Category: Uncategorized (page 1 of 4)

Driving me mad…………….

I belong to a book club. A fun book club, just not a very good book club. Now I don’t mean that in a derogatory way, it’s just that we are not very serious. One member recently posted on our WhatsApp group “we are a drinking club with a book problem” which kinda sums us up. We are a great bunch, meetings are a bit hit and miss, but we all agree it makes us read books we wouldn’t normally read. 
 
There is a breakaway group who are into audio books. According to Mr Kellaway Jnr, husband of member Mrs Kellaway Jnr, audio books are cheating. According to Mr Kellaway Jnr you can only read a book – you can’t listen to a book. The rest of us disagree, he is not a member so why take notice of his remarks anyway? 
 
I had another jolly coming up – North Devon to East Sussex – a bloody long drive so a bloody good time to finish the latest book by audio. App downloaded, book purchased, off I went.
 
It was a lovely trip and I travelled mostly A and B roads. Once in Hampshire I picked up the A272. It’s a lovely long and winding road and a complete nostalgia trip, taking me throughparts of my old stomping grounds. There were stops in the likes of Petworth, spent too much in one shop. A quick pint – soda water – in The Cricketers, Wisborough Green. But it was also distressing to see all the house building. When did Billingshurst get a ring road and quadruple in size? The same with Hayward’s Heath. I got lost three times and kept ending up on the new ring road. I knew most of the route but I had borrowed Best Mate’s satnav for the last part. 
 
Now Larry Landrover is old. I purchased him new 23 years ago, so he didn’t come with bluetooth.In fact I don’t think bluetooth was invented then. But I have had him bluetoothed. I can make or receive calls,  I admit I can’t hear a call over the rumble of the engine. However, I can, and do play music and now listen to books. According to Best Mate audio books drain your phone battery so on a long journey best plug the cable into what was the cigarette lighter to keep charged. Trouble is the satnav also needed to be plugged in, same with the dash cam. That was three lots of leads required on the dashboard. Once the other side of Heathfield I knew I wasn’t far from my journey’s end and stopped to set satnav and change plugs over.
 
I don’t use satnav very often so it takes a few minutes to get back into the swing of glancing at it and listening. It’s also not very loud, and even quieter when you are trying to listen to a book at the same time, and all over the rumble of a Landrover’s engine. I had only gone a few miles when it gave out instructions so quiet I missed them, I went to turn down the volume on the audio book, glanced at its screen and got the plug cord wrapped round my wrist. As I went to pull my hand free the cord tightened and dragged my hand away from the steering wheel. I pulled again, pulling out the cord while hitting something on the stereo which blasted up the volume, started a bleeping while I almost mounted the curb. I straightened up, still with cord around my wrist and parked up. After several minutes of disentanglement with the satnav, phone, and switching off the audio book, I then tried to work out was bleeping. No luck so I set off again. Within minutes the satnav was barking instructions at the same impossible to hear level, the stereo had turned itself back on while something was still bleeping. Before I got annoyed and mounted the curb again, I stopped. It was the dash cam, it had run out of charge and was admitting a truly awful high pitched bleep which went on and on and on. Just before I threw the bloody thing out of the window it stopped. Heaven… I set off again. Before I reached 4th gear the bleeping started once more. In desperation and still driving I pulled the bloody thing off the windscreen and tried to turn it off. It just kept bleeping it wouldn’t stop. Buried it in my handbag – that didn’t help. I piled jacket, map book, anything within reach on it but it still didn’t help.In total desperation I sat on the bloody thing. Even my well padded ample arse couldn’t smother the bleeping. I drove 8 miles, so annoyed I had no clue where I was going, no help from the impossible to hear satnav and my arse bleeping. Still, I had a lovely trip. Book finished and thank God I knew the way home..

Computer says “no”………

If you know me then you know I hate children. Never had them, never wanted them, trouble is they always like me! I have been asked three times to be a godparent. Really? Are you sure? Yep they were, so three times I am a godmother to three godsons. I looked up what a godparent should do… spiritual guidance is what a godparent offers. Brilliant… so each boy was given for their christening present a silver hip flask engraved with “For your spiritual guidance. Love Auntie Astley”. Job done. 
 
Put me in a place with a mass of kids and I freeze, I hate it. When I rule the world a pub could advertise NO CHILDREN and be able to enforce it. So I was somewhat stressed the other morning around 4.30am when in Heathrow airport a school party arrived. I hoped they would be on a different flight. My hope was shattered they were on the same flight and surrounded me on the plane. However, luck did sort of shine on me, when they all fell asleep just after take off as they had been up so early they were shattered. Job done.
 
My next problem was my passport. I recently renewed and received a biometric passport which means I can go through the self service passport control. Well I could if the ******* thing worked.I arrived at Barcelona and went straight to the self service, I put my bag in front of me, made sure I was standing in the correct position, I looked at camera-thingy, put passport in scanner-type-thingy and nothing happened. I was then manhandled by a Spanish official looking chappie, who was convinced I was standing and staring in the wrong place, shoved my passport back in scanner-type-thingy only to get the same result.“Bog off”said the machine. He pointed me back to the manual passport queue just behind the first group of school kids and just before the second lot arrived. My mate Carol who had sailed through self service, was pissing herself on the other side of the barrier as I was *******surrounded by the buggers. Before I could say “shut up you noisy bunch of *******kids”I was manhandled by yet another Spanish official looking chappie who demanded I was in the wrong queue. I was dragged back – protesting loudly – to the self service. Here again I put my bag in front of me, I made sure I was standing in correct position, I looked at camera-thingy, put passport in scanner-type-thingy and nothing happened. Again theSpanishofficial looking chappie, was convinced I was standing and staring in the wrong place, shoved my passport back in scanner-type-thingy only to get the same result.“Bog off”said the machine again and I was sent back to the queue to find myself behind the whole *******school party. Finally, the original Spanish official looking chappie spotted me and fast tracked me through the queue.
 
I had a lovely holiday until back at passport control in Heathrow. When I realised I was heading toward to the self service I stopped and started walking back out to join “passports to manual“ queue. Before I could change queue, I was stopped by a British official looking chappie who demanded to know what I was doing. I was then frog-marched to the self service when I did all the above things as before and finished with “Bog offfrom the machine. The British official looking chappie grabbed my passport, manhandled it before giving in and telling me to join the family queue because it’s shorter. I had gone from being surrounded by ******* school kids to screaming babies and a toddler who insisted on trying to talk to me. I would have liked to say as, the machine does, BOG OFF but its parents where in ear shot. Finally I arrived at the manual passport control chappie who was extremely nice and said… “Oh you are right, it doesn’t work does it?”…

What’s in a name…….

Well old Bill Shakespeare might have thought names weren’t important, a rose would smell as sweet and all that but I strongly disagree. Take me for instance, my name is Astley – it’s not difficult to say or spell. The variations on pronunciation and spelling over the years have been amazing. I don’t like being called Ashley – it’s not my name so why call me that? I don’t mind people getting it wrong now and again, but I will correct them if they continually get it wrong. There was one person in the village who for eight years insisted on calling me Ashley. So one day I called them by a slightly different name, boy did they pounce on my deliberate mistake, boy did it give me great pleasure to point out YET again “I am Astley not Ashley please get it right“. Problem solved… I still get a greeting but it is“Morning my dear”now! There are a couple of lovely old boys who have never even tried to say my name, but christened me Mrs Tabor Hill instead.
 
But less of me and onto Nelson… who, I hear you say? Well, he’s the cockerel. We don’t name the chickens – there are too many – but the boys do get a name. The last one – Colonel Sherman T Potter – was a Colonel in both stature and manners. When he went off to the big coop in the sky, Best Mate (Head of Poultry) bought a new boy and decided to keep with the military theme and Nelson was named.
 
The trouble is he doesn’t live up to his name sake. Now poultry are not known for their intelligence I will give you that, but this boy is totally and utterly stupid. If he had been sent to attack the Armada he wouldn’t have even found the ship let alone sailed it. Some days he can’t find his way out of the coop. You can watch him run up and down the fence for hour after hour trying to find the gate. Once out, he spends his time running from one yard to the other, then dashing back again. He chases the quad bike, he chases delivery vans, he hates and chases pheasants, he will dash off up the farm track at full pelt stop and dash back. In fact he just runs and runs. So Head of Poultry has given in and decided we can’t insult Lord Nelson’s good name any longer. We’ve re-named him Forrest Gump instead.

The joys of dealing with the general public……….

I have been checking the mirror recently. No not for more lines on the face, but to check I didn’t have MUG tattooed on my forehead. I had agreed that THF could be used as a venue for a small equestrian event! It seemed like a good idea at the time, it was sold beautifully to me, I would be doing my bit for the community, helping the younger generation and all that. But as the date drew nearer my worries started. The track in and out doesn’t bother me but will new people baulk at it? Will they go mad, off-roading across the big field and get bogged down, will they get stuck driving into the parking field. Will they generally run amock of the place, terrorise the chickens, fall in the dew pond and drown or will one of my dogs bite a child’s leg off. Oh the possibilities are endless, I even checked my public liability insurance. Needless to say NOTHING happened. It was a pleasure, it went smoothly. But, and there is always a but… one lady launched into me about the track and the parking while car & trailer after car & trailer manoeuvred passed her with ease. I kept calm, I was polite, I chose my words carefully to appease her. But it was when she announced that you couldn’t possibly drive a 7 1/2 ton lorry into the place but I had to stifle a snigger. Why? Well she was standing right next to a 7 1/2 ton horse lorry that drives in and out with ease on a regularly basis… bless her…

Away with the Fairies……

….no not me, you can call me many things but fairies, airy fairy, away with, is just not me. However, I recently visited a place which is defo away with the fairies, pixies, green men and more.
 
On one of my recent jollies away I dropped into Glastonbury. There was something I was after, I knew I would find it in Glastonbury so a detour was made. I will admit that I did dabble with the hippy look when I was an art student. But like my artistic career, the look was shorted-lived and back to normal I went. I just didn’t fancy being a penniless artist.
So in dear old Glasto I felt like a fish out of water. It started with a cuppa. No I didn’t want a cup of nettle/elderberry/Indonesian/Himalayan tea which would enlighten my life – I just wanted tea. I fancied a slice of cake but vegan, vegetarian, flour free, wholegrain, reduced fat, sugar free cake was on offer. I didn’t even go down the cream tea route, lactose free, milk free any sort of milk/cream which had NOTHING to do with a cow cream tea was on offer and it just didn’t tickle my taste buds.
 
I did feel at home in the record shop. I still have my vinyl collection, I have and always will be a Prog Rock fan, so I spent far too much. But it was at the end of the high street that I had my major spiritual experience. I wandered into a shop and was greeted by a fairy. A middle aged fairy with few teeth. She was very pleasant, but I was too distracted by the floral head band with butterflies and ladybirds dancing around her head on wires to really hear what she was saying. The pointy ears poking out from beneath the mass of hair was the next distraction, along with the fairy wings on her back.  However it was when she floated out from behind the counter that somehow I managed to surpress my laughter, she was wearing hobbit feet. Yep under the flowing dress, direct from the Peter Jackson’s films, she had hairy plastic hobbit feet…………

Have a banana

……or in our case a cucumber… what, you may ask, am I on about… well again this year we have an abundance of cucumbers. Turn up here and you are likely to hear on leaving… ”lovely to see you, have a cucumber”.

It’s only our second year of growing veg and for a second year I have got it wrong on how many cucumber plants we actually need.
I have always loved gardening, I have always been very garden proud, but veggies never featured. Why? Well I had a dad who grew them. Apart from sweet-peas and dahlias grown purely for mum, dad only did veg. Looking back as a child we always had a very heathy veg garden, at one house we had over 17 fruit trees. Then there were 3 uncles who all grew fruit and veg. Every year there was a discussion between them on who was growing what so there was never a glut but a steady and seemingly endless supply of fresh fruit and veg.
I was never allowed anywhere near the veg gardens or in later years the poly tunnels. They were the Old Boy’s domain and woe betide you if you ever went near or tried to influence him. Why have swiss chard when you have spinach? Sweetcorn he didn’t like and as for pak choi…well just don’t go there.
I knew something was wrong with him when he stopped going into the poly tunnels. I tried to keep things going but the care they both required towards the end took over from everything and that included the tunnels. So after last year, Best Mate and I took it upon ourselves to start again. Bloody hell the overgrown mess we first had to battle through.
It was the blind leading the blind. We watched Gardeners World every week… with a lot of “Arrh” when the delightfully handsome Monty Don told us viewers the best way to do whatever, when we had done the complete opposite. Every row of seed was lined out straight but sprouted out in wonky lines. I have knelt before the seedlings alter only to wonder “is it a seed or a weed”? I open and water the tunnels in the morning while Best Mate does the evening shift. My runner beans ran everywhere, the sweetcorn were so tall they bent over on the curve of the tunnel. Mr Don’s tomatoes may have been cleared of leaves leaving a lovely healthy straight plant, mine were plucked to within an inch of their lives and growing in every direction but straight. I point blank refused to buy a pair of nasal hair scissors to thin out one’s grapes as demonstrated by Mr Don. While 6 cucumber plants proved to be 5 too many. They grew, they fruited and fruited and fruited, recipe upon recipe was found and tried. One visitor left here with 8 having said they had a lovely recipe for a cold cucumber soup… marvellous! 8 down only another 15 to go.
This year started well, then the snow hit and the drift was too deep to get to the tunnels so our tender and just growing seeds died. However some of those planted direct didn’t die but came up late after the next crop had gone in. There is a lone sweetcorn growing through the sweet peas. Lettuce have sprouted just about everywhere. There is a tomato plant amongst the potatoes, while the chilli tree is lost amongst the peas.  But my lines of spring onions, beetroot, chard, lettuce and more are straight, but as my school reports would always say “she could do better”. I panicked when I thought I had lost all my cucumber plants. I confused them with the courgette seedlings and sowed more. So I’m back up to six bloody cucumber plants, boy are they fruiting and I still don’t like cold cucumber soup. Finally I did relent and purchased a pair of nasal hair scissors…….I may have looked a complete prat thinning out my grapes but boy do I have 9 lovely bunches…

Week three in the injured Springer house hold……….

………… and Bunty is about to explode.


Vets do say the silliest things at times. One once told me after my old horse Cassie had been on box rest for six weeks to turn her out but don’t let her go mad! Well the vet was mad to think a thoroughbred in for six weeks wasn’t going to bronco across the field at 90mph. She did and all I hoped was that the stitches had done their job… they had.

When the vet told me three weeks ago having stitched Bunty’s paw, no walks, on lead at all times and just generally keep her calm, that really was a daft thing to say. I wouldn’t have minded but the vet owns a Springer herself!

There has been a lot of “no Bunty, down Bunty, DON’T DO THAT Bunty, will you just CALM DOWN Bunty” repeated over and over again.

Finally at the end of week two I couldn’t cope any longer and decided to take her for a gentle stroll. There is a lovely flat walk along the river below the farm. It’s in a steep sided valley so the other dogs could go bananas up and down the sides, Bunty on lead and Merlin – aged 15 1/2 – could stroll gently alongside. Best Mate suggested to tie two slip leads together to give her more freedom. Like the vet’s idea that proved very STUPID too.

I parked up, three Springers burst from the car. Peppa being a pretty Labrador did a nice controlled jump. Merlin was lifted out giving his Auntie a hernia in the process. Before I could stop Bunty she had flung herself out landing heavily on hurty paw. I had only gone 50 yards, my arm was out of its socket, there was no feeling in my hand where the lead acted like a tourniquet and I hit the decks.  

My predigree pooch had morphed into a cross between a meerkat and Zebbedee on speed. It bounced on two legs, it leaped, it turned itself inside out, it did a wonderful back flip that would make any gymnast proud. After a few more yards it seemed to calm down and moped alongside me, walking nicely to heel which it can do. Peace was regularly shattered as one of my other girls burst out of the woods in front of us sending Bunty into a Zebbedee overdrive bouncing like a dog possessed.


I gave up half away along and decided to turn back.  

Just before the bridge where the car was parked, the path climbs higher than the river by about 10ft, in normal circumstances not a problem for a Springer scarpering around or anything to worry the owner. However, for me that lovely Spring day it caused a huge problem. Bunty had been calm but she spotted a pheasant on the far bank. It was one of those moments in life when time goes into slow motion. I saw her leap, I felt the almighty tug on lead as my arm left its socket again and Springer leaped off the cliff hurtling me towards the edge. I do remember – like in a cartoon – seeing Bunty flying through the air suddenly suspended for a split second as she reached the end of the lead before hurtling back towards me. I do remember hitting the decks – again – and I do remember the thud of a Springer Spaniel landing at speed on top of me. Before pain could hit, before I could get up it was off. I had let go of the lead……it was over the bridge and after that bloody pheasant, it was fine, not a scratch, not a leg or paw out of socket, boy did it move.  In her manic mist she ignored the whistle, so owner did her very best fish wife impression and yelled. It stopped she knew she had gone toooooooo far, owner was annoyed and she had to return. While she might have been fine and there was no damage to hurty paw, I have taken out both knees of my jeans, knees skinned and a chunk taken out of my elbow. Other than that we are both fine……………….

 

Where the bee sucks…….

There has been something in the air recently and sadly it hasn’t been Spring. Whatever it was has made an impression here at THF. We have had two outbreaks of skin rashes, one major reaction to a sting, one sliced paw and one very unhappy bank account. 
 
It started with me stupidly thinking spring and summer were on their way with lovely warm sunny weather, that out came the cropped trousers. Oh and the joy of not wearing socks. Trouble was I started to itch and itch big time on my feet and ankles. I woke up scratching, I couldn’t stand anything against my skin, the rash wasn’t much to look at but boy did it itch. Knowing I wouldn’t get a doctor’s appointment for weeks, I decided to go to a pharmacist instead. The first one in South Molton was rude and unhelpful. The other one was so busy I gave up waiting after half an hour and purchased a bottle of calamine lotion. Ohhhh a blast from my childhood past. I remember being covered in the stuff time after time and if you were really lucky Mum had put so much on you that the cotton wool stuck to you as well. My legs might have looked like they had been whitewashed but after two days the itching and little red spots vanished.
 
Then it was Bunty’s turn. Now Springers do have a habit – as whirlpools of enthusiasm – of coming back from a walk with a mass of scratches over chest and tum as they hurtle themselves through the undergrowth, brambles and gorse. Most are kept under control with a wash in Hibiscrub and Camrosa cream. At times there has been the odd sort of whitehead type blister, which then bursts, creates a nice scab and heals. Only for the process to be done time and time again walk after walk after walk. Yes I can hear all you Labrador owners say “well what do you expect from manic dogs?” The trouble was that Bunty was covered in a mass of white pustules. So many that I decided it was best to go to the vets. She had a skin infection. So 70 quid, steroid injection and antibiotics later we were back home. Next day the pustules were bigger, the following day they had burst resulting in pus matted fur. More washing with hibiscrub. Next day a mass of scabs which meant Bunty had to be kept away from Auntie Karen. Karen, owner of Jack the horse, LOVES scabs and will pick any scab going. Mud fever, rain scald, you name the scab and Karen will pick, I just pity her children. So scabby Bunty was kept out of Karen’s sight and the scabs cleared nicely. 
 
In the meantime, Betsy in her Springer Spaniel wisdom decided to get stung. By what we haven’t a clue but within a matter of minutes her face started to swell. No, not an Adder, it was too wet and cold a day for them. I called the vet and drove straight there. 200 odd quid later, injections, blood tests and four lots of drugs we were back home with a very very unhappy swelling puppy. Next day she was worse so back to the vets, luckily it wasn’t affecting her breathing but her whole head was swollen. More injections, more tests and more money spent. It took four days and two more vet visits for the swelling to start going down. Then just before we were due at the vets for Betsy’s last visit, Bunty went lame.  
 
She had sliced her paw, so local anaesthetic, stitches, more drugs and MORE BLOODY MONEY SPENT.  She is now on the lead, no walks, has a plastic bag taped to paw to keep the bandage dry. She may look ridiculous, but it is a Waitrose plastic bag… she has standards you know………………

Best made plans of mice and ………

Well Dear Reader I would like to wish you a Happy New Year! No I am not late as a couple of weekends ago was my New Year as the previous Saturday had been my Christmas Day.

I had wanted a different Christmas it being the first without my beloved Old Dears. A different Christmas was duly planned and planned to the last detail. I went away the weekend before Christmas, there were carols by candlelight in Molland church followed by din dins in the London Inn. Friends coming for supper. Friends coming for drinks. The Kellaways – best neighbours in the world – coming for Christmas Eve. A tradition started by the Old Dears which had to be continued. Christmas Day – a walk on the beach with Best Mate, Cousin and all the dogs followed by a late Christmas lunch with my fiancé joining us. Yes a fiancé, yes a long long story and yes a very very very long engagement and yes but no NO NO wedding!! Boxing Day back to the London Inn for the beagles and more drinkies.

What could go wrong I hear you say? What went bloody wrong was the bloody flu bug complete with a bloody vomiting bug. Boy were we ill and I mean ill. Cousin went first, she looked looked and sounded like shit. We spoke to her across her garden gate refusing to get closer in case we got it. Then Best Mate followed and what a cough she got. You could hear her half way across the farm nay you could hear her half way across the Bristol Channel. I hung out and hung out but by the Friday I was on the sofa dying and I don’t die quietly. I just don’t do ill. I don’t do sick and if I have to be sick EVERY one knows about it. Friday, Saturday, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing day I died. The day after Boxing Day I moved from bed to sofa so I was getting better. I didn’t drink, I didn’t eat, I couldn’t move, I ached, my bones ached, my joints ached, my head ached I just bloody ACHED. The turkey went in the freezer, Cousin gave her mince pies to the chickens, Best Mate’s Christmas pudding is still in a cool dark place. My Christmas cake is in the freezer – cold and unloved, languishing next to the turkey.

January we just struggled, several relapses, no energy, no strength, just struggled and struggled. So we planned our Christmas dinner for Saturday 3rd February. Our Scottish mate from London was coming to stay,fiancé was around and the rest is a drunken history.

The following weekend I was in Surrey at the Old Dears house so I had my New Year’s celebrations there with my Surrey Mates and boy did we do it in style.

Then the Saturday was spent with my Big Brother dealing with probate. So after he finally left I sat by the wood burner, bottle opened, typing away, music blaring when I dropped a sausage on the floor. Panic hit and I fell off the chair while swooping down to pick up the sausage before the dogs got it! That’ll be my dogs that are 198 miles away in Devon………..still old habits die hard

A bed time story…….

Well Dear Reader, I lasted almost seven weeks on the wagon. To say it was boring is a lie, it was bloody boring. At present I seem to have broken my bad habits by NOT reaching for a glass every evening. Result. Another result of not drinking was getting back into reading. I was so bored, tired and achy, all I wanted to do was be in bed by 8pm, so reading became a nice distraction to make it to 9pm. I have always been early to bed – probably something to do with owning a horse. Getting up early is standard, especially when I had a proper job and needed to be in the office on time. I had huge dilemmas when the BBC moved the 9 o’clock news to 10pm. The 9 o’clock news was perfect, watch news, keep up to date with the world and go to bed at 9.30. But 10, and have to stay awake till 10.30… ridiculous – I rarely make it to 10 let alone 10.30. So early to bed it was and still is.

I have always had trouble reading in bed. I just can’t get comfy-womfy. I get back ache, neck ache, cramps in my hand, pins and needles down the arms, I just can’t do it. So during detox I purchased something I never thought I would purchase. A ‘V’ pillow!… yep one of those large V pillows which I have always associated with old people. Well now at the tender age of 54 I have one and very nice it is too. My reading in bed troubles have vanished, comfy-womfy has been achieved.

My next dilemma was what to read. This was partly solved by my mate Sarah wanting to set up a book club. There are five of us, Sarah, Best Mate, Cousin, Me and our friend Mrs Bedford. Trouble is Sarah is a BIG reader and of serious stuff. It’s not the only reason she is in our pub quiz team to answer the literary questions, we do like her anyway. But I do think the rest of us let Sarah down on the book club front. After all, my suggestions have been ‘Wind in the Willows’ and Monty Don’s ‘Nigel’.  Sarah on the other hand came up with something quite challenging. I got through it, it was a struggle, I was able to input just the one comment into our book club meeting. So I decided I need to expand my reading capabilities. The Philippa Gregory ‘Three Sisters Three Queens’ was wonderful. The biography on Vita Sackville-West very interesting. The Virginia Woolf at only 102 pages took me three nights to get to page 32 and I still haven’t a clue what it’s about. Janine Ramirez’s programme was interesting but the book ‘Julian of Norwich Revelations of Divine Love’ was suicidal. While  A L  Rowse’s volume on Bosworth Field went back on the shelf for another attempt another year.  But Mrs Bedford has come up trumps. Not only can I read in bed with comfort I can whole heartily recommend ‘The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Club’. Ridiculous name but great book.
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