Hobbit and Oggiemog

The Lovely Lady down the corridor drove her gorgeous car in to work this week. Meet Oggiemog, a twenty six year old Morgan. Lovely Lady paid £12500 for her ten years ago and because she is a Morgan she’s still worth just as much!

I’m quite keen on the marque myself, I like them because there are limited numbers on the road. I like the idea of ordering something and having to wait years for it to be built, especially for you. If I had one I’d like it to be deep red, but my Hobbit fell for the British Racing Green one belonging to the Lovely Lady. Here he is dreaming of turning her engine on and cruising off to the wilderness.

He’s even wearing the Morgan cap, think it suits him?

By the way, when I asked Lovely Lady her car’s name she said it , IT! clearly it’s female, didn’t have one. So I called her Oggiemog, because that’s what it says on her badge.

And Hobbit, well he isn’t allowed such a lovely beastie because he never, ever cleans his car and it would be a crime not to look after a Morgan.

My Hobbit is my guest!

Most of you are familiar with my friend at work, the lovely Hobbit who I tease so much. Well I invited him to write a guest post for Lucid Gypsy and he said yes! I hope you read and enjoy getting to know him a little, he is a gem!

Silence. Alarm. Silence.

I have been an avid reader of Gypsy’s blog for a while. I was chuffed that the other day, she asked if I would like be a guest blogger.

I’ve been thinking about what to write every day since. It had to be something relevant. It had to be a worthy event to justify someone taking the time to read it. Then I thought – keep it simple. Just write something.

Yesterday I was suffering from a common winter cold.

I struggled through the morning at work before I’d had enough. I negotiated a half day’s holiday. Besides, I wasn’t getting much sympathy at work – ‘Please don’t spread your germs around the office’ were the kindest words of support I was offered. Although I am sure it was meant with a slither of compassion.

Log off computer and shut down. Off I went.

The sensible thing to do would have been to go home, have a hot drink and go to bed. No. I was determined that as the cold weather had largely contributed to my cold, it could at least try its best to offer some sort of consolation. It didn’t disappoint.

There is a remote piece of wilderness on the edge of Exeter that is a favourite haunt of mine. It is a relatively small bundle of fields, trees and streams teeming with wildlife.

I’ve been there a thousand times – a regular visitor since I could barely walk. But yesterday I appreciated it more than usual.

You know that feeling you get when you wake on a Saturday morning, still sleepy, steeling yourself for the day ahead, still thinking its Friday, and a work day? Then comes the mini-euphoric realisation that it’s the weekend – extra minutes to laze in bed. Those extra minutes seem precious.

I hadn’t expected to be visiting my wilderness yesterday. Mini-euphoria.

It was silent and peaceful. The high ground was coated in snow.

The silence was briefly interrupted by the bang of a game-keepers rifle. This set off a sequence of bird alarm calls that sounded ten thousand strong, all shrieking in stereo.

Silence resumed.

The only sound was snow falling to the ground intermittently; its icy grip loosening from the frozen branches above.


Suddenly, a Jay crashes through the branches, barking out it’s disapproval at something in the woods as it flew hurriedly across the field.

The best of all though, arrived with no sound.

I had been walking for about an hour and the weather was biting again. I headed back to the car mindful of the worsening conditions.

I thought I had witnessed the best the afternoon had to offer, until the perfect picture.

The sight of a red fox staring at me in a field covered in snow. He knew I wanted to take his picture.

He posed, almost boastful of his glossy, shiny red coat. I rustled into my bag to grab the camera. I was ready for the picture. Nonchalantly, he turned away and disappeared into a mass of trees and snow.

I must learn to be a sharper shooter. A more sophisticated camera would certainly help.

What could have made my walk better?

Well, I guess it could have been slightly less chilly.

I suppose I could have taken the dog with me.

Maybe two of my equally enthusiastic photographer friends, who share my admiration of the countryside, could have joined me.

But then they would have probably caught my cold – and sympathy would have been even less forthcoming.

Even so, I wish every Thursday afternoon could be like yesterdays.

I would quite happily tolerate a cold each time to make this happen.



A Hobbit Gets Wet

It started today when he arrived with wet hair and his shirt stuck to his body. He had nothing to change into, not a dry stitch on him. The white fabric was transparent when pulled away from his skin. Tiny waterfalls of rain ran down to the triangle at his throat, which was red from cold burn. He shuddered as fingers stroked hair from forehead to nape. Shoes kicked away and then socks peeled to lie in a heap ‘to dry’ he murmured, still breathy from his run. ‘You need a hot drink’ I said. ‘No no, but I’d like to take my clothes off, have a hot bath.’ I daydream for a moment; this reminds me of a film, something DH Lawrencey, starring some long gone actor.

You thought this was going to be rude didn’t you? Come on fess up!

Sorry, this is what really happened!

There’s a cute hobbit at the desk next to me and I’m his Auntiegee, the crazy Polish woman is his sis and for the last year we have been trying to educate him. Nothing too demanding, no nuclear physics, God particle or even how to tell a debit from a credit. No, just the simple things like eating three meals a day, not just one at nine pm, and how to not get lost on a five minute walk to Heavitree. And then there’s wearing a coat when it’s cold or a monsoon like this morning. He did have a coat, but he left it behind when he left his last flat, in a hurry because the bailiffs said he should. I’m glad he left it, quite frankly if I put it my dog’s bed they would wonder why I was punishing them. And anyway that was five months ago, before autumn and winter. Crazy PW, a couple other colleagues and I have tried to direct him towards a shop – even the charity shop across the car park to buy a coat but he pleads poverty. We know he’s not poor; his Christmas gift was money that’s been swept away by his current obsession, he’s dabbling in the stock market. When asked what shares he is buying he says ‘can’t tell you, it’s classified, if I did I’d have to kill you.’ He always tells me because he knows I’ll kill him if he doesn’t.

He has said before that there’s’ probably a waxed jacket somewhere at home – but that it would probably smell of dog. Like his car. That causes me to have an asthma attack whenever I’m within three feet of it.

We were actually really concerned for him today because he’s had a cold virus thing for ten days, so sitting around in wet clothes has got to be bad news. Our nagging was reinforced through the morning by relentless rain and so at lunch he went shopping. He doesn’t like shopping alone, and the day before he had a Christmas party, I went with him and successfully chose his clothes in ten minutes. I was too busy to go this time and anyway we have to let them go sometimes don’t we?

He went, and returned hugely proud, with a rain jacket-fleecy thing, at twenty quid a huge investment in his own well being. Now if we can just get him to invest in some shoes so that he doesn’t take them off, glue them and press them under the table leg behind me we could be making progress!

That’s my hobbit.