Well, Posset, the Buff Sussex hen, is still moulty-looking, but otherwise in good cheer, I think. She has spent the weekend staging random escape attempts, and looks most miffed now, having discovered some new wire which prevents her egress. Yesterday I really thought Wixon, now a boisterous fourteen-month cat instead of the ridiculously fluffly little kitten we rescued last November, was going to have a go at her – she is looking rather diminished since losing featherage here and there – but I shouldn’t have worried: one squawk from a slightly manky-looking hen and Wixon, slayer of bears, dragons and giant monsters*, turned tail and ran. He is so pathetic. But of course I’d rather have him that way, where hens are concerned.

In other news, the only problem with wood-fired heating being your only source of heat is that you have, in our case, to arse around traipsing up the garden (normally in the pitch black, for an added sense of adventure) clasping a basket which is large enough to be fucking heavy when full, but small enough for its contents to disappear up the chimney with woeful rapidity, wearing someone else’s wellies (normally too large or just that bit too small, so that your feet either rub or freeze), and sliding around on the heavy frost that is appearing most nights at the moment. Then you have to exercise a few skills of which a contortionist might be proud – our ad-hoc wood shelter (built because we need to sort out listed building consent, and possibly planning permission, for the more permanent solution we have in mind – a lean-to on the opposite side of the witchery from the new extension, with a timber frame, an earth plaster finish and probably a slate roof) is a rather unusual shape, and, frankly, looks like a drunk erected it in the middle of the night, with one hand tied behind his back, in a howling gale. But hey – if it works, don’t knock it. No, really – don’t knock it: it might fall down.

And mincemeat. Now. This year. Chrimbly and all that. Hum. On a Baby Belling cooker, which works thusly: oven on – only the small ring works. Grill on – neither ring works. On occasion, the larger ring has been known to trip the circuits in the extension, and a few weeks back the bottom element of the oven just spontaneously crapped out, only to return somewhat sheepishly some time later. So, this could prove quite a challenge to my baking skills, and lordy, I do like to bake. (Baking is my general tactic for avoiding feelings of misery of any sort – it works so well, and at the end of it, not only has one been productive, but one gets to pig down the fruits of one’s labours.) This year, as I’m still PhDing (will it never end?), I’m having to be a bit restrained in the ol’ kitchen intentions. I think I’m going to make Doc Witch‘s solstice cake, and I’d really like to make some more damson mincemeat (based on Delia’s recipe, I just added shedloads of damsons left over from making damson brandy; it certainly had something of a kick, shall we say), and some of Turquoise Lisa‘s gorgeous jewel biscuits. Oh, and probably an apple and mincemeat pie or seven. Oh, and we’re thinking of taking the veggie route for our Chrimbly feast this year – neither of us is particularly attached to the poultry version, and both Quercus and I feel a little shifty eating someone who might just be Posset’s great neice seven times removed. So, mushroom pie? The omnipresent nut loaf? Suggestions, anyone?

* This may in fact be a lie.