I was chatting to my brother the other day, on Skype. It's a great program and a great way to keep in touch. I don't recall just where the conversation was coming from or going to but the fact that I use to live in a cabin in the woods came up. My brother remarked that at least I wasn't a hermit. Thinking about it, I suppose he was right. Up there in the woods I could choose not to be around people and I was pretty much guaranteed that no one would arrive on my doorstep uninvited. The going was far too treacherous for a casual drop in, especially in the winter.

I never had to worry about door to door salesmen/women. I could, however, invite folks over and true friends would make the effort. Most of them liked my place, once they'd navigated the back roads and my bumpy, rock strewn drive. There is something about the filtered green coolness of the woods that acts as a balm for the harried modern soul.

That's why I find it a bit strange, now, to be living on the Eton High Street. My front door opens onto a sidewalk that is always cluttered with pedestrians of some sort or other. The photo below was taken on an early morning walk in February before most people were out and about.

My windows overlook a street that, although in essence a dead end, is almost as busy as the Indianapolis Speedway on Memorial Day. Being a few miles away from Heathrow airport there is a steady stream of jet planes overhead. We live a few hundred feet from Eton College Chapel, the first College building that people, walking down from Windsor, see. To avoid a collision when I go out my front door I literally have to stick my head out first to check for gawping tourists who are mesmerized by the sight of that beautiful old edifice.

Eton is a lovely little town, there is no doubt about that, but sometimes it is just too busy for the likes of me. I miss looking out the window and seeing deer. Double decker red tourist buses just don't cut the mustard. Even the sight of Windsor Castle rising above the rooftops can't reduce the longing for one of Mother Nature's architectural wonders... the woodlands.

Something I thought I would never miss I find myself missing keenly, the constant, strident buzzing of cicadas on a hot summer day; a noise that can be deafening in an otherwise peaceful woods. Things I knew I would miss and do; Spring Peepers, those tiny little tree frogs, singing their hearts out as evening falls. In the depths of a summer night the familiar sound of crickets and katydids. Something I thought no one could ever miss, but, I would take the smell of a skunk any day over the reek of diesel and jet engine fuel.

There are compensations to living here, however. Ancient sites like Stonehenge, Wayland's Smithy or the Rollright Stone Circle. Places with so much history you can almost taste it in the air that surrounds them. For a small island country, England is packed with beautiful places, both wild and manmade, that can make your heart soar and fill you with wonder.

I once told Steve that I could be happy living in a cardboard box as long as we were together. Well, Eton is far from being a cardboard box and I am happy and content to live here with someone whom I love dearly.

Ah well... another one where I was going to chat about living in the woods and it ran off in another direction with no definite end in site. You see why i could never be a writer. Oh well.

When we first moved to our cabin in the woods, more years ago than I care to mention, there were no turkeys left in that part of Pennsylvania. The primary 'game' bird was the pheasant, an introduced species from Asia. Oh, there were turkeys in small pockets in the State, but they'd not been seen in our area for nigh on many a year. According to the experts turkeys were in trouble throughout most of their range by the last quarter of the nineteenth century. A shame that, this was the noble bird that Benjamin Franklin wanted as the national symbol of the newly created United States of America rather than that carrion eating eagle everyone else was pushing for. The turkey lost out because, let's face it, even back then popularity equated with beauty and there is nothing more ugly than a turkey or more beautiful than an eagle.

In the 1980's the Pennsylvania Game Commission started releasing turkeys in our area as part of a larger project to re-establish the bird in it's former haunts. It was quite successful, though some folks were not sure it was the right thing to do. Most of these people lived in and around a small village called Ridge Valley. Their concern stemmed from a Tom turkey who for two years terrorized motorist, motorcyclist and bicyclist.

Ridge Valley is just a spot in the road, with two T junctions and two churches standing opposite each other at one junction. There are stop signs at both junctions. Tom, as he was so imaginatively nicknamed by the local populous, took up residence along the short stretch of road between the two T junctions. Woe betide any vehicle that slowed or stopped while he was on patrol. When not out pecking and scratching in the surrounding woodlands, Tom was to be found standing by the roadside, or, more often, standing in the road. He was a novelty at first. After all, nobody had seen a wild turkey in this neck of the woods for close on a hundred years. People started feeding Tom. He grew fat. He grew bold. He grew territorial. He grew nasty.

One morning on my way to work I pulled up to one of the stop signs and waited for an early morning cyclist to pass by, watching as he swerved to go around Tom who was standing in the road. The cyclist made the mistake of slowing down as he went by and quick as greased lightning Tom stabbed him in the leg. Well, I say stabbed, but I didn't actually see any blood, just a very irate cyclist who almost fell off his bike. He stopped, cursing... which was a big mistake. Tom was nothing if not the avian equivalent of Mike Tyson and he advanced, looking, I am sure, for a piece of this guy's ear... if he could reach that high. What ensued was quite funny to me, who sat safely locked up in my car. Tom danced around ducking and diving and the cyclist was hard pressed to keep his bike between him and the bird from hell. They advanced down the road as far as the other T junction where the cyclist was able to make his escape. Apparently Tom's territory extended no further. By now I had pulled out onto the road and as I approached that other junction, where stood Tom, I had to slow down to make my turn. In a flash I found myself under attack. Well my car found itself, with me in it, under attack. I could hear the steady thwack, thwack, thwack of that deadly beak beating a tattoo on my paintwork. I'm a vegetarian, but at that point in time I had visions of Tom, trussed and nicely browned on a platter of steamed vegetables.

As time passed, Tom grew bolder and became crafty. He now often squatted down, snoozing in the road. At the sound of an engine or the whirr of bicycle tires he would open one beady eye but remain quiet. Thinking he was sound asleep, people would try and sneak by. Have you ever tried sneaking in a car? It's even harder on a motorcycle. You would think bicyclists would have the advantage but that's not true at all. Tom knew all the tricks and was ready for each and every scenario. No one escaped. Legs were bruised, paintwork chipped and tempers frayed. All because of one damn ugly bird.

The press soon got wind of the story and Tom hit the big time. Several newspapers ran stories on the Turkey of Ridge Valley. Tom even got his picture in the papers. He was a real celebrity. And the people of Ridge Valley suffered. The people who had to travel through Ridge Valley suffered. You have to remember that we are talking out in the sticks in the middle of nowhere country here. To avoid Ridge Valley on your way to and from where ever meant a detour of a good 12 to 15 miles depending on where you were headed and where you were coming from. But what could be done? Nothing, turkeys were rare. Turkeys were protected at this time in this place. Tom could continue his campaign of terror with impunity. And he did... for over two years.

Then, one morning in the early part of November, I pulled up at the stop sign in Ridge Valley looking to see where Tom was today. The road was clear. I checked the churchyard edges. No Tom. I drove through Ridge Valley unscathed. On the way home later that day Tom was still nowhere to be seen. The next day was the same, and the next. It soon became evident that Tom was gone. Well and truly gone. People in the area heaved a collective sigh of relief. The newspapers ran another article speculating on Tom's disappearance. Though no one would say it outright, we all knew in our heart of hearts what had happened. Someone had broken under the strain. Someone had had enough of Turkey Terror. Someone had taken Tom home to Thanksgiving dinner.

You can blame Pari for this story. She said I should write something about my time living in a cabin in the woods. There are so many things I could write about, but the turkey that terrorized a village seemed a good place to start. Just for laughs I Googled Ridge Valley so you can see Tom's Territory where he reigned supreme for two years.

Aging gracefully. I wonder who invented that phrase? Probably some Madison Avenue geek working for a cosmetics company.

Aging gracefully. If you believe the adverts on television, there are any number of potions, lotions, creams and notions that you can rub, smear, pat, smell, drink or otherwise ingest that will keep you looking and feeling as young and gorgeous (a matter of personal opinion) as that model whose face is currently in all the newspapers. You know the one, looks like a walking hat rack, has lips that put Mick Jagger to shame and who, in a few years time, will find being a hat rack unattractive and will have a boob enhancement, her tummy tucked and her butt lifted. Yes, we all want to look like her, don't we.

As we grow older, the Advertising Moguls think we grow mentally more feeble, I am sure. What else could explain the current spate of adverts I've seen recently. Two examples. An anti-aging face cream that contains... something new... something revolutionary... something our skin REALLY needs..... what do you think it could be?.... OXYGEN !!!! Ta Da... Yes. Oxygen. Enough said? The second one that makes me giggle. This cream comes in a tube with a nozzle.. you know, like one you would use to pipe decorations onto a cake. The manufacturers claim it is so you can "target" those annoying little frown lines between your eyes or at the corners of your mouth, etc., getting the cream right to the proper area. Target them? I'm not blind, for crying out loud. Even if I WERE blind I could still feel where those darn lines are, after all some of them are like the Grand Canyon. I could also still manage to put the cream on my finger and apply it to the area of my face where I could FEEL the lines. Unless, of course, I was falling down drunk, in which case I probably couldn't find my own behind with both hands despite its being the size of Idaho. Perhaps that's what the advertisers think? Perhaps, to the young and fresh out of school Ad Exec, aging is so foreign, so horrible to contemplate that they can't fathom us old fogies dealing with it in any way but by being drunk and feeble minded. I mean, why else would they try and sell us such products in such packaging?

My husband and I have found the one and only true secret to eternal youth. It doesn't come out of a jar or a tube. You don't rub it on or drink it or eat it. It's in your head. Age is a state of mind, not a number. You have to ignore your body, it will lie to you every time. Pick a year in your life that holds all the best times. A year when life was the best ever and totally stress free. It'll be different for everyone. Well almost everyone. Steve and I are both seven. Seven is a great age to be... young enough to still believe in Santa and the Tooth Fairy and old enough to be a bit independent and KNOW things. That time of life when the world is still full of wonder, even a worm can be interesting. That time of life when almost everything is funny... even a fart.... especially a fart. It works out well for us as Steve's birthday is in May and mine in November. It's like this, he turns 7 each May and until November I'm older, and therefore the 'boss'. Come November when I turn 7 he's now older and... well, you get the picture. The only problem with this is his Auntie Lynda. She adheres to the same philosophy only her perfect age is 12. Yes, that means she's older and SHE gets to boss us around... and we HAVE to do what she says. Sometimes life just ain't fair. On the other hand, we have Steve's niece, Lauren. Lauren's physical age is 7 but her mental age is about 40. I've never known a child to be so OLD. She has a problem with Steve and I being 7. Whenever we mention it to her she rolls her eyes at us and says, in a very exasperated tone of voice, "DON'T start THAT again !". If we persist she goes off to see another, more sensible adult in the house, and we can hear her wailing, "Stephen and Michele are saying they're SEVEN again !"

Yet again I've rambled and staggered all over the place with no definite conclusion in mind. See, that's why I could never be a writer. So, I will just cease and desist here. Pari, you can have another gold star if you've gotten to the end again.

I've never done a blog before so I have no idea what I SHOULD be writing about. With that in mind I will write about darts.

I don't play darts. It's not that I don't like the game, quite the opposite. I quite enjoy it. My problem is that when I throw, it needs to be in an empty room. Anyone being so foolish as to enter the room when I have darts in my hand is risking life and limb. The only safe place to be is right in front of the dartboard.

That being said, when my hubby joined the Eton Ex-Serviceman's Club darts team, I turned down their kind request for me to join as well. They persisted, having no clue what they were asking, so I gave them a demonstration. After the first well placed dart, which stuck in a chair perilously close to the team captain's family jewels, they withdrew their request. However, they did offer me the position of Darts Groupie, a safer alternative. I jumped at the opportunity. This position allows me to be loud, whooping it up and cheering the team on. The main perk, though, is that I get my drinks for free. Some members of other teams refer to what I do as being nothing more than a glorified cheerleader, but I take umbrage at that. There is nary a pom-pom in sight and I do NOT wear short skirts and tight sweaters (perish the thought !!). Personally, I think they're just jealous because they don't have any groupies of their own. Last season there were two of us, but my pal LuLu joined the team as an alternate this year, so I am holding down the fort on my own. It's a tough job, but someone has to do it.

Last night was the first match of the new season and we were playing a new team in our division. For the most part they seemed a nice bunch. I suppose I should preface this by saying that there are two types of league players. There are those who play league darts because, first, it is fun. Second, and most important, being in a league has the additional bonus of letting you socialize and go to other pubs/clubs on your away games. Away games are a happy experience which allow you to meet new people, see the inside of places you've only ever seen from the outside before and then come home and moan about how expensive a pint is there compared to your own club/pub. The second type of league player is the one to whom the game is everything. Winning is everything. You know the type. The socializing and meeting new people is unimportant. Our team is made up of people who are the first, fun type. Oh we have a couple or three players who beat themselves up, after the other team has gone home, if they feel they haven't played their best game... regardless if we've won or lost. But mostly we just have fun. Don't get me wrong, we have a pretty good team in the league standings.

Now, back to the new team we played last night. They were, for the most part, a nice bunch. I say for the most part because their captain was one of the second type of players. The game is everything to this guy and he was not a happy bunny last night as the Eton Ex-Serviceman's were giving them a right hiding. In the pairs it was us 3 - them 1. In the fours (four of theirs against four of ours) we'd nailed them 2 - 0. Ultimately the final score was us 11 them 2.

By the time the singles came along and it was his turn, they'd managed to claw back one leg out of the eight to be played. He was up against our best lady player, Nats, and he fancied himself the easy winner. Nats was not on her best form and he kept lowering his score, at one point by almost 150 over her. But in darts the name of the game is the 'finish'. For those of you who don't know, in darts you start with a score (it varies depending on whether you are playing singles, doubles or fours, the more players the higher starting score) and the points you rack up are deducted from your score until somebody reduces theirs to zero. The catch is, your final dart has to be in a 'double', that narrow, outer band on the darts board. For example, if you come up and what you or your team has left is 20, you can't just hit the 20 or a multiple combination of points that equals 20. You could, on your first dart, hit the outside narrow band on the 10 ... double 10 = 20 and you'd 'finish' to win. Or, you could make 20 with a combination of points, but it would only count if the final dart was in a double spot. An example of that would be 3 + 7 + double 5 = 20. Well Mr. Serious Darts Player was down to less than 20, and Nats still had 150 to go...but he just couldn't 'finish', that double kept eluding him. Nats kept pecking away at her score in the meanwhile. Finally Nats had one dart left, 24 to go. She paused, psyching herself up for a double 12. One of the players from the other team hollered out "Twenty-four", apparently thinking she was having trouble with her maths and trying to figure out what she had left. Damned if she didn't hit that double 12. Well, Mr. Other Team Captain went ballistic, directing a tirade at our team captain. "It's against the rules to have help like that ! If she can't add she needs to learn how !" "Pardon?", a couple of our guys said... "It was your team member that hollered out and, besides, Nats didn't ask anything.. she didn't say a word." Well he was having none of it, just kept ranting on how his team had been penalized twice before for something like that. No matter that it wasn't our team that had done anything wrong, he just wanted a rant because he'd been beaten. He kept on and the debate turned into an argument. Soon there were voices from the sidelines, mine included. Then Nats had had enough, she stood up and got in his face. Though she remained calm she let him know in no uncertain terms that she'd said not a word and she'd won fair and square. At that point my hubby, who along with our captain was one of the main participants in this verbal melee, stuck out his hand and said, "Look, mate, enough said, no hard feelings, let's just shake." This fellow wouldn't, he just carried on moaning. After a bit, Steve stuck out his hand again and said much the same. This time the fellow gave him some lip and still wouldn't shake. I could see my normally peaceful hubby getting very angry, now, and I could tell by the look on his face that he would like nothing better than to deck this guy. But he didn't, age and experience got the better of the youthful, primal urge to deal physically with a jerk. Instead he leaned back against the bar and let our captain and Nats continue to have a go. Finally, Steve put out his hand a third time and I think his tone and manner suggested to this idiot that the wise thing to do would be to shake hands. He did, grudgingly. Whether this fellow realizes it or not, all he's done is damage his own credibility. One of his team, who was playing his first game for them, muttered to us that this may be the first and the LAST game he plays for them. Two of his other players stayed behind til closing having a natter with us and, as they are locals, I shouldn't be surprised to see them jump ship. We may have just acquired some new alternates.

Lordy how I do waffle on. I suppose that the point I am trying to make is that if, in your leisure time, you play games, participate in a sport, compete in any manner... it truly isn't the winning that's important, it's how you play. If you play your best and enjoy yourself, win or lose, you are ahead of the game. When you take it so seriously, as the afore mentioned opposing team captain so obviously does, you might as well be stuck in rush hour traffic for all the enjoyment you are going to get out the game. In this world of hustle and bustle and work and long commutes, why make your precious well earned time off as stressful as your work a day week? That just doesn't compute in my book.

The End. If you've gotten this far, my hat is off to you. You earn a gold star for perserverance.