good look round and (gasp!) played with Bert’s squeaky football.

In the end they settled next to each other (separate beds, though, thanks) and went to sleep, Bert with his back huffily turned towards George (who, being bigger, obviously didn’t give a poo) while we had a good old chat, compared greyhoundy notes, and ate some cake. A very successful first meeting then, and a potential doggy walking friend into the bargain. Result.

Lovely D the landscape gardener arrived this morning with our new baby Weeping Willow. This caused great excitement (we don’t get out much) as it’s taken ages to get here. It’s going to weep gently over the driveway (well, given time, it’s a bit small at the moment). While he was planting the tree, I had a chat with him about the Eglu (cue derisive snorts - what is it about men and pink stuff?). He’s a bit of a chicken expert on the quiet and suggested a dog kennel on bricks with a wire run around it. Practical, granted, but hardly the height of sartorial elegance is it? I’m still lusting after one of these babies:

The only trouble is it’s £595 plus another £120 for delivery. Gulp.

We also had a lengthy chat about the railway sleepers for the raised kitchen garden I’ve got planned for just outside the kitchen window (to contain all my lubly herbs and veggies). Apparently you can’t use old ones for domestic use as they’re dripping with chemicals, but he’s going to find me some new ones and we should be up and running (or should that be digging) by the spring. Just imagine, by this summer I could be knocking up an omelette from my own hens, liberally sprinkled with my own kitchen garden herbs. Hugh would be proud….

Well, not a great deal going on at English Towers at the moment. Poor C is still in hospital so we have a couple of extra little critters around every day, much to our delight. Bertie thinks he’s died and gone to heaven as he gets to come and pick Lou and Little C up from school. He gets so delirious about all the little girls squeaking and cooing over him and ruffling his ears that he goes all shaky and his back curls into a weird little arch, whilst simultaneously beating them all half to death with his tail. He gets to trot home with all the children round him (he’s perfect height to get a little ear scratch as he’s walking along) and gets to pick up all the dropped biscuits (many not on purpose, I fear) when we get home. He then spends the whole evening hovering around the sofa until Lou sits down so he can leap up and sit on her lap, squishing the poor girl nearly flat, whilst gazing lovingly (if a little spookily) up into her face. He likes a young lady, does our Bert.

Yesterday we all made an unholy mess in the kitchen making our own pizzas (Ainsley’s recipe is very good). There were lots of impressions of the Swedish Chef on The Muppets (remember him?) and copious amounts of dough twirling and splattering of tomato sauce. Still, all efforts were edible and although I’m not the best cleaner-upper in the world, I managed to find the kitchen afterwards underneath all the flour and bits of cheese.

Later, when D came to pick up the kids, I told him and Hubby about the Eglu (you can get pink ones!) and we had the inevitable chicken debate, when two blokes gang up on the girly and smile indulgently about her silliness:

Hubby: ‘It won’t work, you’d never be able to kill them.’
Me (hesitantly): ‘Er… of course I will’
Hubby: ‘What, ring their necks?’
Me: ‘Er… maybe not, but I only want them for eggs’ (excellent diversionary tactic, I thought)
Hubby: ‘And what about when they stop laying?’
Me: ‘Then they can live here in happy retirement until they die’
Hubby and D: (raising eyes to heaven): ‘tsk’
Hubby: ‘Jaysus, we’ll be a sodding retirement home for knackered chickens’
D: ‘Anyway, this is Cavan. They’ll blow down the garden like our trampoline did and when it’s windy I’ll be able to watch chickens flying past my window’
Me (booting D in the shins): ‘I’ll fix it down with tent pegs’
Hubby and D: (more indulgent laughter and copious eyebrow raising)

I mean, I don’t see the big deal, it’s not as though he’ll have to do anything, apart from eat lovely fresh eggs every day and lose a teeny tiny widgy corner of his garden (less mowing). Anyhoo, when they’d finished laughing at me and snorting about nailing chickens down in the garden, Hubby promised (smirking) to think about it. I think my chances are slim to er… none.

Okay so I’m not going to keep banging on about chickens, but I watched the last instalment of Hugh’s Chicken Run with mixed feelings. He did really well and managed to get the people of Axminster to buy more free range chickens than value ones in his allotted week. But then they interview some mouth breathing pond dweller down the pub who puffs out his chest and says that Hugh’s never going to get a working class place like Axminster to change to free range as people can’t afford it. And there he is, the pillock, sipping on his three quid pints and smoking his four quid pack of cigarettes, saying he can’t afford another three quid a week to feed his family decent chicken. Grrrrr. Seriously though, think about the odd little luxury you bung in the trolley every week: chocolates? Magazine? Wine? From now on, mine’s going to be a nice, free range bird.

And I’ll leave you with a thought from my fellow blogger, Isitjustme:

‘I need to know that the chicken I buy will do a lot more than just provide a roast dinner for the family. I need the chicken to provide lots of that lovely brown meat for chicken soup (children get sick you know) and then provide chicken stock as a base for tons of other meals. I need a happy chicken for this.’?

So last night, Hubby was flicking about on the TV and found… shock horror …channel 4! It’s actually on channel 135 here which is presumably why we missed it, being used to finding it on 104. And guess what? Hugh’s Chicken Run was on. We missed the first ten minutes but the rest of it was a total eye opener. Finding himself unable to gain access to an intensive rearing chicken farm, he set about building his own, genuine intensive chicken farm, with approximately 2500 chicks. He also made his own free range chicken farm, and had 1500 of the little blighters on that side too*. For a guy who’s into welfare in a big way, it was obviously a hugely upsetting project and there were some genuinely moving moments: when he had to dispatch his second undersized chicken of the day (there were actual tears) and when he took local families in to the stinking, packed chicken shed: their horrified faces spoke a thousand words. There were also, I have to say, some classic moments: the stockman trying to chase all the free-range chickens back into their hut (escapologists, every one), and Jamie Oliver visiting the shed and being visibly disgusted, telling people how they were ‘pissing and shitting’ on each other. Never one to mince his words, our Jamie.

Hubby, whilst not exactly being a cynic, is certainly a realist, and was glad that Hugh also had on board a single Mum with two kids on a budget who said she couldn’t afford free range and who made a fine point for the intensively farmed birds: ‘they’ve got food, water, shelter and a heater - and let’s face it, they’re going to die anyway’. Even she blanched a little, though, when her son came out of the chicken shed in tears. I think he did well, though, in cooking a fine free range bird and then showing how to make a really nice chicken and cob nut risotto with the leftovers.

Anyway, I’m working on Hubby regarding the chickens, and will shortly be talking to Big Jim (remember him: our tiling/plumbing/carpentry genius?) about a quote for knocking up a nice little chicken enclosure. Wish me luck!

Oh and don’t forget to catch the last instalment of Hugh’s Chicken Run on Channel 4 tonight at 9pm, and Jamie’s Fowl Dinners: 11 January at 9pm also on Channel 4.

* The sheds were of equal size, but as stocking densities are much lower for free range birds than for ’standard’ birds, there were more birds on the intensive side.

(Thanks to Nikki O’Shea at Channel 4 for her help and clarification, and to the lovely Susannah at River Cottage for all the info. Mwah xx)

Not sure that I’ve mentioned this, but I’ve been badgering Hubby for a while now about chickens. I want some. Okay, I know I’m not exactly Farmer bloody Giles (don’t think pink Hunters count here) or Hugh Fearnley Whatsisface, but can’t a girl have just a couple of chickens in her life? It’s not much to ask. My big brother, a (sometimes) serious, important, often besuited managing directory sort of chap has chickens in his garden, and they’re entertaining and surprisingly intelligent little fellas, so why not? After all, we live in the country and as long as we sort out the initial problems (Bert springs to mind - we don’t want any midnight expeditions ending in feathery hiccups now, do we), I think we’d make perfect chicken owners.

Talking of Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall, me Mam emailed me a link to his delightful ‘Chicken Out’ website. I like Hugh, he has values and he’s not afraid to eat the odd placenta, making him an innovator in my book. This latest campaign (apparently there’s a TV programme too: ‘Hugh’s Chicken Run’, but we don’t get Channel 4) is aimed at one of my particular pet hates, the flaccid £2.00 (or €3.99, whatever) supermarket chicken.

I know we’re very lucky here in Ireland to have decent butchers that not only sell good free range chickens but can also tell me where they’ve been brought up and how, but our supermarket chickens are a disgrace as well. Most ‘value’ chickens lead a miserable, often painful life in horrendously overcrowded conditions and, honestly, when you look at the value chickens huddled under plastic in our supermarkets and selling for a ridiculously cheap price it’s just plain sad. As Hugh so rightly says, ‘is that all the life an animal, born and raised to feed us, is worth?’? Let’s face it, the supermarkets make enough money from us. Isn’t it time we put our money where our mouth is and demand that they pack in these ridiculous price wars and pay decent farmers, decent money for decently reared chicken?

I love my family, and as you know I take pride in producing good food for our table. I’m perfectly aware that money doesn’t grow on trees and that free-range chicken costs more. But frankly I’d rather have an excellent free-range chicken once a week, than three meals made from cheap crappy chicken intensively bred to go from egg to slaughter in under 40 days.

So here’s the thing. I don’t often ask much of you, but I’ll ask you this. Log on to the website, add your voice to the throng, and next time you’re shopping, ask your supermarket manager, nay, badger your supermarket manager, about the quality of the chicken he sells. Now if I can just convince Hubby about those chickens….