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THE PARISH COUNCIL MEETING: Iden Parish Council met on Tuesday 5th March , in Iden Village Hall, for a normal meeting followed by the A.G.M. Chairman Ray Griffin opened the meeting by announcing the death of James Ramus, a very popular Iden resident, a farmer, and an Olympic sailor, who will be much missed by his wife Joy, and family. Phillip Allard has joined the council, and was warmly welcomed. Councillor Michael Miller said how nice the beech hedge around the War Memorial is looking. Markers are to be placed around the ditch in the playing field car park, as some people have driven into it The gate from the car park to the church is to be reconstructed to make for easier opening.The finger posts in Iden are all back and looking good. The Iden Fete this year will consist mainly of a boot fair, plus burgers and bacon rolls on the burger stall, and teas and coffees in the pavilion. Villagers are urged to buy Grand Draw tickets early, before the fete if possible, to ensure entry to the draw. The fete is still under discussion. Meetings are still in progress. Local and Parish elections are imminent. The next Parish Council meeting is in Iden Village Hall, at 7.30pm on April 2nd.

OUR BUDDIES: Iden is well and truly in bud isn’t it? The daffodils are not in a hurry to come out, but their buds are everywhere heralding approaching spring. For so long, deciduous trees have reached out towards to a grey sky with claw-like branches, but now there are tentative signs of buds. The odd tree is becoming covered in blossom. The daffodil family, like all families are all different, from the baby tete-a-tetes to the big blooms like yellow trumpets. Some are white with orange centres, some a pale wan-looking yellow as though a month’s worth of iron medicine is needed [the sickly one of the family like Beth in Little Women.] Jonquils and narcissus, the members of the family who dare to be different. Wild daffodils, small, delicate, yet wayward, growing where they darn well please, clumps of them in woodland [the good time gals, out dancing till all hours.] Somehow, I see daffodils as a family of girls borrowing each- other’s clothes and lipsticks, all out to create a stunning look. They are too feminine and coquettish to be male. Iden is awash with them [that fiendish planting a couple of years ago was a great idea.] They light up the village don’t they, and for the short while they are here, we treasure them!

WHAT’s HAPPENED TO ALL THE COWBOYS?: I love a good western, but the last good one I saw was ‘Open Range’ with Kevin Costner and Robert Duvall. In spite of all its shoot-outs, and cowboys lining the bar drinking whiskey shots at the rate of knots, there is a gentle charm about old cowboy films. People gathered with prairie flowers to sing the two hymns synonymous with cowboy films ‘Rock of Ages Cleft for Me, ’and ‘ We will gather at the River’. I would love to have spent my time in a log cabin doling out fried chicken and grits to a bunch of cow hands. My Canadian granny once lived in Saskatchewan .She remembered covered wagons, and as a child her home was visited by native Indians who knew her father. [that’s true]. Cowboy films remind me of the quaint gold mining town I grew up in. If you’ve lived in two countries you become a product of both. I remember a man in the town who was married to an Indian squaw, and my mum came over from Fulham, England, to be greeted by native Indians gathered around the railway tracks, full of curiosity to see who was new in town. Quentin Tarrantino makes violent westerns now and again, but I long for the gentler, plodding kind, cowboys sleeping under the stars after a meal of beans, keeping one eye open for an Indian attack. I enjoy spaghetti westerns, and I loved ‘Rawhide’, ‘Wagon Train’ and ‘Gun Smoke’] I don’t want overtly bloody or political westerns, just the simple kind where the good guys got even with the bad guys, making the town safe for a while, so the women could get on with their quilting and the cowboys could go on branding their steers and take a nap in the barn!

MAN FLU: Man- flu has arrived in our house, and for a man who won’t reach for two Paracetamol without being administered to, it’s a time for patience and firmness.” I don’t have a cold”, my husband says, [I know he has because it’s like sleeping next to a traction engine.] I go up to bed armed with Paracetamol, hot water, cough linctus, a medicine spoon, vapour rub, tissues, extra pillows and menthol and eucalyptus. “I don’t need all that”, he says, wheezing away. “Just sit up and open your mouth “I say, “I’m not having nonsense” [I’m a proper Hattie Jacques] He refuses the vapour rub, so I spread a dessertspoon of it on an old pillow case and waft it under his nose when he’s asleep. [it would be easier dealing with open-heart surgery.] Once we little girls learn to burp our dolls, we become hooked on providing any man wearing pyjamas with Lemsip, chicken broth, bed socks and vitamin ‘C’. We learn to appreciate that man flu is the very worst kind, a whole different ball game from female flu because in general men who are willing to fight wars have bigger noses and less tolerance to the sniffles [I have to say the flu is nasty, and for anyone who has it, Get well soon!

THE IDEN PARISH COUNCIL MEETING: Chairman Ray Griffin began the meeting on Tuesday 5th February, by mentioning the death of Iden resident Percy Bryant. A report, penned by Rother District Councillor Sally Anne Hart was distributed, listing issues in Rother, beginning with rising crime such as modern slavery, violent and sexual crimes, drug-related crimes, cybercrime and domestic and child abuse. Sally Anne, spoke at the meeting stressing the need for community vigilance in reporting such crimes, also commenting that refuse disposal in Hastings Rother and Wealden, will be taken over by ‘Biffa’, once ‘Kier’ complete their contract in June. ‘Biffa’ will also provide street cleaning in Rother and Wealden [Hastings is to bring in its own, in-house street cleaning] Sally Anne mentioned ‘fuel poverty’, and said that people , particularly the aged can get help and advice if they contact Rother. [telephone 08000851674], email www.eastsussex.gov.uk/keepwarm. Sally Anne is particularly keen that Rother’s regeneration scheme be supported, encouraging tourism as a means to expand education, art and the general ambiance of our area. Rother District Councillor Paul Osbourne said that Community grants have now been spent until applications re-open. Rother has secured some funding for temporary accommodation, for families with genuine problems, such as losing a job, mental health problems etc. Two new members of Rother’s staff have been appointed to work with landlords to see that the scheme is fairly managed. Parish Clerk, Mary Philo said that the ditch in the park’s parking area is to be cleared periodically to help prevent flooding. The mole-catcher has been hired for another year, as moles in the park continue to be prolific. Rother has taken extra finance on board for adequate grass cutting in the area .The next Parish Council Meeting on 5th March, incorporates the A.G.M . A brief council meeting at 7.30pm will precede the A.G.M, which will begin at 8pm. It’s hoped that many will attend, for a chance to air their views.

My mother: was as neat as a pin. Unfortunately, I didn’t take after her. She never got messy, and if she met me from school, I was always proud, because she wore clothes well. She made several pairs of plastic cuffs, edged neatly with bias binding, which she wore to do the washing up, lest her cuffs got wet. “ Don’t put down, put away, ” she would say, and she always promised that when I had a home of my own, she would come and mess it up the way I messed hers up. She taught me to love words [rather unfortunate, because I never shut up] but next to flowers, I love words. She made me look up a word in the dictionary every day, and if anyone said, “different to”, instead of “different from,” she would go on for ages about poor grammar. Sometimes it was as though she was lifted from her school chair and set down in the kitchen. She wasn’t overly clever, but very pedantic. “You look like a Piccadilly totty”, she would say if I wore a lot of make-up. It’s funny the way we differ from our parents in some ways yet are the spitting image in others. I don’t do family- trees, but I love to compare the family I know, one with another, little traits coming out of the woodwork. If I eat a bowl of soup in front of the TV, I’ll be spattered in soup in no time. I invariably have to change my jumper. I need a bib like my mum needed her cuffs, but then my mother would never have eaten soup in front of the TV, she would lay the table for just bread and cheese.” “I don’t know where you were dragged up”, she would say!

SEA FOOD AND EAT IT!: My husband and I are dieting [not before time]. It’s a difficult process, counting calories, ignoring the Quality Street left over from Christmas, and basically pretending that we loath and detest the sugars and fats which pile on the pounds [which is phenomenally untrue!] We have a big salad each night, lettuce, grated carrot, peppers, celery and tuna or some chicken perhaps, and a few low-calorie flavourings and maybe a few nuts and bits and bobs to make it resemble a meal. I love salad, but my other half moans that he’s turning into a rabbit. He also blames me for every blip in his diet. “I only eat what you give me”, he says, putting the onus on me, but I’ve seen him tucking into chocolate fingers behind the Daily Mail. My mother in law used to think that she could eat whatever she liked as long as it was accompanied by a slice of lettuce. She’d look up from a scone, jam and cream and say “no, I can have this because I’ve just had my piece of lettuce.” [I think it helps to have a grasp of calorific values before commencing a diet!] One thing I miss is cupcakes. I love cupcakes. Every now and again I have one as a treat, and it feels like having the first decent meal in a concentration camp. I only hope I stick to my diet and don’t fall off the wagon. I fear that Peter Rabbit [him indoors] has already fallen off [someone is eating the Christmas cake!]

SOMETHING ABOUT A PIE: This week I bought the ‘Hairy Biker’s’ book on pies from a charity shop. It was almost pristine, and full of innovative pie recipes. I like to take a recipe book up to bed, but it makes me feel hungry. I have to get up and make some toast. There is something about the crimped circumference of a pie that invites hospitality, probably its continuity. Its reputation and it’s shape, is as unwavering as the moon or the clock in the hall. A circle is so friendly. As long as the ingredients are compatible, we can put almost anything in a pie can’t we, and of course apple pie is always a deal maker. Covering a pie with a layer of shortcrust is like wrapping it in a rug and bedding it down for the night. No wonder it’s so satisfying and soporific, it starts off cosy before it even gets to the oven. A pie is an expression of forethought and regard. Sitting around an apple pie reminds me of the Walton’s. Do you remember the Waltons on TV? We still call out ‘Goodnight John Boy’, ‘ Goodnight Mary Ellen’ occasionally as a joke. It’s become a cliché. I like it when on occasions the family stay, and we call out goodnight from different rooms. Just that one word says “Love ya lots, but this is my lone-time, I’m closing the door on the day!”

KITCHENALIA: I can’t resist buying handy paring knives. Just when I want to peel a turnip, the best ones are in the dishwasher. Thank goodness I’m never searched by the police because I often buy one at a flea market and pop it into my handbag. It’s the whole ‘kitchen drawer syndrome isn’t it [a love of natty utensils] I got a garlic press for Christmas which pleased me no end, but we need such things don’t we, it’s amazing what a conglomeration of things become suddenly necessary when we’ve watched an episode of Master Chef. I feel a sense of completion when I look in my kitchen drawer, fifty years- worth of items, some I may only need once in a while, but they are there at least, waiting patiently for a chance to be used. I have more spatulas than I have posh frocks, but there is something endearing about utensils, something which says we are in a proper home, rather than just living quarters [I find I can trust a person who owns an egg-slice] I tried doing a Jamie Oliver, smashing a garlic clove with my hand, it was agony. How does he do it without needing a crepe bandage? How on earth I’ve lived to be a pensioner without a garlic press I’ll never know!