Something To Take My Mind Off

       and away from the way of the world as it is now. I have said it many times, I am not one like Monty Python to "always look on the bright side of life". That would leave me nothing to grumble about and I do like a good old rant. Yet, even an old grump like me has favourite things. Here are a few of them:

I do love beautiful things, even more than beautiful people. Beautiful people are not always beautiful on the outside.

Books, which look and feel precious.

Sparkling cut glass and delicate china.

Chunky pottery items, bowls and mugs and vases.

The sound of Beethoven.

My pets.

The scent of lilac blossom and the scent and sight of a spray of mimosa.

Getting dirty digging about in the soil.

Lovely soft natural textures, wool, silk and cool, crisp linen. 

Embroidery and tapestry, home crafted.

Good quality writing paper and proper, old-fashioned, fountain pens. Receiving and writing hand written letters.

Thoughtful greetings, thank-you and keeping-in-touch cards.

A hot cup of soup coming back from a long winter walk.

Swimming, gently floating, turning, stretching, then, in a flurry of speed, reach the side of the pool,  terra firma, a boat moored in a bay, the bank of a river.

My bed after changing the sheets and straight after a luxurious bath.

Candlelight.

Fresh brown bread.

Walking along the seafront in a stiff breeze with the spray foaming up high on the promenade.

I could go on. Something this exercise has taught me: I am not as grumpy as I thought I would be but I do show my age. Fountain pens, indeed. Maybe I'll start a gratitude journal. Many students of human nature and the human psyche recommend doing it during rough times. 

Wouldn’t you know, Man proposes

and God disposes. Whether it’s God, Fate or more likely, Sod’s Law*, sometimes you just cannot get past the obstacles in your way.

It takes me a great effort nowadays to motivate myself to drive to Ludlow, my county town, for a bit of comfort shopping and running a few errands. I was going to pop into a supermarket on the way for an urgently needed large bag of oats for my homemade muesli and a few self-indulgent goodies at the Ludlow Farmshop like posh pies and pickled herring. In Ludlow itself the Chocolate Gourmet was beckoning, as well as more mundane shops. So, there I was, having tricked Millie into submission (i.e. not queuing at the front door to be taken along) by generously sliding a few biscuits towards her in the kitchen and set off. I got as far as the cattle grid to the road when the knocking started, a hard knocking sound, getting louder and more insistent as I accelerated. Knowing nothing at all about the innards of cars I tend to get scared quickly. By the time I reached the outskirts of Valley’s End, less than a mile from home, the knocking was freaking me out and, after having stopped at the surgery to drop off a prescription for my next batch of medication, I turned tail and car and made for home again. I rang the mechanic. No reply. No call back. I imagine he’s on holiday. The car has sat in front of the house ever since Monday morning a week ago. I will try to get hold of him tomorrow.

The weather had been rather good the latter part of last week. Saturday, I decided to do a couple of weeks’ wash, there just isn’t enough to do a full load of anything per week now. Three loads I collected, bedding, towels, smalls, etc., dark and lights, which I wash separately. I don’t own a dryer, I prefer an outside line. I had just put the first two loads out on the whirlywizzer (rotary washing line) when clouds came up. By the time the third load was rinsing the rain started in earnest; I rushed to take everything down again and loaded several freestanding indoor dryers which I set up in the conservatory. Botheration! Had I known the outcome I’d never have attempted three loads.

You know that Millie is very old and now she has become incontinent. Up to very recently she has slept in my bedroom at night; again, until recently, she managed to wake me in time to rush downstairs and let her out. Several times lately she has not managed to get out in time and presented me with the signs of her incontinence. Dog poo, in other words. Dog poo on the carpet, a heck of a job to remove and clean. It got so bad that I kept waking up in fear of her needing to get out and me not realising in time, hardly sleeping at all. So then I decided that she had better stay downstairs at night, shut in kitchen and scullery, two fair-sized rooms with hard floors, quite sufficient for a sleeping dog. She had her bed. She didn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she is just too confused. All was fine for a few days and then, bingo, lots of presents in both rooms, from tiny little spatters to solid matter. (Too much information?) So now I spend the first half hour of every day picking up, disinfecting and washing the floors. It’s not as if she didn’t have the opportunity to go out in the evening, the back door is wide open until I go to bed at 11 or later. She’s fine and continent during the day, why not at night? I think I may have to leave the door open all night during the warm weather. Poor sweet Millie, she is still such a darling, she can’t help it. I cannot bring myself to do anything drastic just yet but my ideas on how to deal with this problem have dried up. If only she would dry up too.


*Sod’s Law is the axiom that “if something can go wrong, it will", with the further addendum, in British culture, borrowed from Finagle's law, that it will happen at "the worst possible time". This may simply be construed, again in British culture, as "hope for the best, expect the worst"

Miscellany, or This and That, if you prefer

Aconites

 Hellebores

 closed crocuses

 jonquils

 open crocuses

all pretending it’s spring. The last few days have been sunny and much milder than normal. Is climate change showing its claws?;  maybe we are going to pay for the sudden display of nature’s kinder side in March. It was pleasant enough this morning for me to grab the secateurs and chop back some spent perennials. I must ring old gardener and ask him to come and restart our gardening year. Something to look forward to. The sun has brought out my own sunnier side; a frequent first thought on waking is : why get up, there’s no one to care and nothing to do : but then Millie starts scrabbling on the carpetless floors, I shout at her furiously - she can’t hear me, being completely deaf now - and the day has begun in earnest.

0-0-0-0-0

I believe I have grown up; many years ago I bought Diana Athill’s “Instead of a Letter” in hardback, it may even have been a first edition. She died not long ago, at age 101. The blurb on the original flyleaf said that Athill had “written this autobiography in order to discover the truth about herself and about what her life has been for. Her book is uncompromisingly honest. Yet although she discusses with unusual frankness matters not usually discussed by conventionally reared daughters of British colonels, she is never embarrassing because nothing embarrasses her.” Why I did not appreciate this frank and honest account of her privileged childhood,  falling deeply in love at an early age, before being jilted by her lover, mystifies me. I still remember exactly the space on my bookshelves where her memoir sat, yet I must have given it away decades ago. The other day I searched for it in vain, having read several others of her memoirs since and loved all of them. So I ordered “Instead of a Letter” from Blackwell’s in Oxford and instantly fell in love with this classic of modern memoir finally, and for the first time. 

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My study is all finished now, the computer is downstairs, books and music and TV have been installed. Instead of climbing upstairs  I can now get to my computer more easily and it’s more fun to sit and type, for short periods of time, unplanned and unhurried. My painter, who is also a friend, was looking over my shoulder during a break and asked what I was doing. “Tinkering with my blog”, I said. “Blog? What’s a blog”. I explained and he came up with this remark: “So, this how it is, a man in a shed, a lady at a keyboard.” I couldn’t have said it better myself. The problem is that he is now one of the few people in Valley’s End who know, but I shan’t let it cramp my style.

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A bit of housekeeping to finish, Google no longer lets me comment on Google+ blogs. Sorry, Google+ bloggers who visit here.

It’s Official, I’m Old

Opening the five-bar gate from the field into the castle ground to take Millie for a much truncated walk on one of these very cold afternoons we’ve been having recently I heard what sounded like a whole school class of small children, all chattering at the tops of their voices. I was wondering what the teacher could be thinking of to bring them out into the bitter wind of the shelterless castle grounds on such a day. Small children without diligent supervision are notorious for leaving their coats unbuttoned and losing gloves and hats.

I slid the gate catch back into its groove, turned round and started the climb up the hill, Millie preceding me at her very sedate pace. At the same time the ‘school class’ appeared on the path at right angles above me, i.e., one mum holding the hand of a very small child, one small and very lively spaniel, and a curly-haired, blond cherub bombing along ahead, perhaps between three and four years old. It was he who was making the racket. His treble pierced my eardrums. He saw Millie and a high-pitched squeal greeted her dignified presence.

“O look Mum, another dog. It must be really old. And there’s a lady with him. She's really old too.” That was me assessed, judged and dismissed, all in the space of seconds. The castle called. But did he have to be quite as sharp-eyed as he was? After all, I was wrapped in a Michelin man coat and furred hood and almost invisible.

Mum turned and giggled with embarrassment.

Out of the mouths of babes comes wisdom and truth.

Who Cares

except me,

that the grass in the lower field, where Millie and I walk daily, is finally being cut and I can actually see her again  rather than just follow a movement in the grass,

and that a nice farmer is turning the rows to dry them prior to baling the hay, all out of the kindness of his heart - I really can’t see the Duke of Norfolk, who owns the land, paying to have it cut - and for the sake of the village carnival at the beginning of August,

and that the garden is a perfect wilderness and my despair, but that Paul is back and is hard at work cutting hedges and trimming shrubs and that he and I are planning to dig up lots of herbaceous plants this autumn and replace them with shrubs to lighten the load for future years,

and that after a very hot period today was actually made quite pleasant by the addition of a few clouds but that a heatwave (i.e. nasty and sticky weather with thunderstorms) is forecast for the weekend, and that that means that I will once again have to disappear from view and hide behind a book and a tall, cool drink,

and that I’ve been to a vernissage and bought a couple of water colours for which I have yet to find the most suitable space in the house,

and that WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS,

Image Source: Sticky Wallpapers

although, come to think of it, there may well be a few million other people who do care about the latter. I sat up half the night watching the celebrations on German TV, wishing myself to be part of it. And I’m not even a football fan. (I lost a follower the night of Germany v. Brazil;  if you are a Brazilian, I am sorry; 7-1, what on Earth happened?)

It’s been too hot to blog, there’s been Wimbledon, the Football (soccer for you in the US) World Cup, some theatre, an informal party or three, a bit of gardening in early morning and late evening and not a lot else.  Nothing to blog about. I wouldn’t want to admit to reading rubbishy thrillers and very light-weight novels for hours on end, so I won’t mention doing that. Absolutely nothing to blog about.

After all, who cares about other people's boring recital of the banal doings of their daily grind. Just pretend you hadn’t read any of this. Sorry to have been wasting your time.

The Good - The Bad - The Indifferent

Sky over Valley’s End.

It’s been a messy kind of day.

First Beloved came back from giving Millie her short morning run covered in mud. He'd slipped and fallen. “I just lay there for a bit”, he said. Well you would, wouldn’t you. Mud is soft and comfortable, and it wasn’t raining for a change. He was fine, a bit shaken, but no breakages.

In spite of the almost springlike scenes outside I dawdled and dithered. Why can you never trust anyone to do as they say they will? Kelly was due to get back to cleaning after the kids’ half term; I was also hoping that Gardener would turn up. Neither even phoned. Being put out I threw a tantrum and cooked vegetable stew, leaving cleaning and gardening for another day. Everything left in the fridge went into the big stewpot. 

Rule Britannia

After lunch it was my turn to take Millie out. On the whole, Valley’s End is a neat and tidy place. I have often shown pictures of pretty, flower-decked cottages and small terraces. Today, feeling cross, I decided to take one of the grotty fronts. That flag has been blowing in the wind for several years, never managing to hide the broken window pane.

Warning: When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

How do you like my purple  boots? I bought them in December but haven’t worn them much; it’s been too wet and I didn’t want to spoil them. There’s logic. Winter boots to keep the rain off your feet too delicate to be worn. I wonder if they glow in the dark? 

Friko’s cauliflower gratin

Selfies are all the rage, I’m told. So I thought I’d try one. One? More like half a dozen. In all of them my face looks like a cauliflower, deep cracks, fat cheeks and lumps. Like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Or my dad. On my dad the crags looked manly and distinguished. In the end I gave up on the close-ups, and took the ipad to my bedroom mirror.  The lighting’s kind and I’m standing several feet away.  

It’s getting dark outside now and I feel guilty for having wasted a good day’s outdoor work. I’m hoping that adding insult to injury and watching both ’Tatort’ and ‘Inspector George Gently' tonight will make me feel so bad that I’ll never do it again.

Fat chance.

Where was I . . . . .

Anyone for Hopscotch?

Make sure you don’t step on the cracks.

The crops are in, the hay is in, the fields round about look

smooth and neat and tidy, ready for winter sowing.

o-o-o-

Apparently Egypt is a very cheap holiday destination at the moment. I wonder why? 

I had my face scraped and plastered and de-fuzzed this morning and the delightful beautician lady was all in a flutter. “We’re off on holiday”, she said, - dramatic pause - “to Egypt.” As I was recumbent on her treatment couch, my jaw didn’t have far to drop.

“Bryn decided he needed a holiday, right now, somewhere warm and cheap; I haven’t slept ever since he told me.” Helen giggled manically. “A lot of my clients have just come back from Egypt - is the Knighton estate agent getting commission ? - and they’re all saying how wonderful it is at the moment. We’re going nowhere near Cairo, of course. The tourist industry is desperate to get going again and hotels can’t do enough to attract guests.”  Yes, they are taking the kids.

Happy holidays, Helen; tell me about it when you get back. 

o-o-o

Next stop back in England, (Knighton is over the border in Wales) to the little town down the road and the hairdresser’s salon. Once I’ve decided that refurbishment of the outer Friko can no longer be avoided I cram it all into the same day.  I used to have a massage as well, but the resulting palpitations put an end to that. Justine was waiting for me. “You’ve got an IPad”, she trilled after I’d sat down and dug it out of my bag. I usually read while I’m at the hairdresser’s but today we discovered our mutual fascination with all things Apple. Once that subject was exhausted, we talked about dogs; we both love them and like all dog lovers we competed madly and trumped each other’s stories about the intelligence and all-round superiority of “dogs we have owned".  (I know that cat lovers are no different).

o-o-o

And finally:

At the risk of my US readers hating me for ever: hasn’t Downton Abbey gone stupid? or rather, how stupid do the programme makers think we are? Every new strand of story line is hinted at, set up and executed with all the grace and subtlety of a duck dancing Swan Lake.

I Wouldn’t Call It Research, Exactly . . . .

If anybody checked my Google searches they’d either have a fairly detailed picture of me quite quickly or they’d get a headache. With one half of Europe (the populations of the countries involved) disgusted and the other half (the governments of said countries) declaring themselves innocent of all knowledge of nefarious deeds by the NSA/CSS,  I fell to wondering how the secret services tell friend from foe.

I actually googled ‘security services’ and came up with reams of sites and pages and pages of newspaper articles on the recent scandals. Will this curiosity now put me on the list of suspect individuals? I’m probably there already because I carelessly said in a comment that, as far as I’m concerned, whistleblowers like Edward Snowden deserve a prize for bravery.  It beggars belief that vast resources are used to amass, sift, evaluate and store all the rubbish that floats about the world wide web. Every email, tweet, FB update, blogpost, etc. of millions of people is studied electronically.

It’s impossible to put the genie of the internet back in the bottle; whatever would we do without it. Personally, I find the internet a good thing, it is enriching my life quite miraculously. But, having made these remarks electronically, I have the uncomfortable feeling that somebody somewhere might now consider me a threat to national security.

However, be that as it may, my real googling activities are nothing to do with spooks and how they are out to get me, but a lot with cooking, literature, gardening, etymology, birds, plant names and what’s in the news locally.

Here’s a small selection from last week:

Imperial Rome in the 1st Century AD  
Reading a history of the emperors of the period, as well as going to see Shakespeare’s gory play ‘Titus Andronicus’ who is absolutely nothing to do with the historical emperor Titus.

Wasabi Chocolate
I bought a bar, to see ‘what it tastes  like’ . It’s disgusting stuff, I’m going to throw it away.

AM Homes - Who she?
Another book, a novel, “May We Be Forgiven”, for which Homes won the Women’s Fiction Prize.
It’s good but not that good. Too many detours, red herrings, unnecessary paddings.
But worth reading anyway, at times moving and funny and an absolute action packed tour de force.

What are Chinese Lanterns?
There’s been a horrific industrial fire in a recycling warehouse; fire investigators blame a single Chinese lantern seen floating above stacks of packed recycling material on CCTV images. We only knew the horticultural variety of Chinese lanterns which look very pretty but have never been known to cause more than a rash.

Nouns Of Assembly
A breakfast ramble. We were arguing about collective nouns, in particular jackdaws and rooks.  We have hundreds of these noisy, greedy, gregarious birds, at this time of year they bring along their entire families; all my clapping, shouting and beating a pillow with a stick to mimic a shot doesn’t frighten them into leaving.
Jackdaws collectively are known as a train or a clattering, whereas rooks collectively are a building or parliament. I like the phrase  'a murder of crows’ , another member of the genus Corvus.

Etymology of ‘barbecue’
The reason for wanting to know this is easy, we’ve just been to one. There are lots of explanations but the most likely one is that the word originally came from the West Indian “barbacoa” which denotes slow-cooking meat over hot coals.


There you are, all of it totally innocuous and inoffensive, not a search term amongst them which would give a spook cause for a sharp intake of breath. And all thanks to Mr. Google. It would have taken me days to assemble and dig through book information on these subjects.

Now there’s a thought - would that have been more fun?

Parallel . . . .

  . . . . . Parking

at the White Horse Inn.

Sunshine and Showers

For two gloriously sunny days I spent every possible minute outside. Gardener’s ribs settled down and so did my heart, fingers crossed! Many of you must have done just that, so thank you, it worked.  For most of you away from the UK summer is when there is this golden ball high in the sky which distributes warmth and light to all, sinners and saints alike, for months on end. Not here. You all know how Brits like to whinge about the weather, well, there is plenty to whinge about.


An annual spring task is trying to eradicate Welsh poppies. They’re very pretty, popping up all over the place. Unfortunately, they tend to seed themselves everywhere, even into the centre of other plants, which then have to be dug up, divided and freed from the invader.

Gardener is a sensible chap, he stopped after three hours on Saturday and went home. He still managed to make me large quantities of potting compost for tubs and pots, clean out a gutter and repair it, dig up and move a small Japanese acer which was in the wrong place and dig over a couple of small vegetable plots. (The zucchini I planted have already shrivelled a bit. Perhaps the night time temperatures are still too low).

Beloved and I had bought a few plants; I potted some up and planted the rest in the borders. This morning I got going on tender geraniums and fuchsias; as it’s raining again today, and the forecast remains gloomy - naturally - I’m hoping that the temperature will stay above frost from now on.

As I said, it’s raining again, the day has turned miserably grey and Millie and I got wet; our walk was short, no further than down to the river and round the castle. She’s a good dog, she takes herself for little outings in the garden, there’s plenty for her to explore. She’ll get fat though; every time she comes back in she wants - and often gets - a coming-home-biscuits.

The difference between today and yesterday is huge. We sat over our breakfast in the conservatory, doors and windows open, listening to the church bells being rung. First there was the usual test drive of two bells; perhaps the bellringers arrive in an uneven procession and everybody who turns up grabs hold of their rope and starts pulling. Eventually they sort themselves out and the noise begins to make sense; sometimes they even manage a proper peal. Or could that be a recording?

As soon as they stopped, somebody rang a coloured dove. At least, that’s what it sounded like, two notes, one repeated. I was woken by bird song at 4am. On first becoming aware of the noise I thought it was some high pitched electrical hum in the house, but when I’d roused myself sufficiently, the hum turned into a thousand battle cries being flung into the glorious dawn. Why are birds so belligerent?  If they don’t have enough room to live why do they have so many babies? You should see the huge sparrow families fighting over the seed tray. Benefit Scroungers! 

Found

in a letter to the Saturday Guardian Money Pages on 12.01.13

"I’ve given up buying any but the most essential clothes . . . . . . . . . . . because I have no reliable income and we’re trying to pay the bills with two small children. . . . . . . ."

Is that allowed?

Maybe this is not a small stone but it made me laugh out loud.

Mindful Afternoon, Poetry and Copyright

It’s been one of those absolutely filthy afternoons outside, the heavens just couldn’t decide whether to snow or rain on us; Millie and I trudged through mud and slush, in vain hoping for a doggie friend to appear to lighten the load. So what could be better than coming home to a hot cup of tea, some left-over Christmas biscuits and a pile of poetry books. Sheer bliss.

The above is offered as a not very challenging small stone for the Mindful Writing Challenge which has reminded me to lay something else before you, namely the question of publishing other people’s poetry on a blog. Lots of us do it. Recently two friends, one of whom reads my poetry blog, warned me that I am quite probably in breach of copyright doing so, since when I stopped posting. I love poetry, frequently read it and enjoy introducing new and well-known poets to other bloggers.  Have any of you who reproduce poetry on your blogs ever had any officially adverse reaction? Lots of poetry is freely available on the net but what about poetry taken from anthologies or collected works?

I shall start publishing again, in fact, right now. My poetry blog is such a modest affair, hardly read, with very few comments, that I can’t see it causing offence, even if I am breaking copyright laws at times.

Any thoughts on the matter?

No Medals For Unsung Skills and Hidden Talents

The Olympic Games are over for another four years,  participants and their retinues have long left the Olympic Park, the news programmes once again concern themselves with the dire state of the economy and public life is back to its dreary normality. Most ordinary mortals will never be known for great sporting prowess, nor, come to that, will most of us ever receive recognition for any skills or talents which we might secretly even be quite proud of; on the other hand, they might be so much a part of us that we have long forgotten to appreciate them ourselves.

We are all good at something. It might take a bit of head scratching to unearth our particular talents, most of which are neither remarkable nor marketable. But we have them.

Here are a few of mine:

I remember conversations, more or less word for word; somebody says something, and good or bad, stupid or clever, I will be able to repeat their words for years to come. Don't try it, people hate it when I do that.

I remember people's food idiosyncrasies, which is a good thing. Once you have told me that you hate fish, and that strawberries bring you out in hives, I will take careful note, and either feed you nothing else - if I hate you - or never even mention them - if I like you.

I am very good at overlooking dust, an acquired talent, more or less in open rebellion against my parents, both of whom kept their glance permanently fixed on the carpet when indoors, in case a stray bit of fluff settled on its pristine expanse.

Procrastination presents no problem for me, neither does dithering. I firmly believe that decisions made on the spur of the moment will variously bring nothing but regret, remorse, remonstrations from others, with retribution to follow. No, nice and easy does it, sleep on it, tomorrow is another day and a decision may either no longer be needed or somebody/something may have made it for you already. It is possible that this skill could get you into trouble, so think carefully - for quite a long time, in fact - before you adopt it.

Give me a tangled ball of string, shoe laces, washing line or dog lead, anything that's long and windy and complicated to undo, I'll undo it for you, patiently, skilfully, expertly.

One of my most noticeable talents is the crossing of bridges before I get to them. Examples for this are too numerous to mention, suffice it to say, that if I can fret today about something that may never happen, something that exists only in my imagination, like a rain free English summer or a motorway being cut through the valley, I will fret, copiously, whole-heartedly, until I make myself sick.

I have the ability to make children and dogs obey me, almost without any effort on my part at all. Children have cried at the wonder of it but dogs love me for it, they love knowing what comes next.

I can whistle.

I can drive a car - forward only - through the narrowest of openings, with only an inch to spare on either side.

And finally, I am a master at what I call smaller-vesselling. All who behold me doing it are in awe. Give me any quantity of any substance, liquid, or solid, and a row of any size of suitable containers and I will unfailingly, by pure eye-measure alone and at the first attempt, find the smallest container to hold the whole of the substance. It is an invaluable skill in the kitchen, my fridge is never as crowded as any one else's because all my containers are filled exactly to the brim. Perhaps that skill would be marketable if the right people knew about it?

Prejudices, Gaffes and Kindness

Since Friday 27th July I have done my best to escape London 2012. It's not that I don't appreciate the youth, beauty, skill and athleticism of the competitors; on the contrary, I am awe-struck and bowled over by the determination and hard work they have so obviously put into their quest for glory. It's the commentary I can't take. I watched an early sailing event, horribly fascinated and repelled at the same time, with a British competitor being the favourite. Throughout the race the Brit's name was repeated, over and over again, hysterically, manically, while two other close rivals were anonymously 'the Dutch and Danish sailors'; during the same race I also tried to count the number of times the two words  'Great Britain' shrieked out at me from the TV screen: I actually lost count.

Gardener gave a wonderful example of this mind-set; naturally, the Olympics came up, although he belongs to the school of grouches who think that the money should have been spent on something more worthwhile, he seems to have followed Britain's unexpected success story and was even grudgingly appreciative. During one of his tirades against hype and overspend he mentioned a particular cycle race and a particular British cyclist.

"All that money from the Lottery, a bike that costs thousands of pounds, years of training, it's not worth it", he said. "What's the point, it's not as if he did anything important."

"But if he won, aren't you proud of him?" we asked.

"He didn't win, he came third," Gardener said.

"Oh, I see", we said, "so who came first?"

"No idea". Gardener waved the question away dismissively. "Just some bloke from abroad."


Looks like the old attitude : Fog in Channel, Europe Isolated still rules okay.



I put my foot into somebody's pet intellectual soft tissue the other day too when I wailed that I regret that English literature is peculiarly insular and parochial and that hardly anyone reads Continental European writers or work in translation. I mentioned that I had just finished W.G. Sebald's "The Rings of Saturn", in which the writer turns a long, wandering walk through East Anglia into a sequence of visionary meditations, which ultimately becomes an essay for the dispossessed.  My neighbour at the dinner table, up to now a good friend, turned a furious face in my direction and told me that he found my remarks 'deeply offensive' and that I should go and immerse myself in Wordsworth's 'Preludes' or 'Tintern Abbey' where I would certainly find philosophy and meditation. We were all on the cusp of being drunk, which accounted for my outburst as well as his; he repeated the 'deeply offensive' remark twice, which I found, and still find, rather over the top, especially as he hadn't really understood my complaint. At the end of dinner we parted on  good terms but I'm left wondering if I actually want to remain friends. Or if he does.



So it is with great pleasure that I can finally get away from gaffes and prejudices and tell you about something very kind which the immensely talented artist/illustrator/writer Elizabeth Rose Stanton of the amazing Pens Paper Studio did: when she heard how sad I am about Benno's death she sent me the card you see here. Elizabeth is a dog lover too and she knows just how I feel.

This is a card to keep. It will make me smile every time I look at it.

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.

Bite sized Morsels

While I was wrestling with the taxman this morning our friend Stephen Tunnicliffe came round to bring me a copy of a delightful little series of poems he wrote last year,  describing the five senses as experienced by children. I didn't mind at all being interrupted, it's been a day for 'mopping up' leftover jobs, satisfying when all is done but not very exciting. Here is one of Stephen's takes on 'Seeing'; although there are no larks rising from the fields around Valley's End into the rather misty skies in winter, spring and summer will bring them back to us.

SKYLARK

Can you see him? Only just!

He's like a singing speck of dust.

Lark, can you see me from up there?

You must have eyes like telescopes!

I stare and stare . . .

I wish the sky had great long ropes

Then I could climb right up there too,

And see our tiny house, like you.

 Overheard:

They really live in their own little world. 

Me too, of course;

the thing is that I am convinced that my world is the only right and proper world.

Friko's thought:

And they'll fight to the death over it, even if it means

that both worlds crumble and leave behind nothing

but ruin.

Found:

A child's lost glove on a branch showing you the way

to a more peaceful co-existence.

o-o-o-o-o-o

After listening to a discussion on matters esoteric and spiritual, I have come to the following conclusion :

When you think there's a beer in the fridge and you go to the fridge and actually find one there, that's belief. You've proved it.

When you think there's a beer in the fridge and you go to the fridge and there isn't one, but you still say there is one, that's esoteric.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The House of Capricorn and Christmas Crackers

Zyklus der Monate  -  Dezember

Meister Albert - 1400

The Sun enters the House of Capricorn.

'The man born under Capricorn shall be iracundious* and a fornicator; a liar, and always labouring. He shall be a governor of beasts with four feet. He shall suffer much sorrow in his youth, but shall leave many goods and riches. He shall have great peril at sixteen years. He shall be rich by women, and shall be a great conductor of maidens; he shall live seventy years and four months after nature.

The woman shall be honest and fearful, and have children of three men; she will do many pilgrimages in her youth, and after have great wit. She shall have great foods, but pain in her eyes, and shall be at her best estate at thirty years; she shall live seventy years after nature.


* be wrathful


From The Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

I am no great fan of christmas crackers, but with every meal out at this time of year, whether in restaurants, pubs and even in some private houses, you'll find one of them on your plate. You're lucky if you have a small explosion when the thing comes apart - they don't always go off - and you then proceed to rummage around in the pile of torn shiny paper for your 'gift', your paper hat, and the obligatory joke. You put the hat on your head and read the joke to the assembled company. Apparently, there is an explanation: being able to groan in unison keeps everybody feeling included, everybody joins in, nobody feels left out.

Yesterday's writers' group lunch came with crackers;  I decided to collect some of the jokes and treat you all to samples of superior wit.

What did the fireman's wife get for Christmas?
A ladder in her stocking.


What does the headless horseman ride?
A nightmare.


Why did the teacher wear sunglasses to school?

Because her pupils were so bright.


Why did the tightrope walker visit his bank?
To check his balance.


What do you call a mischievous egg?
A practical yoker.


Where does Tarzan buy his clothes?
At a jungle sale.


Why is milk fast?
Because it's pasteurised before you see it.

November Lament, A Telling Tale and the Sun enters the House of Sagittarius

Ciclo dei Mesi - 1400

Meister Albert

November

oo oo  oo

No sun - no moon! 

No morn - no noon - 

No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. 

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 

No comfortable feel in any member - 

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! - 

November!

Thomas Hood - 1844

oo oo oo

We had another visit to the Eye Clinic, Beloved's Macular Degeneration in one eye has indeed changed to the wet sort;  he is a candidate for treatment by injection and we have a date for the first of three. I am hoping that the treatment will stop further degeneration.

You all know by now what kind of nosey parker I am and how I watch my fellow men. I have a little tale to tell about a man and his wife; she was a patient at the eye clinic, he was her driver.  I noticed them because he had a very carrying voice, a dull, slow, monotonous, boom, which sort of thumped you over the head. There was no shutting it out, it seemed to bounce off the ceiling and reverberate around the small waiting area. He was a large man, sitting with arms folded and legs outstretched.

Worthy of further attention, I thought.

The wife went in to see the nurse, her seat was quickly taken by another patient, a very elderly man on sticks, walking with difficulty and sitting down heavily;  Boomer engaged him in conversation. Ten minutes later,  the wife came back out, she'd obviously  had drops in her eyes and was to wait for them to work before she was called back in. There was no free seat now. Boomer sat immobile. The old man offered the wife his seat and, in spite of her protestations, painfully heaved himself to his feet; it took him quite a while. Boomer remained immobile. He watched the whole procedure unmoved, his face completely passive. Luckily, the old man was called in by the time he was fully upright.

I am sure my mouth hung open.

oo oo oo

The Sun enters the House of Sagittarius

The man born under Sagittarius shall have mercy on every man he sees. He shall go far to desert places unknown and dangerous, and shall return with great gain; he shall see his fortune increase from day to day. At twenty-two years he shall have some peril, but he shall live seventy-two years and eight months after nature.


The woman shall love to labour; she may not see one weep without pity. She shall spend much silver by evil company. She ought to be married at thirteen years, and shall have pain in her eyes at fourteen; she shall be called the mother of sons, and shall live seventy-two years after nature.


Both man and woman shall be inconstant in deeds; but of good conscience, merciful and better to others than themselves.


Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

Conversational Riddles At Breakfast

It was a cold morning today, garden and castle meadow were bedecked with rime, and the tops of the hills having disappeared into a grey mist,  the great outdoors  looked hardly inviting. But we were due for the post-op examination of Beloved's eye at the hospital in Shrewsbury, which meant that we were having our breakfast muesli rather earlier than usual. Benno was lying between kitchen table and Aga and, as he wasn't going to come with us, but was lucky enough to be able to stay at home with his dog sitter, we envied him.

Lifting his arthritic hind leg, he started to scratch the area by his right eye. Being rather concerned with eyes at the moment, Beloved said:

"Don't do that, you'll hurt your beautiful eye" and took hold of the leg.

"Leave him", I said, "he has more sense than to hurt his eye. More sense than you anyway." Beloved used to be a sun worshipper and some of his skin and eye problems are due to the effects of excessive exposure to sun.

"You don't have more sense than me, do you?" Beloved said to Benno. "You can't do your seven times table, but I can!"

Benno scratched again, paying us no attention at all.

Beloved moved in his chair and winced.

"Something wrong? I asked. "Have you found a new place that might cause us to consult the doctors?"

We are really extremely fond of each other and my question sounded a lot more sympathetic than it looks here.

'Hm", he said, "you may not believe this, but I had a rather sharp twinge of pain in my ankle."

"Riddled with arthritis, that's what you are," I said.

"Can you say 'riddled' in this sense?",  Beloved asked.  "Of course you can", I said, riddled as in meshed. "Holey, you know."

"Yes, riddled with holes. Or bullets, they'd make holes too. Or how about maggots, or germs," he pondered.

"Riddled with germs? No that doesn't work. Germs don't make riddles. Or holes."

"There aren't any holes in the Golden Syrup riddle either", Beloved said. "Do you know the Tate & Lyle label?  The dead lion and the bees? It's a riddle in the Bible, from Samson ( in Judges 14: 14 - I looked it up) "Out of the eater came forth meat and out of the strong came forth sweetness." (Answer: bees making a honeycomb in the carcass of a lion he had killed.)
Tate & Lyle have used that label since they first made the syrup".

"Well, fancy that. Hadn't we better get going?"

There is, of course, the Exeter Riddle Book, but as that is medieaval, it has rude bits. Look it up for yourself.

We weren't finished with riddles, although the final one was not really a riddle, more of a question: for the first time ever in real life, rather than on tv, we saw a slight young man, with greasy reddish-blond hair and a very pale complexion, as if he hadn't spent much time out of doors lately, being taken to "Outpatients' in the hospital in handcuffs. He was being led by a male guard and a female guard followed them. He looked weedy and spindly and unsavoury. I have to say, I felt rather sorry for him.

Matters on the eye front are unresolved. There have been developments which might be bad. The dry macular degeneration in one eye may have turned into the wet sort. We have another appointment for next Monday; speed is of the essence. Beloved may be a candidate for a new kind of treatment. That's a riddle only the doctors can answer.

Of The House of Scorpio, Autumn Leaves and a Walk on the Wild Side

October

 Meister Albert

Zyklus der Monate 

From a group of frescoes in the

  Torre dell'Aquila, Castello del Buonconsiglio di Trento.

Sun enters the House of Scorpio

'The man born under Scorpio shall have good fortune. He shall be a great fornicator, and the first wife he shall have in marriage shall become too religious. He shall suffer pain in his privy members at fifteen years old. He shall be hardy as a lion; he shall be merry and love good company of merry folk. He shall be in danger of enemies at twenty-four years, and if he escape he shall live eighty-four years.

The woman shall be amiable and fair, she will not be long with her first husband, and afterwards shall enjoy with another by her good and true service. She shall suffer pain in her stomach and wounds in her shoulders, and ought to fear her latter days, which shall be doubtful by reason of venom. She shall live seventy years after nature.

Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

My beautiful ornamental cherry tree, (Prunus sargentii) is almost bare. I'll be sad to see it go into hibernation, but as it will unfold its gorgeous, bronze-red leaves again in March, at the same time as it produces generous clusters of clear pink flowers, I will allow it a well-earned rest. Besides, its chocolatey bark is attractive too. It is a splendid tree for any garden where it can be given a sunny spot. It's fully hardy.

The trees here in the Shropshire Hills have given up early this year. Apart from the walnut tree, which didn't start to leaf properly until mid June and is still green now, all trees in the garden have dropped most of their leaves already. The book of The Knowledge of Things Unknown of 1729 states that about this time in the year leaves begin to fall from the trees and that signs of winter increase.


'when the leaves will not fall from the trees in October, or else when there are a great number of caterpillars on the trees, then followeth after a cold winter'.

Benno and I have been back to our favourite woods this week; it's getting a bit too chilly now to sit here for long. In summer we watch dragonflies and damselflies darting over the same stretch of water, back and forth, picking smaller insects and bugs off the surface of the water and the plants growing in  the muddy pond. They've gone now, the nymphs are possibly already overwintering deep in the mud.

We mainly came to see how the sloes are doing; soon it'll be time to pick the fruits to make wine and sloe gin. There is a blackthorn hedge along a field edge, which was absolutely laden with fruit last year. We usually wait with the picking until after a cold spell, but we'd best not leave it too long; some other creature might discover our secret hoard.