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covering the vale like the dew
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Readers will know that that the fabulous series of up to date reports in last week's B.V. were all from PBC and the pen of Debby (we think) with an
assist from the ESW.

The citation reads, "These pieces of crisp reportage show an uncanny insight into hamlet life and bring to the fore the writer's gentle and
humourous ability to record the bizarre goings on in Blissford. We especially liked the wry twist to the article Pheasant Plucker".

As a result of winning this fabulous honour, Debbie is now entitled to move on any B.V. awards that may have accumulated at PBC a year early!

Correspondant of the Month is entitled to move the B.V. awards to any other neighbour without notice.

"I think neighbours who have failed to put pen to ink may be busy this week-end" said the Editor, "This kind of thing acts like a snowball, and
eventually anyone who has not submitted an article will need to hire a barn to store the awards that accumulate."
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All was revealed in the Sunday Telegraph (8.2.04). There were photos of both brothers and the sad explanation of how Bert was basically too timid to and check if grumpy brother Ted was okay.

³Ted used to like a good old snore and I just left him to it. I think I left him to it a bit too long,²explained Herbert Silver.

³The man who shared a home for his dead brother for 18 months says he is Œnot bonkers¹ and has just been misunderstood² according to Charlotte
Edwardes¹ article.

This is a further example of how odd people in the parish of Godshill consistently claim to be living in Blissford when they misbehave. Hopefully
this is matter our Parish councillors can address.

A simple sign reading " You are now entering Blissford" at both ends of the hamlet would assist, perhaps replacing those marked "Ford" which is
misleading for anyone lost, or unfamiliar with the Parish boundaries.
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Celtic Music Night - on soon!
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Almost a quarter of the flock of runner ducks (1) at Brook Farm have been despatched by predators this week. Presumably the Vixen in Ann's
toboggan field is getting ready for another spring litter.
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It looks like an outflow pipe at Brook Farm has failed and though draining nicely, we are looking for someone responsible to come in and dig
up the pipe and replace it. Anyone with happy tales of firms other than Whitehorse please let us know.
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Written by CBC News Online staff

EDMONTON - Conventional wisdom says we should drink eight glasses of water a day. A new nutrition report turns the advice on its head, saying our taste for salt is a greater problem.

In what is billed as the definitive report on human hydration, panelists at the Institute of Medicine in Washington and Health Canada concluded
common sense and human instinct are all it takes to keep the body's fluid levels topped up.

The independent institute sets nutrition recommendations. The nutrition, pediatrics and geriatrics experts concluded the average woman requires
about 2.7 litres of fluid a day and men need 3.7 litres.

The fluid doesn't all have to come in form of water. Milk, juice and soup all add up, and even a cold beer or caffeinated coffee count.

The belief that beer or coffee draw fluid from the body is mostly a myth, according to University of Alberta physiology Prof. Susan
Jacobs-Kaufman.

"It has very, very little if any diuretic effect," said Jacobs-Kaufman.

"Overall, you're still gaining fluid for it to go back out of the kidney ultimately."

People should let their thirst guide them, the panel concluded. Drink more when physically active or in the heat.

While Canadians don't have to worry about downing glass after glass of water, table salt is a problem. The report says North Americans consume far too much salt, mostly from processed foods. It suggests we should cut salt consumption in half, and then some.

Right now, North Americans consume about 4,000 milligrams of salt a day, about two heaping teaspoons. The old guideline suggested 2,400 milligrams, and the new one cuts it to 1,500 mg a day.

To put the levels in perspective, one bowl of chicken noodle soup contains 900 milligrams of salt ­ 60 per cent of the recommended daily
limit.

Too much salt causes blood pressure to rise. Lower blood pressure lowers the risk of suffering heart attacks, strokes and kidney disease.

The 1,500-mg salt level is for healthy, younger adults. Because blood pressure raises with age, the report says people over 50 should strive for
1,300 mg and the recommended limit for those over 70 is 1,200 mg.

To that end, the panel also recommended Americans should eat much more potassium, which helps lower blood pressure and reduces the risk of kidney stones and bone loss. Bananas, spinach, cantaloupe and other fruits and vegetables contain potassium.
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When the time had come and they¹d finally been able to consider leaving London, every member of the family had been allowed to set priorities. The boys decided on a dog, climbing trees, water, places to dig and separate bedrooms. The last was certainly understandable. In the narrow London terraced house, the boys had been stacked in one room, much like 747s over Heathrow and the inevitable smell and mess had been overwhelming.

He had wanted outbuildings: a garage, a tool shed, and a stable block. She suspected he had little, if any idea what he¹d do with any of them when he had them, but it didn¹t matter.

She dreamed too. Condemned to life in a house full of men, and now enjoying the further company of a male Labrador and its detritus; she¹d long
ago given up any hope of decorating, much less stencilling, dragging, colour washing or stippling. After all it was a full time job just hoovering,
cooking and doing the laundry...

The glossy magazines, a warming repository of dreams, lay well read, stacked in every nook and cranny and sacrosanct. She¹d set her heart on
something solid, indestructible and enduring in the new house. She wanted an Aga and a new kitchen.

It was to be the centre of the home; warm and comforting, a true constant in a home full of dog hair, welly boots, wet clothes and wet males.

They had looked amused and condescending. What an eccentric choice! Surely a cooker was just cooker. Quietly, he mused about the oddity of
wanting something that weighed several tons and had no controls or lights. Agas did not even have a confusing timer; but it seemed harmless enough in the light of the copious file of clippings, fripperies and photos she kept in her hope chest.

They were lucky. After two years of camping in a cramped but idyllic cottage on the edge of an enormous farming and hunting estate, and two years of relentless searching, admiring, despairing and pining for Agas, she found it.

The Aga wasn¹t perfect, mind you. It was old, very old, and settled in the corner of the tired kitchen.

It looked more like a pile of discarded heavy machinery than a cooker. More seriously, it was in quite an offensive light baby blue. But it was an
Aga, it was operational, and it was in the kitchen. Eventually, the house was theirs.

He smiled. That was her sorted. In a discussion about house hunting with an old family friend, there had been talk of distant relative who had
insisted on having an Aga on her yacht. On reflection, it seemed such a good idea for a yacht. Great ballast, always hot, no naked flame and ever
reliable. In the deep heat of that first summer, a sultry June with insects buzzing lazily in and out of the gaping windows, it had meant a temperature
of well over eighty degrees in the kitchen of the new, dream home in the late Victorian cottage.

In contrast, the first winter had been hard. The house, a farm-house with some fairly hideous 50s additions, nestled in a little frost pocket
without double glazing or a particularly efficient boiler. The line from the enormous and leaking ancient oil tank to the Aga had frozen on a number of inconvenient occasions and the resulting learning curve had been a steep one.

Fully operational, and an expensive new oil tank later, the Aga had been full of quirks. It quickly produced yards of crisp oven chips but could
odourlessly reduce a pound of sausages to tiny blackened squibs if neglected. It was often a day or two before the charcoal remains were
discovered, looking like a row of miniature Egyptian mummies. Experience dictated the purchase of a timer.

Cakes were difficult too, sometimes overcooked one side and liquid the other. It was all a matter of experience, she bravely told herself. It had
been a disappointment too, when she discovered the colour, by now quite offensive, couldn¹t be altered.

However, if not fully deserving of its sobriquet of ³the Volvo of the kitchen¹ it was splendid as a red wine warmer and tea towel dryer, and like
the Swedish Scout motto, ³Var redo² (always ready), though always ready to do quite what was sometimes a problem.

( to be cont¹d next week)
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Debbie, Chicken Supremo in Chrissy and Kate's absence, slid down to HH last Thursday morning after the snow. Two excited dogs were an additional hazard. The bowls of water were comprehensively frozen, and work to break the ice resulted in a broken container. The outside tap was also frozen and the one at KIngfisher Cottage proved impossible to turn on, possibly for the same reason. Undeterred, Debbie, and dogs, waded down to the stream to fill buckets. The return journey to Boonoo was enlivened by dogs on leads on ice whilst carrying heavy buckets filled with very cold water. Chooks continue to lay and those signed up should continue to collect. Any other villagers sans oeufs (just practising!) may also eggstract them from the green box in the garden of KC. They are truly eggcellent.
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This week the original Blissford baby celebrated!
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It's been a quiet couple of weeks in Blissford. After the excitement of Anne's 'not the Turner Prize' installation, came the removal of The Car.
Monday morning and a knock on the door at Postbox Cottage. Debbie was informed that the car was being removed for scrap. That evening, another knock at the door and The Car owner's brother was asking if we knew anything about its removal.

The men who had removed the Turner Prize nomination, were had returned at midday, to take away The Car, only to find that it had already gone. All was confusion and mystery.
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