Well this is the week that was and was it a bit of a week? Oh yes it was. Also you’ll notice it’s not the weekend. I’m not sure how much I should say about some of this stuff so this one’s going under the radar. Bit of a mix of news this week. Good, bad, funny and sad. Such is life. Right. On we go.

Stall at the ready, I was about to do a three day stint selling books at the St Edmundsbury Cathedral Christmas Market. I was really lucky to get in and was excited as there are usually a fair few people. However the market wasn’t my main adventure this week. Oh no.

First up, McOther got a call on the Saturday to say his mum was ill and that he should go to see her. He had a visit scheduled and in the end Mum rallied a bit and so he went on Thursday, a week early. The day the Christmas Market began.

However, on Tuesday, he went for a walk and brought back a dead pheasant. Road kill. Still in rigor mortis. I have eaten road kill before but the car in front of us hit it, but since this one was still as stiff as a board then, in theory, that meant it could only be a maximum of 86 hours old according to Monsieur Google. Which is about the right amount of time to hang a pheasant.

It did mean that it had to be plucked and cooked (or put in the freezer) as soon as it um (how shall I put this) relaxed. Except that it was the Christmas Market and though it runs from 10 until 4.30 I had to be there by 9.30 am and had the school run to do each end, supper to cook and shopping to do and it lasted three days.

You can see where this is going can’t you?

Yep. McMini has Saturday school in the morning and he found a friend who was getting a taxi home and offered him a seat so that was dandy, in fact, in the end, he had a splitting headache and I let him stay home.

However, what with organising everything that McOther and I usually do as a team, coupled with the fact that my back was absolutely bollocksed from standing all day (I’ve bought a shooting stick for the next fair) the pheasant went un-plucked until, er hem, Monday. Not only was this too long but I hung it the wrong way up which was a Bad Thing.

I hung him the wrong way up.

Having been as cold as charity, meaning that our conservatory was the same temperature as a fridge, it suddenly got warm on Saturday and Sunday. This was also a Bad Thing, from the pheasant’s point of view, I suspect. Especially as I discovered there was a massive fuck off blowfly in there.

Oh dear. The augars were looking  a bit piss poor for our future supper now.

So on Monday afternoon, I started plucking the pheasant, all well and good. I am a country girl so I have plucked and drawn a pheasant before but not one that was quite this old. Close up, pheasants are beautiful, this one, a boy, was particularly lustrous in the plumage department. I was torn between being sad that it had died and happy that at least it hadn’t died in vain and someone was going to eat it. Because its origins were somewhat sketchy, I was prepared for it being too ‘over’ to eat and wore disposable gloves in case there were maggots.

Once I’d got enough feathers off I could see that it was a lovely plump bird, the legs were in tact but it had been smacked in the back and one side of it was smashed to the point where it felt more like a liquid.

Hmm. There might be maggots in its digestive tract, I wasn’t sure. The breasts and legs looked fine, but I should probably proceed with extreme caution. I began to pluck more carefully.

After about 15 minutes, it was mostly bald but I realised that it was time for the school run. So I laid it out on the chopping board, in the conservatory—away from any hungry tabby household members who might eat it while I was gone—and went to get the lad.

Upon my return, I realised a bit of blood had leaked from its mouth. I hung it head down, but have since discovered I should have hung it head up. Close up, I noticed that, swimming cheerfully around in the pool of blood, were some very, very tiny maggots. Just-hatched-sized maggots. Bollocks. I’d missed my window, probably by not much more than a few hours.

Boake incoming.

There is a saying that you’re supposed to wait until your game is hooching with maggots before you eat it.  It’s not a viewpoint I subscribe to. In addition, there was the thorny issue of how I would eviscerate it to rescue any edible bits without getting the mini-maggots in its digestive tract absolutely every-fucking-where. I decided I would have to chalk this one up to experience. Note to self; next time, pluck the bird before you hang it, while it’s still fresh. Oh! And hang it the right bloody way up.

I told the pheasant I was sorry and binned him.

I still feel bad.

The first day of the Christmas Market, Thursday, Mc(NotSo)Mini had his parent teachers evening. This is done by 10 minute slots on a zoom call. Now that he’s in the 6th form there are less pupils so the latest times I could talk to his teachers were 5.30 until 6.00. I was picking him up at 5.00 and the traffic was crap so I was 10 minutes late. He was just finishing something off and it was 20 past before he was done and I thought about the rush hour traffic in town and decided I’d have to camp on the school’s wi-fi and do the calls there. Luckily the music department was open and as the music teacher was the last scheduled call (at 6.00) I talked to him at 5.20 so he got to leave 10 minutes earlier and then I sat in a practise room and did the other calls before texting McMini that I was done and we headed home.

Meanwhile the Christmas Market, itself was great fun. I am so glad I got in. I was next to a local historian who’d written a book so we watched each others’ stalls when we needed to nip off for a loo break or wanted a quick scout round the other stalls, mostly for cake in my case, although I completely missed the Cathedral Cake stall until the last day and then couldn’t get away to go buy some, which was a bummer.

It was lovely to be on home turf and meet so many friends. It also meant I was able to nip home for more books on Saturday morning when I realised that the pile of book 2 in my series was a pile of book 1 with a single book 2 on top. The joy of living a 10 minute walk up the road was that at least I could nip home for another one. I was back in position by half ten and while I suspect I may have lost a sale or two I doubt it made much difference in the grand scheme of things. And I sold two copies of that book that day,  so it was worth going home for more.

My stall in all its … er hem … glory!

It felt as if I’d only sold half as much as last year but when I came to examine the takings, I discovered that while there were fewer customers, they had bought more books. Nearly every sale was multiples, two small books for £7 or all four big ones. Several people bought cards and I even sold a couple of copies of Eyebomb, Therefore I Am.

The result was takings about 20% down on last year but still a decent profit, easily covering costs with a bit left for me. So hoorah for that! I had way more books than I needed but I dislike running out as I always fret about the lost earnings. As a result I order small parcels of books at regular intervals over the year so I have enough by the time any big events come round.

McOther is only just back from Mum and Dad’s as I gather things are improving with Mum. However, his Dad hasn’t been too good either and is on antibiotics with a throat infection. He slept for a solid two days so he clearly needed a break. Doing the single parent thing is hectic but it was fine, although I did miss McOther keenly because he’s my best mate, even though Mc(NotSo)Mini is very amusing company and has made a point of spending some time with me each evening, rather than in his room chatting to his girlfriend or playing on line games with his mates.

McOther will be going back to Scotland again soon. We were going for Christmas but Dad isn’t sure Mum will be here. She has lost a lot of weight and is very weak and thin because one of the things her type of COPD does is cause her to cough until she throws up. This means eating is a challenge. It’s also sore, and she has difficulty breathing unless she is lying down, which is horrid for her. As usual, she’s putting  others first and she doesn’t want anyone’s last memory of her to be an image that she is concerned they would find harrowing. So while she is OK with McOther seeing her, and Dad too, she wants McMini and I to remember her the way she was and has asked us not to come. Instead we will have Christmas at home, quietly, and the week before, McMini and I will go see my brother as we’d always planned, but now McOther will go and see his Mum and Dad instead of coming with us. The upshot of this is that it’s unlikely I will see Mum again in this world, which is sad. There have been teary moments for everyone in our little family unit.

Mum has been a wonderful Mum in-law and friend to me, so I will write to thank her and tell her that she is loved and that the nipper and I are thinking about her. I lit a candle for her in church today, although I probably won’t tell her that. But I do know that when people are dying the advice you are always given is to keep reassuring them how much they are loved. Writing to do that is the obvious thing to do.

On other stuff … Oh lordy I have not been organised this week. Not at all. One morning I woke with appalling vertigo (no biggie, it’s a side effect of the standing-knackers-my-back thing and it wears off but it’s annoying). I binned the gym session I’d booked and went for a walk after dropping Mc(NotSo)Mini off at school. Sure enough, the vertigo soon blew off, but I realised, as I drove home and the world seemed to be a bit fuzzy round the edges, that this was because I’d forgotten to put my glasses on.

Everything has been a bit like that this week.

Have I done any writing? Not much. Only today.

Never mind. There’s always next week. Onwards and upwards.