Tears on the Tinyholding.

The formidable Miss Pecky, centre stage.

It was a tragic and sad day on Friday. Here on the tinyholding we have had a fox strike the egg laying committee.
Around 1.30 am Friday morning I heard a small kerfuffle in the garden. Quite a small argument that I put down to one of the birds having a strop because one the others had shuffled onto her perch and woken her. It was not the giant cacophony you would expect from fox strike. I lay there, in bed, weighing up the idea of waking DD and getting him to go and look. I decided that if there was one more squawk I would do so. There was just the sleepy silence of another tinyholding night. And so, I drifted off to sleep with the idea that all was well.
I don't think I will ever forgive myself for my complacency.
Upon Friday morning DD went to do his usual head count while letting them out and feeding them. He was horrified to find the door of the coop open and Pecky mauled at the back of the garden. The other birds were visibly shaken and subdued. They were crowding around him for comfort and safety. None of the usual exuberance or chatty bocking. He did a head count and couldn't find Darcy. It was only then that he realised we had not been woke by Darcy's enthusiastic morning glory. His usual dawn call of  "these are all my girls and this is my garden!"
Further investigating found a subdued and heartbroken Steve the Duck. Splodge, his Mrs Duck was also absent.

DD meets Darcy.

All the other birds were present and correct but clearly terrified.
DD came to me wanting to be proved wrong. Wishing that Pecky had died in her sleep and been pecked by distraught siblings. Hoping and Praying that Splodge and Darcy had gone to ground for some reason. I took myself to the scene and confirmed the worst. We had a fox!
The tell tale scattering of feathers in a quiet corner showing where Mrs. Fox had enjoyed her Pecky themed meal. Then taking Darcy and Splodge to her hungry cubs.
Poor Darcy was probably trying, with his diminutive stature but enormous character, to protect his girls. He was a dainty young man and no match for a hungry fox. Indeed, in Mrs Fox's eye he would have been a perfect meal from the children's menu.
Splodge was a dopey, loveable and curious duck. She wouldn't have stood a chance. Steve, however, upon closer inspection had not allowed his wife to be taken without a fight. He had sustained bites about his neck and his wing had clearly been injured.
He must have put up a brave fight. We have watched him since the incident and he seems to be recovering. Upon the first day I was very much in two minds about a cull.
The decision we now need to take regards this brave little soldier.
We cannot allow him to free range with a garden full of hens and no duck for company. Drakes and Cockerels are build differently and a Drake showing too much attention to a hen can damage her.
Do we bring him a wife or do we rehome him? If he does not recover fully the decision to cull may yet come to pass.
The Boglin child has pleaded with me not to let him die or to cull him. Therefore, I am trying to keep my word. The jury is, sadly, still out.

Bless you and rest in peace our absent friends.

Tearing Down the Walls.

Here, at the Tinyholding DIY is a constant on going process. Think, painting the forth bridge and you will be along the right lines. Our latest undertaking is to tame and beautify the dining room.
Up until this point it has merely been a functional space. It was where we stacked the recycling, ate our meals and journeyed through to reach the kitchen and bathroom.
Well, no longer. It is now officially a building site.
We started by stripping the walls. Not just of wall paper, my friends. Oh no! Here at the Tinyholding we like to do things in style. After removing a few feet of the god awful "old lady" wallpaper it was clear that the 100 year old plaster had given up the ghost. It no longer provided a suitable base to adhere wallpaper to. It was now being held in place by layer upon layer of hideous patterns. Stripping it away was an interesting excavation of the last 50 years of DIY fashion. To be honest, I doubt the good taste of those that have gone before.
Interestingly, we discovered that there had been a cupboard in existence at some time over history. We unearthed the original lintel over the fireplace. Found the "interesting" evidence of other DIY'ers handy work. Most importantly, we have found that the plaster and wallpaper was holding the bottom stair in place.
DD, himself undertook the dusty job of removing the plaster. Inch by inch he removed the offending substance. Inch by inch we covered the house in a thick layer of dust.
There was dust upon every surface. All the trinkets and ornaments around the house had left an imprint of where they lived. Ever the poor cat, Slinky, was dusty. Wandering out from her hidy-hole, she looked like she was coated with years of dust. Showing a close liking to a feline version of Miss Haversham. We were almost expecting her to start quoting about her lost love and asking for Pip and Estella.

The next stage was to plaster the walls. Or so we thought. As it turns out the walls are in such bad shape, the most economical and achievable method was to board the walls. Cue much muttering, measuring and cutting from both DD and his Dad. The boards themselves weigh a ton, and having to move them about has proved to be a challenge in itself. We have had the rather frightening moment when DD almost found himself flattened, pancake like beneath a pile of them. Nesty came rushing to his aid, shouting "come quick, DD is being crushed to death!!!!!!!!!"
Huck, certainly came into his own at this juncture. Flexing his muscles he embarked upon a rescue plan. I felt myself very clearly and defiantly directed by the men of the household in operation "save DD"
For my own part, I was the supplier of both minced tarts and port (after all Christmas was on the horizon).
I spent my time cleaning up the layer of dust (I even dusted the appliance vents) and making cranberry sauce (see recipes).
To date, the building site still stands. The rather wonderful furniture is in residence but the walls/floor are yet to be completed.
Painting the fourth bridge? You bet!



*stay tuned to see updates*

Pockety Trews.

Poor DD has had to spend the autumn, thus far in shorts. He's not adverse to baring his knees for the girls. They are, indeed, very nice knees. I do, however, think he would rather have a choice.
Nearly two years ago a certain someone offered to make him some trews with many, many pockets. He does like a variety of pockets to stash half the contents of the house in. I think it is a male version of a handbag. I have been assured many pockets = a happy boy. The more pockets the happier. It's a strange old world when pockets equate to happiness but there it is. This certain person (it may have been me) has completely failed to come up with the goods. Not really much of a surprise when you consider the fact that sewing makes my wrists hurt.
Poor DD has gone with out. He has patches on his patches and some of his old trews are positively indecent. It has become a far cry from fashionable wear and tear and now is in the realm of looking like a tramp. Not to mention frost bite of the unmentionables.
This morning saw the delivery of two brand new, shiny, pocket laden pairs of trews. Never has there been a happier boy! He spent a good 15 minutes counting his pockets with a big childlike grin on his delectable mush.
I may have failed in the creation department but I have made up for it with sheer volume of pockets.
I know how to keep a man happy!

The Mould Master!

DD has become the Zen master of mould destruction. Since adding seven more sets of lungs and 300% more laundry to the house the condensation created has become a huge problem. It is an old 19th century terrace and has very little ventilation. It was originally built as a two up two down colliers terrace. I love to sit and imagine the state of the art closed range that would have been in the chimney breast of the kitchen (now our dining room) and the open coal fire in the "good parlour". The windows would not have been double glazed, and the need for ventilation would have been minimal. Modern central heating and glazing has rendered the house a sort of warm sealed unit. Imagine putting a warm damp cloth into a biscuit tin and leaving it in a cold damp field. No doubt within a couple of days you would have a furry friend to call your very own.
Our bedroom is suffering the worst of it, as that is where the laundry is dried. We live in every spare inch of this house and there is simply nowhere else to place it. Therefore our bedroom has started to resemble a Victorian laundry.
The wall has a creeping black mould that is working it's insidious way upwards. Soon we will be sleeping in a dark, dank hole that looks like a set piece from the film se7en. I will have to start looking for emaciated corpses in the cupboards at this rate.
At least it did until DD saved the day (and myself from nightmares) Yesterday saw him on his knees scrubbing the wall with a solution of warm water, biological washing powder and a squeeze of bleach. He has done a splendid job. The bleach removed most of the staining and the washing powder killd the spores. Unfortunately it also thinned the paint, but hey ho, you couldn't see past the black mould anyway.
Half a dozen sturdy holes drilled through the walls, has provided some seriously need air flow and now we watch and wait.
Of course, being a Sunday evening all this was achieved with a cool glass of C&F to hand.  Power tools and wine?  Safety first ;)
Dear reader, I will not fool you into thinking I merely sat around watching DD's sultry form handle power tools in a manly way.  I, for my own part tackled the festering hole that had become my bathroom. It had got to the point where you would emerge from the shower feeling somewhat more soiled than when you went in.
Armed with a determined stare and a large bottle of bleach I whipped the mould into submission. Once again the tile grout is white and the floor does not contain botulism.
Being a vile chewed bubblegum pink with the most heinous flower pattern. Not to mention the matching pink suite. It cannot be called a nice bathroom. It is high priority to have it transformed into a haven of ablution. I can, however say it is clean! And that dear reader, is something to be proud of, in our eternal fight against the damp.