What's Cooking?

The farmer went to bed early with a cold. He never complains. He keeps going, no matter how poorly he feels. The sheep have to be fed and feed has to be prepared which, as we mix our own, means a long drawn-out job. It is cheaper even though a little less convenient. I realised I would have to make a fast recovery when he came in through the back door, red eyed and exhausted. A quick sandwich was made and devoured before he struggled up to the spare bedroom to get into bed, still thinking of others as he finally gave in. I tried hard to keep Amy quiet. It isn't easy telling a hyperactive child to shush or be quiet. Her softer approach to the spoken word is still somewhat louder than normal which meant us staying downstairs until bathtime. My quietly's and not-so-loud's didn't really cut the cloth but there were no complaints from the spare room.

Every night, apart from lambing time when the farmer is in bed between the hours of 7pm-11pm (another story for another blog), I see to the dogs, taking them out for their bedtime wee, fluffing up their baskets, making them a hot milky drink, the usual routine. I went to bed myself at 10pm. I like to sit up in bed each night, watching the television. I have a collection of sitcoms on DVD which I adore; To The Manor Born, The Thin Blue Line, One Foot in the Grave. I watch them over and over again and never tire, a little autistic trait in me I suspect.

After kissing the dogs goodnight and making myself a drink to take upstairs, I went on my way turning the lights out and closing the boot room door, remembering not to close the kitchen door in case the cat wanted a midnight snack. My warm cosy bed awaited. Pink fluffy dressing gown and red flannelette pyjamas hugged my skin as I covered myself up with the duvet and switched on the DVD player. Currently watching To The Manor Born Series 2, I pressed play on the remote control and settled back against the pillows.

Within five minutes into the episode, I heard a dog bark. Sparky to be precise. She has a much higher pitched bark than Molly and a tendancy to bark at anyone who comes to the door. She is an excellent guard dog and we always know that someone is about when she barks from the boot room. Pausing Penelope Keith in full flow, I pulled back the duvet and reluctanctly made my way downstairs, a little anxious that someone should be at our back door at five past ten at night and I was dressed in my pink fluffy dressing gown. I had not heard any car draw up outside yet Sparky continued to bark, not aggressively, but what I would call, intermittently. I was quite sure there was no one at the door as I entered the kitchen, switching the light on and extinguishing the odd shaped shadows.

I went through the kitchen and into the boot room. Both dogs looked up at me, confused as to why I had disturbed their longed-for rest. There was no sign of anyone at the door, thank goodness, nor was there any reason for Sparky to have barked. Her head, gently resting against the cushion in the basket, stayed where it was. Molly barely opened her eyes. I left them in peace. But just before going back through the kitchen, I decided to walk past the oven. I did not need anything from that side of the room yet something pulled me towards it, as though reminding me of something that needed to be done.

As I walked towards the oven, I felt a sudden warmth around my hand, gliding it over the ceramic hob. I had carelessly left one of the front rings on, just low, but enough for me to have realised as I almost touched the top. Switching it off I smiled and looked at the door which leads to the boot room. The shadow disappeared as I thanked him for reminding me to turn off the oven before going to bed. One of his favourite bone-picking moments with me when I first did it a few years ago and he, typically, was first to realise. This time, however, he made sure I came downstairs.