Sunshine at last

At last the sun has come out in Cadcove. For the first time in a week, I can see out the window - I'm sure they've had better weather in London, but one must not be bitter. Lots has happened since my last bulletin. The house has been full of builders (some hot, some not) and we've been converting the net loft (Londoners read 'Cornish garage') into an alternative bar for the good folk of Cadcove. This, of course, was Dickie's idea after he fell out with the local landlord- Fit-Pete at the French House, the only pub in Cadcove - and in the spirit of healthy competition, or the fact he's been banned, Dickie's decided to open up a new 'exclusive' drinking club - members only. Right on. Fit-Pete is not to be messed with, - and as he's 'Fit' because he lifts weights, rather than being ripped and chiselled, everything's very clandestine. I am determined to run the members only list before Dickie dominates the venture, so all applications through my FB page please.

It's going to be finished in time for the Jubilee and I'm assured it will look like the Groucho. I have often thought that Cadcove would be perfect with the Groucho Club and Nobu and maybe one or two black cabs and of course, the Evening Standard oh and a petit Selfridges food hall, but first things first. I need to steal some staff from the French House or I'm left with Moll (would there be any drinks left) or Nanny-with-wings (who will look after the children). Problem is, all Fit-Pete's girls are pretty loyal so I'm going to have to be cunning to poach them. Next problem of course is what to drink, I would like the 'Cadcove Cellar' -working title, to serve cocktails - you know The 'Uncosmopolitan' the 'Lucinda Dare Devil' An 'M5/A30' to replace the 'B52' and a 'Cadcovita' to replace a margarita. Dickie on the other hand would like to serve Hooch.

Due to its' dodgy legal status, Dickie wants to excavate into the cliff wall behind the net loft and have a secret hooch production room which he and 'the lads' will run. My problem with this, on top of the risk of incarceration, and the wrath of Fit-Pete, is that the cliff itself supports the right wing of the Cadcove bay, without it, I worry that our house and the homes of our neighbours, Petey the harbour master and Vicky and Mary Brendo - the hardcore intellectual socialist lesbians from Hackney's holiday home into the sea. Dickie thinks it is worth the risk as smugglers have been burrowing through the cliff for centuries and we'll probably find a cave or two which will be perfect for Hooch production room. Dylan, (Dickie's second son: marriage two) who's studying mining, is coming round this afternoon with some dynamite and some 'uni buds' to do the job, because 'They're cheap' Dickie tells me.

I, on the other hand, am going to a Parish Council meeting with Susan Marksfield, I'm doing really well and they are going to let me chair my own meeting next month - as long as I 'show my face in church'. I need to do this as I have spoken to the Conservatives in Exeter and they will let me run for a parliamentary seat (get me!) in 2015 as long as I have been a councillor and I can run for a council seat as long as I have run a local organisation - that being the Parish Council, not the Cadcove Cellar - obviously. And of course if I do win a parliamentary seat I get a free flat in London and hip hip hooray I am back in the Borough, well Zone 1 anyway. This is why it is absolutely essential that I am not caught with a Hooch production brewery in the back garden or responsible for several houses falling into the sea.

I will keep you posted...

Easter bunnies and spring chicks...

Readers, sorry for the long absence I nipped up to the Royal Borough to see a marvellous nutritionist who feeds her cat tiger prawns and wheat grass - good enough for the cat, good enough for me. The intention being that summer is fast approaching and seeing as I live on the beach I have two choices - diet or purdah. You may laugh, but I have done beach purdah before. When Dickie and I first got together, he was insistent on going on holiday somewhere really hot (he tans - I burn) and faced with bikini scrutiny in the early stages of dating, I decided the best way out was to opt for Islamic holiday destinations. Worked a treat, I appeared cultural/global minded/interesting person to date rather than sweaty/hot/fat and irrational. I thoroughly recommend it.

Anyway, I digress. Easter was great, saw the London wing of the family who talked medja, Queens Park, and children's sleep patterns. My mother gave me the annual 'little chat' about chewing each mouthful of chocolate 40 times and eating mindfully whatever that means... I don't need to tell you the result. We then drove through the green and pleasant to Dickie's parents house in a small Wiltshire hamlet. Beautiful. Devilish Dick senior and his pretty wife Tessa had laid out a fabulous spread of turkey, roast potatoes and of course more chocolate. Devilish Dick senior, a furniture restorer, is writing a book. He made me sit down and read it whilst topping up my glass with some of South Africa's finest. It's about a devilish young cad who just happens to be a furniture restorer, who just happens to live in Wiltshire, and whilst restoring valuable local artifacts is lured into bed by a host of willing beauties. Of course this was all fiction he assured me, but if he's anything like his son...

Then Carrie, Dickie's Supermodel niece arrived on the arm of a Polo champion, then Dickie's daughter Toni (marriage one) arrived with Bradley and told me how much she loved me whilst handing over an Easter egg the size of a small dog and announcing 'gosh you really don't need any more chocolate, shall I give it to the boys?' Then Polly, Dickie's youngest daughter (marriage two) and pregnant arrived with her boyfriend Duncan. Followed by Dylan - middle son, marriage two, who wanted a lift back to Cornwall. Can you keep up? I certainly can't.

We arrived back in Cadcove just before midnight on Easter Monday.  Shattered and exhausted with two screaming over sugared children, I walked in purring, knowing that Joy, my housekeeper (well do you really think I would move to Cornwall without one) had cleaned the sheets and made the house sparkle. But Easter, of course, was not quite over. Curled up in our bed wrapped around some naked Cornish teenager, was Dickie's young apprentice Jago. All hell broke out with Dickie firing him on the spot, Jago screaming that he thought we weren't back till the end of the week and Cornish teenager scrabbling under the bed to find her nose ring. It's not the first time - last time we went away I came back to find a mass of red-head porn on my computer, which I blamed Dickie for until Jago sheepishly confessed.

I'm starting a new meditation course tomorrow...

Big Bear and the wicked step daughter - part one

My step daughter Toni (never trust a girl with a boy's name) decided to come for the weekend despite several attempts to put her off. 'There's no room', I protested 'Why don't you come after Easter?', 'Ned's got nits', 'NO, YOU CAN'T BRING YOUR BOYFRIEND'. I even asked Dickie to tell her not to come - he invited her a day early with Bradley, her beau of the mo, and told her she could stay indefinitely. 'She is my daughter Lulu, our house is her house...'

I tried to look cheery as Dickie went to super human lengths to tidy the house, cook her favourite food and put on a fresh shirt. Oh the guilty gestures of an absent father, why didn't he make this much effort for me?

There are several reasons why Toni and I can never be friends. Toni has a knack of pointing out everything that's wrong with our relationship (normally what's wrong with me), of siding with her father at any given opportunity and constantly talking about his wonderful ex girlfriends. On top of that she is only a couple of years younger than me, miles thinner, taller and has a cracking job as a financial advisor in the city. She is very into London. And working. And the gym. Of course, I am into these things too, if only I had the time.

'I bet you're glad you didn't give away Big Bear now aren't you' smirked Dickie 'Toni will be so pleased when she sees how much the boys love him'. Bugger. Big bear. A huge, monstrous, purple, polystyrene bear Toni had given Ned for his second birthday. It snored if you moved it to the left and growled if you moved it to the right - what can I say? The boys loved him. Dickie thought it showed how much Toni loved her new baby brothers, but deep down I knew it was out to get me.  He had to go. If I couldn't get rid of the step daughter, I was damn well going to get rid of the bear.

At first I simply put him out with the rubbish, Ned burst into tears and went running to Dickie. 'Oh I was only worried about the polystyrene' I said defensively. Next I gave him to our neighbour Penny for the Cadcove tombola, she returned him several hours later saying she couldn't sell him and break Ned's heart.  I argued that he had to learn about loss at some point - Father Christmas, melting snowmen, teenage girls and she looked aghast. When we finally moved Ned into his own room he would wake screaming in the night, refusing to sleep until Big Bear was placed in the bed next to him. Big Bear had become more important than me.

And finally last week, I took Big Bear to Oxfam and finding the door shut, left him outside in the pouring rain. Ned cried all night, but I told him I'd buy him a hamster if he didn't tell Daddy, 'But I want Big Bear' he sobbed. 'A hamster is better, they move quickly and they can bite - hard' I said. 'I want Big Bear' screamed Ned.  'I want Big Bear'

I told Dickie and Toni I'd taken him to the dry cleaners - 'Specially for your visit Toni' and ran to Oxfam pleading to save the revolting creature, they didn't have it. Even Oxfam didn't want Big Bear. Sodden and smelly they had thrown him out the back.  I trawled through the bins, but couldn't find him, it was belting down and I stank of trash. I sank to the floor and began to cry. Toni would hate me for ever, Dickie would blame me for Ned's bear-less misery and I would have to grovel to the evil step daughter for the rest of my life.

But there she was, my very own guardian angel.  Moll. Wonderful, beautiful Moll, poking her head from around the bins 'I saw you go into Oxfam and wondered who you were meeting out here' she said with a wink, but then seeing my tears she added, 'Can I help?' For three hours Moll helped me climb into the various skips of trash in the icy rain and recovered a sad half drowned Bear who had literally had the stuffing knocked out of him. Bear and me both.

Ned thought his return was marvellous. And Toni looked smug. She suggested going to the pub alone with Daddy and Bradley - so they could get to know each other. 'You won't mind babysitting will you Lulu?' I said it was a lovely idea but completely impossible as I had invited Moll and her family for dinner... Big Bear sat at the head of the table and no one said a word.

When your husband's away...

Dickie announced at 6.30am yesterday that he was off to see about a job and would not be back until Friday. He tried to look, earnest, exhausted and the-whole-world-is-weighing-on-my-shoulders (and oh what shoulders!) about it, but he couldn't quite keep the glint out of his eye. I flirted with the idea of being all angsty about the situation, but any neurosis was quickly replaced with one word which rang loud and clear in my mind FREEDOM. I quickly texted Charlotte, the nanny-with-wings, and she agreed to take the kids till 4pm.

Dickie had taken me to get my passport picture taken the day before. He smirked in front of me as the down to earth camera woman, one of those awful 'this is not about how you look, this is for a passport' women, preceded to place me under a neon light and shoot from below. You can imagine the result. Dickie couldn't see what all the fuss was about, but then again, he is the one off on 'a job all night'. I was horrified. I looked middle aged, knackered and kind of pasty. This would never have happened in London. But now with my new found freedom I scoured the internet and found a private photographer in Truro who promised he could rectify the situation and no one would know.

Charles. Mid fifties, wearing sandals, surrounded by lots of buddhas and bean bags, had 'worked in the industry for forty years' greeted me, snapped away and put the still middle aged, knackered pictures into a magic machine which ironed out the wrinkles, bags and so on. Bingo - I looked fantastic. I jumped into my new black gangster rural Land Rover (ooh Dickie has brought me rather a lot of presents recently) and headed for the post office. Looking all smug, smiley and clean I pushed past the farmers wives and travellers and presented my passport application with the new hot hot hot photos. I call it Cornish jealousy, but the check out girl refused to accept my photographs on the ground that I looked too 'pouty' and besides she boomed 'this is an out of date picture, you have to have one that was taken in the last five years'. The travellers giggled. The farmers wives gave a tut and a pitying glare and I was forced to hand over the miserable jaded pictures from the day before. Devastating. For the next 12 years my passport will be a document of shame. Dickie found the whole thing terribly amusing, before his phone was cut off...

Time to hit the shops. It's amazing how in a town like Truro, where there really is very little to buy that you can still spend a fortune. I updated my Wellingtons, brought the boys various books and sought out the only Lancome counter in town - hidden deep in the back of Boots. The chirpy sales girl loaded me up with lots of freebies, but the thing I really wanted - the lush new fruity collection 'guaranteed to make you feel fruity fresh' would not be in Cornwall for three months. Three Months. 'After all' she giggled in a strong Cornish accent 'we don't even have electricity down here'. She explained that it was  already in the flagship store Selfridges and then spent the next ten minutes explaining to me  -slowly and in great detail, what Selfridges was. I didn't interrupt her.

I headed home for the Cadcove Jubilee committee meeting, and informed the group that I wouldn't be getting involved as I was heading to the Royal Borough for the big event. Apparently this is not the case as I had agreed to organise the children's jubilee activities several weeks ago. Susan Marksfield - head of the committee -has a way of making you do things. 'And where's that hubby of yours?' she asked as I made a swift exit, pretending not to hear.

And where was he indeed? I put the boys to bed and sat down to watch TV. TV that I wanted, no sport, no Nat Geo, no history channel, when the door bell rang. Moll was standing at the door. Pushing her way in saying 'I thought I would come and keep you company as Dickie's away, he said you wouldn't mind'...

Lucinda's Morning

I awoke with a niggely feeling that something truly awful had happened, I checked the kids but they were ok, the gas was turned off and no one had keyed my land rover. I couldn't put my finger on it until I remembered my dream. I dreamt that one of my fatter friends - lets call her TJ had lost all her weight and was now significantly smaller than me. Not only smaller, but altogether better, sassier, short-skirt wearing - jolly. Not fat jolly, but oozing confidence -my-life-is-so-in-control jolly. It was a bad start to the day. I contemplated the treadmill, something I would have been all to happy to do in the Royal Borough, but now in my small fishing village, toast and marmite seemed a better option.

I was sitting down to eat the said toast and marmite when the door bell rang. The euphoric moment had arrived when Nanny was here to take over. Au contraire.  For there on the step was Moll, the head of the local travellers site and one of my new Cadcove friends, or rather, one of my new Cadcove projects. You see, in a moment of strange London liberalism I had declared myself a fighter of travellers rights, the person who would stand up for them against the Parish council and the terrifying Susan Marksfield. And all because the Parish Council had refused to let me park outside my front door. I did it anyway of course, but this enraged the Parish so much that they called a meeting entitled "What to do with people from up country'. I.e. me. The fight was on. Fantastic. I had a true rural cause.

But now, at 7.45, with Moll on my doorstep and the children trying to drink out the potty, my plight was a little less shiny. Moll came straight in. Being one with nature, she is very comfortable with her surroundings, and poured herself the last scrap of my perfect, hot, Selfridges Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee whilst removing a crumpled spliff from behind her left ear. She half heartedly offered it to me before stating 'You need to write me a better CV, one that will mean I don't have to be CRB checked'. 'What's the problem with a CRB check?'  I asked naively. "Oh you know the usual crim records, growing pot, stealing the odd bottle of wine from a supermarket, not paying for petrol, you know, the ones everyones has.'

I left it there saying I would do what I could but had to get on with the accounts.  Moll placed a list on the table of the other things the travellers needed, something I will be taking up with Susan Marksfield later today.

Ah back to the accounts... But first I must phone TJ to check on her diet.

Hedge Row Wife - About...

What happens when your heart is in Chelsea but your body in Cornwall? When you dream of Jimmy Choo, but live in wellies? When your hedge fund husband packs it all in to become a rural builder? This blog is the story of me, Lucinda Dare and my rapid decent from the Royal Borough to the Royal Duchy. From single girl about town to country bumpkin. The ups and downs, from faking to baking, from fishing to Nobu and infiltrating the locals in the small fishing village of Cadcove.