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Living on the Edge 175; Excess Baggage

Hello Everybody, how are you? Spring has arrived outside my window! Such a relief. Just as I begin to think Spring may have forgotten to turn up, she switches all the lights on, smiles broadly and magically wakes everything up. Making me feel guilty for ever doubting her…

Over on the table the little houses are appreciating the warmth and one of them is on to pastures new, but if anyone asks don’t say you know anything. Least said soonest mended and all that…

Living on the Edge 175; Excess Baggage…

Bernard had booked himself the hot air balloon flight ages ago but, as is the way of these things, it had been postponed many times due to adverse weather conditions and once because of a wayward flock of swans.

But today the wind had dropped, the rain had ceased and there wasn’t a single wisp of fog anywhere to be found. Dangling elegantly beneath the magnificent spectacle that was the balloon, Bernard had sailed up into the ether until his neighbours became specks on the earth’s chequered tablecloth.

Back on the ground the others watched jealously. Bernard always had the most fun and they had never once been invited to join him. But why would he? They were always moaning and griping and looking for the downside and taking that kind of heaviness on board a balloon simply didn’t make sense. They were yet to understand that part of the jigsaw though…

What Bernard had chosen not to mention was that he had no intention of returning. Not ever… xxx

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Living on the Edge 176; Light Relief…

Good Morning Everybody. Are you fine? As usual the little houses are involved in a bit of drama… This time some kind of a mysterious fairy tale style episode is underway… Goodness knows where it will end but I have a stock of biscuits in and the kettle is on, come and have a seat. Will you have tea or coffee?…

Living on the Edge 176; Light Relief…

“There once was a darkness that, in silent shoes, crept across the land. It carried no candle to light the way and everything it touched became lost in the black folds of its enormous cloak.”

This is what Leonie’s mother had told her when she’d asked about a thing called sunshine. Leonie had been reading with the librarian again and had many unanswered questions churning in her attic. There, her electric light flickered and dimmed with tiredness and dreamed of resting for just a while. But Leonie’s quest for knowledge had no time for such idleness.

Leonie’s windows widened and yet more questions followed. A golden ball of light in the sky? And a silver one at night? Night? Day? How could that be?

Surely, she speculated, if it was just a cloak, it could be torn or eaten through. She saddled up a reluctant moth and climbed up the mountainside.

She passed Ruth who was saying a quick prayer before entering her lottery numbers and turning in for the evening. And Claudine who, very ungraciously, muttered that Leonie was wasting her time.

Let them say what they will, thought Leonie and, undeterred, she pressed on. She was going to uncover the truth of the matter… xxx

PS. There’s a little video tour over on Instagram here

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Living on the Edge 172; The Broken Home…

Oh hello Everybody, it’s only me, how are you doing? I’m marvelling at how, yet again, I’ve managed to delete some folders from the computer that I needed… Not quite sure how I do it. It’s most frustrating. It’s probably my super power. And also, because of said super power, I’m learning about the computer’s ‘recycle bin’… Recycling ether documents? In to what? Let’s have a cup of tea and look in on the little houses before my imagination runs riot…

Living on the Edge 172; The Broken Home…

Declan looked across the decayed land he called home. He exhaled a thick, heavy sigh as he saw that, yet again, his potted geraniums had withered to nothing but brown clumps. He felt very alone.

His neighbours saw little point in trying to green the place up. They were too busy poisoning the air and leaking all kinds of pollutants into the river below… some owing to lack of knowledge, some because of poor self-care and maintenance, and some knowingly; they just didn’t give a fig. Not that there were any figs left to give. Declan had watched the annual crop dwindle year on year until the toxins had killed off each tree, one by one. All that remained were their skeletons; limbs reaching skywards as if for salvation…

It was hopeless. He’d spoken with the moon earlier in the week and knew that even she was thinking of handing in her notice.

“Enough is enough” she’d cried, tears streaming down her beautiful face.

“Well,” said Declan reaching for his toolkit, “I’m not giving up. Not yet. I’m going to start a revolution.”

 And off he stomped armed with a scrubbing brush, a bottle of vinegar and a packet of wild flower seeds… xxx

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Living on the Edge; World Book Day…

Hello Everybody, are you fine? Don’t worry it’s not Friday just yet, but it is World Book Day which is, of course, the little houses’ absolute favourite day of the year. They wanted to share their joy of words with you so, this week, we have popped in a day early to wish you happy reading.

There hasn’t been the usual quarrelling or jostling for the limelight because each little house is quietly lost in a book. It’s blissful. Apparently, later today, Caroline will read her favourite poems out loud, but for now let’s enjoy the hush…

See you next week… xxx

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Living on the Edge 173; the Elephant in the Room…

Hello Everybody, how are you? Well, the little houses and I weathered last week’s storm and hope you did too if, indeed, she visited you. We’re back to see you again today and provide a little light relief from the world’s goings on. The kettle is boiling and I’m rootling around for a fresh packet of biscuits. You can take the comfiest chair…

Living on the Edge 173; the Elephant in the Room…

The last time Percy’s mother in law had visited, some seven years ago, they had had the most enormous row. It had been about something very trivial to begin with, as all good rows are, but had escalated quickly into an angry list of gripes, accusations and random ‘and another things’…

To avoid such painful altercations, Percy’s wife, Layla, had become used to visiting her mother without Percy accepting that this way, the huge rift would continue to be ignored and skirted around but would quietly grow bigger. And bigger.

And so it was most disconcerting for Percy when, unannounced, Layla’s mother loomed on the horizon late one afternoon. With trunk. He froze, unsure quite what to do. Should he put the kettle on? Were bygones about to be bygones? His hearth raced, flipped and sank.

Percy looked around furtively. More than anything he wanted to hide. He wished he’d gone ahead with the plans he’d commissioned and installed a panic room… xxx

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Living on the Edge 171; Gone Fishing…

Good Morning Everybody. Are you fine? I’m feeling anxious this morning as Storm Eunice is on her way and she sounds very angry indeed. Apparently she’s going to come rampaging through, throwing things and generally being very unpleasant… Let’s stay in and drink chocolate soup and be glad we’re not out with this bunch…

Living on the Edge 171; Gone Fishing…

“Well fellas,” said Chip, “this is a fine mess!” and began reeling his kite in.

The five friends had dreamed about this fishing expedition for many years, since they’d been at school together in fact. And now, forty eight years later, here they were, hard earned pennies saved, leave from work booked and four weeks of blissful plain sailing stretching ahead of them.

The planning that had gone into their trip was gargantuan. There were navigation charts, pilot charts and GPS devices. There were itineraries, back up plans and emergency rations. Absolutely nothing had been left to chance.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that Wimpole, the only bowhead whale in the world with a penchant for peanut butter sandwiches, had sniffed them out. Having followed them for several nautical miles, he launched himself out of the water, seized the picnic basket in his enormous jaws and plunged it down to the depths to enjoy at his leisure… xxx

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Living on the Edge 170; The Walls That Have Ears

Oh hello Everybody, how nice to see you! You’re just in time for a cup of tea.

There’s been a great deal of whispering and not a small amount of paranoia on the table this week. A little troupe of houses has ventured off to the lovely Byard Art in Cambridge in search of new homes. As they were leaving I overheard one of the little houses tapping out some, what sounded like, Morse code. As far as I could decipher it was about biscuits but, I think that was to throw me off the scent. What they’re really up to I wouldn’t want to hazard a guess…

Living on the Edge 170; the Walls That Have Ears…

Malachi was ordinary. Exceedingly ordinary. Or at least that’s what he wanted everyone else to think. You see, in order to carry out his missions effectively, he needed to blend in, to go unnoticed, to be the kind of presence that, if questioned, one wouldn’t recall being there.

For his latest assignment Malachi had seamlessly become part of his new community in an anonymous little village nowhere in particular. He was going about his usual daily routine: collecting information here; dropping off documents there; and listening intently to conversations that were not his to hear. All this was achieved while nonchalantly watching a cloud of migrating birds.

But, something was bothering him. Something unnerving and, no matter what he did, Malachi couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched… xxx

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Living on the Edge 169; Paper Jam…

Hello Everybody, are you fine? Happy February! What are you up to today? I’m feeling a need to clear up the table, to get a sense of order before any more building work can commence. I always get distracted by some book snippet or other so the task takes twice as long as it really should. Although I’m considering throwing out all the shoulds so it won’t matter. I’ll let you know if any snippets are important… The little houses are busy battening down hatches and trying to ensure that no babies get thrown out with the bath water…

Living on the Edge 169; Paper Jam…

Humming to herself as she worked, Doris was busy cleaning out the tangle of leavings in her attic. There were so many memories up there, accumulated over years and years. Decades in fact. The question was, what was of use and what could she be rid of? It was hard to tell what would come in handy and what was just hanging around taking up space…

She sat back on her haunches and tried to think up a system.

“How long has it been since I used this for example?” she said aloud, picking up her French studies. “ Mrs Vandertramp… I remember her.” But she had long since lost touch with her pen pal… and what was her name?… That had gone missing.

“And what is this? She lifted an old jam pan and a pile of letters poured out. Her love letters from Guy.

“Guy,” she sighed. She wiggled the first missive from its envelope sighing again at a musty waft of Old Spice. How she had loved him. Then, remembering how he’d left her for a bungalow in Hove, a lump rose in her throat. Quickly she shoved the letter back whence it came.

Perhaps today wasn’t the day to be working on this. She stifled a sniff and began scanning the hillside for a bramble patch. Briskly snatching up the jam pan, she left the attic, slamming the trapdoor behind her. Today was the day for… bramble preserve?… Bramble Jam… xxx

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Living on the Edge 168; One Good Tern…

Hello Everybody, welcome to another Friday. I’m up early this morning trying to catch the thoughts that keep escaping and file them away under ‘May Be Useful’. There’s tea and biscuits over on the table (not homemade but we will make do with shop-bought – they are chocolate.) Do help yourself and we’ll look in on the little houses…

Did your mother ever tell you to stop playing silly beggars, it’ll end in tears? Well, she may have had a point…

Living on the Edge 168; One Good Tern…

“Do you know who I am? Release me! Release me, I say, you brute! ” yelled Morten who was stretched to breaking point and beginning to lose his grip. He could feel the air rushing at and beneath his foundations. This was serious.

The others were in no mood to intervene. They had, long ago, grown tired of Morten and his need to over-dramatise everything. And so to hear him shouting again neither surprised nor stirred them into action. They simply hadn’t the energy for another wild goose chase and looked straight ahead into the distance ignoring Morten and his latest stunt.

But, for once, it was a case of the boy who cried wolf I’m afraid. There was a sharp pop, like a cork being pulled from a bottle, and Morten was borne away forever on the wings of a giant bird… xxx