Get Up Stand Up

A few weeks ago I mentioned an interest that I shared with a few others at Pilsdon in getting involved with the local Greenpeace group, partly to quell the sense of embarrassment that despite having been in existence for some months, our Activist Club had done nothing more active than to watch a few films and chin-wag before turning in with our hot chocolates.

Baby You Can Drive My Car

Being at Pilsdon for any length of time one tends to accumulate job titles. For instance some of mine are Head Gardener, Senior Vice Cow Milker, Reservoir Filter Maintenance Engineer, Wind Band Director and Arranger, Film Night Organiser, Activist Club Initiator, Official Pianist for Worship Services, Chef, Chauffeur and Minibus Driver.

Love Is All Around Us

Four weeks ago I mentioned in this blog that a resident of Pilsdon had fallen foul of the golden rule of Pilsdon and was asked to leave. In the last week, three more residents have left, leaving us a slightly quieter and smaller community. Of these three, one of them (a recently arrived guest) broke the same rule. The other two, however, committed a different but equally serious offence, which is known variously as “forming a relationship”, “becoming an item” or simply “going out with each other”.

Gunpowder, Treason and Plot

Each November on the fifth of the month many of us in Britain gather together, as families or in larger groups, to celebrate the failure of a terrorist attack on our parliament attempted four hundred years ago. The celebration tends to include two main activities. Firstly, simulating the explosion that would have ripped through the House of Commons had the bombs actually been triggered by setting off a display of fireworks. And secondly, creating a huge bonfire upon which, should Catholic sensitivities be taken fairly lightly, an effigy of the lead insurrectionist is placed. The word ‘bonfire’ comes from the Mediaeval English word ‘bane-fire’, ‘bane’ meaning ‘bones’, as originally they were fires used to burn bones so the flames must get pretty darn hot. 

Bringing Home The Bacon

Can you remember the last time you came face to snout with a pig?  If not then you may simply have the children’s picture book image lodged in that area of the brain reserved for all things porcine. Pink, round, with a curly tail and a snub nose, it likes to say ‘oink’ and romp around in mud. A single neuron-trip away in your mind is bacon, and then we’re off on rhapsodies about the smell of full English breakfasts.