Shelf Stacking

Tess Kincaid's MAGPIE No. 106

Andy,

if I've told you once,

I've told you a HUNDRED times before:

ALL TINS

must be the RIGHT way up!

See that one on the top shelf?

Well then, DO something about it!

And never mind about being distracted by your art,

you can concentrate on THAT

in your OWN time.

The Woes Of Spring

If the waist band pinches, don't get rid of the trousers, get rid of the inches.

I wish I would listen to myself sometimes. I keep having all these brilliant ideas; do I put them into practice? Stupid question.

I've just had some pasta for lunch - lethal - , and what's even worse, a strip of chocolate for pudding.  It's been a long and boring winter, spent mainly in an easy chair, reading, or in front of my computer, either composing my magnum opus, or doing whatever we think we're doing in the blogoverse.  Even the dog's been in on the conspiracy to fatten me up: he's getting too old and arthritic for long walks and, after half an hour struggling through the mud, he looks at me as if to say, thanks for coming out, but how about going back now? He's very polite that way. There are the ramblers, peramblers and amblers (true, all three groups exist in Valley's End), but I can't see myself stumbling along and remaining civilised and sociable at the same time.

I have a large walk-in wardrobe, well, actually it is a long, slopey-ceilinged space under the roof, running along a massive bedroom, with two wide double doors. The lady who built this house was keen on providing her loving sons and daughters and their assorted children with enough space upstairs to keep them there during visits, while she was free to indulge her passion for bossing the village around downstairs. It made a mess of the house, but gave me enough room to keep my vast collection of shoes and clothes, saved for decades, most of it on the off-chance that the time will come, when a) the stuff becomes fashionable again, and b) that I'll actually be able to get into it at such time. Only about 20% of the clothes hanging on the rails fit me easily, all the rest is surplus to current requirements. Five kilos would do it, but where am I going to get the willpower to shed five kilos? The situation is depressing enough to make me reach for another strip of chocolate.

Chocolate and wine have been my solace ever since I've allowed myself to be locked away in the depths of inaccessible countryside. For heaven's sake, this is practically Wales! Chocolate is absolutely essential to my survival. As chocolate is also addictive, I cannot be blamed for my cravings. Or so I thought until very recently, when some misguided scientists, in the name of the advancement of human misery, proved conclusively, that chocolate is no more addictive than a cup of tea. It seems that the bit of the brain which lights up when you eat a piece of chocolate, also lights up, in exactly the same way, when you are THINKING about eating a piece of chocolate. If ever there was a research project which should have been stifled at birth, it is this.

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. In my distant catholic past, priests and nuns at school made sure that we didn't indulge ourselves. I was a sickly child, so I was allowed protein in the form of meat, but sweets were forbidden on pain of eternal hell fire and brimstone baths. A lot of people hang their need for a reducing diet on the Lent hook, maybe I could join them. On the other hand, the compost heaps need turning and there's a lot of work coming up in the garden. But I am NOT going to keep anybody informed about my success or otherwise. Should I, however, in some future post, mention that I am looking forward to a clothes-shopping-expedition, you may draw your own conclusions. Either way, of course.

February Miscellany: of Feet; What People Have Said to Me; and the Nuisance of Blogger's Word Verification.

Ciclo dei Mesi

February

In last February's Miscellany I already described the abhorrent character and fate of  those unfortunates born under Pisces, so I won't repeat myself here. It remains for me to say that there is need to observe the feet, which are governed by Pisces.

The feet short and thick, signifies a person to be weak; slender and short, to be wicked; fleshy and hard, to be a blockhead. The feet small and fair-formed, to be a fornicator; much hairy, to be lecherous and bold; naked of hair, to be weak of strength and courage; the inner part of the sole, not hollow, but filled with flesh, that they make no hollowness in the step, to be beyond measure crafty and cunning.

The Shepherd's Prognostication 1729

o-o-o-o-o-o

What people have said to me in the last three weeks:

o-o

Oh, hello, it's you. I didn't recognise you without your dog. How are you?

o-o

I really liked your article in the Magazine. I didn't know you were as old as that.

o-o

You're looking a lot better than the last time I saw you.

 o-o

I've remembered about your milk allergy, so I've made a spinach and cheese starter. You can eat cheese, can't you?

o-o

See? I told you (to a third party), she always says what she means.

o-o

o-o-o-o-o-o

The new, fuzzy and complicated  word verification which Blogger has forced on those of us who use it in their comments, is driving me mad. I simply do not have the time to spend extra minutes each time I make a comment on deciphering illegible phrases. Personally, I have removed it by going back to the old interface, choosing 'settings' -  'comments' - 'show word verification'. Saving the settings and going back to the new interface completed the process.To stop advertising vandals leaving comments long after the posts have disappeared into the netherworld of blogging, I have set comment moderation to start after four days. So far, I have not had any unwanted comments or obnoxious ads.

I am very sorry, but I simply will not comment as frequently as before on those blogs which use the new word verification, even comment moderation is better than that. Squinting and decoding take valuable reading and writing time. I use email comment notification, which means that all comments on my posts appear in my email inbox.  If you have email on your blog rather than 'no-reply blogger', I will be able to comment via email.

Like I said, I am very sorry, but blogging is meant to be fun, not a chore.

Tales From The Olden Days

Tess Kincaid's Magpie 105

Image: epic mahoney

Granny?"

Yes, my dear?

Does that say 'Phone' on the big light thing?

Yes, it does. Aren't you clever to be able to read that.

Why is that man there with his bicycle?

I expect he wants to phone somebody.

Yeees ?  But why is it  such a big box?

So that the person who wants to ring up somebody can get inside. Out of the rain, you know.

But the box is standing all by itself in a field. Wy would they put the box there? 

Perhaps the man doesn't want anybody to hear what he says. 

So, Granny, that man takes his mobile and rides his bike to that big box in the field, miles away from anywhere,  just so that nobody can hear him?  He must be having a big secret.

Why I Don't Post About Politics

In a recent comment Mr. Charleston of Termites Of Sin said that this blog is never controversial because I stay away from politics and religion. I have been thinking about this comment on and off ever since; it's been bothering me. I like Mr. Charleston very much, his blog is, by turns, funny, acerbic and chatty, and always worth reading. He includes posts on religion and politics, although he keeps their number to an acceptable level.

He is quite right, I do stay away from politics. The thing is that many of my readers are American and Canadian, there are those lovely Aussies too, and a few Europeans sprinkled among the mix. My UK readership is relatively small. I don't know why that should be so, but it is. So whose politics would I discuss? Religion and Politics are not subjects for discussion in drawing rooms in the UK. They are shunned by polite society because they easily cause discord, anger, hurt and leave an unpleasant feeling in the atmosphere, unless all participants are of the same opinion, in which case it's hardly necessary to bring the subjects up. I was brought up in a politically highly charged environment, listening to the men in the family dissecting politicians when I was knee-high to a grasshopper. Politics is in my blood. I worked in politics and liked nothing better than to continue the family tradition of riding the politics hobby-horse.

But now I am older. I still have opinions, but they have mellowed; I am one of these infuriating people who 'can see both sides of an argument', although that doesn't mean that I will ever get into bed with bigots or fascists or extremists. I'd call myself a left-leaning middle-of-the-roader, I suppose. My firebrand grandfather would disown me, although he, towards the end of life, regretted having risked his life for people who turned out to be "idiot ingrates, who deserved no better than they got", in his words.

In the blogoverse there are plenty of specialist political bloggers, who address a very particular readership. I don't follow any of them. I am simply not interested. Friko's World is a kind of butterfly blog, touching on this and that, never staying anywhere for long and never getting bogged down in any subject. A bit shallow, you might say, but also inoffensive.

This is my point: if I started to discuss politics I'd have to keep my remarks pretty neutral. Even if I watch some American politics, in particular foreign policy, with open-mouthed incredulity, no American citizen would thank me for expressing my opinion. And no American citizen, no Brit or European, no Aussie or South African, no Indian or Asian would thank me for 'interfering' in matters which 'are none of your business'. I see it a bit like a family, which denounces its own black sheep at every gathering, but is instantly ready to rip to shreds the outsider who dares to join in! We may live in a global village, where every action has repercussions for every inhabitant, but we still close ranks if the family next door mentions the stink coming from our kitchen.

If ever I feel really brave, I might mention why I don't discuss religion.

Valentine For My Husband

Being the first up, I softly close your door,
and creep downstairs,
dog at my heels, panting for attention.
The day is overcast,
church tower, meadows and hills beyond,
shrouded in morning mist,
loom at me through the window,

I feed the dog,
and put the kettle on.
Two teapots stand ready,
fennel for me, builder's for you.
Two of everything,
bowls, cups, spoons,
one jug of milk,
one jug of orange juice, two glasses.
Gently exploding oatmeal hissing
in its pot upon the stove.

Headlines scream of death and discord,
a people bleeding in the name of God;
warring factions proclaim the justice of their cause.
Freedom and what to do with it,
if only we knew the way.
Peace a distant dream,
fervently prayed for, rarely achieved.

Your tread upon the stairs,
announces your descent.
a dog's tail thumps the floor in ecstasy.
The kitchen, warm and welcoming,
the table waiting for the two of us.
I turn my my head towards you,

look into your face,
we smile.
You run your hand over my shoulder.
'Good morning love',  'Good morning'.

A shaft of sunlight breaks the gloom.
The day begins.

The Duck

You see me,
floating
serenely in the current of life,
unruffled, calm,
my quack silent.
A stately galleon.

What you can't see, is that
underneath,
I am paddling like mad,
just to stay afloat.



Angela of Letters from Usedom paid me a lovely compliment the other day. She said "You always sound so well-balanced and contented".  Thank you, Geli, but that duck and I have a lot in common.