Frozen sandwich…

Here we go: ‘What will I blog about today?’, the first thing I thought when I looked out at the gently falling snow at six o'clock this morning.

Well the sun is shining now and, despite the unreasonable and unseasonable cold weather, that has to be a good thing.

They say this cold spell is going to last well into April, perhaps we’ll go from Winter to Autumn without anything in between. Either way we’re probably in for a shorter spring and summer – well, you can’t cram a quart into a pint pot and all that.

Apparently it’s all down to the Jet Stream, the Gulf Stream, climate change and Paddy McGinty’s goat. Well maybe not the goat but certainly the other three. Given how far north were are we shouldn’t be surprised that it’s cold, this is pretty much how it should be, but of course we’ve been spoilt by good fortune and Mother Nature who have tended to ignore our geography..

I wonder if there will even be a spring this year, perhaps we’ve seen the last spring we will ever see. What if that really happened? What if there was no spring or summer this year, no chance to get the crops into the ground? They say that the seasons are changing, but what if it isn’t change, a few weeks shift in the regular pattern, what if it is disappearance?

Is this how ice ages start? Later and shorter springs and summers, no autumn because no leaves have formed to fall, and then winter. Did year-round winter creep up gradually or did it appear over a just a few years? Fifty million years ago Antarctica had a temperate climate, evergreen forests and many more kinds of animals than it has today. As the icecap slowly formed, most of the animals that lived there in ancient times were obliterated. The evidence for this once warm climate is in the fossils of plants, including fossil ferns, found by scientists.

But what about the sandwich?

My daughter rushed into the kitchen this morning asking if she had a sandwich for lunch. Of course I had no idea and she stormed around declaring that she hadn’t time to make one. In the time that she spent moaning, and doing her hair, and throwing some books (probably the wrong ones) into her bag I’d made her a chicken salad sandwich, bagged it, and passed it to her.

I won’t be able to do that when the ice age gets here. They’ll be no bread, lettuce, or chicken.

My own personal purgatory - Tondal's vision...

I am beginning to dread the word blog. It runs through my mind from the moment I awake until I a fall into my blog-ridden nightmarish sleep and then it wakes me up with a start each morning – ‘what will I blog about today?’

Sounds funny, but it isn’t.

It happened again this morning. No surprise there, one morning is pretty much like another; I get up, I do a series of quite pointless activities, I have a meal and I go to bed. Perhaps the most pointless of my daily activity is blogging, but I find myself pouring over it for hour after hour, words and pictures and photographs, recycling the same tired ideas as if I am on a mission. Well, there’s no mission, I’m not achieving anything. It’s just a way of lifting my own battered ego for a few moments. Of course it never works. Why would it?

So why do I do it? Well, I’ve tried to answer this question before but partly it’s compulsion. Without churning out these few words I feel undefined. If I miss a day, which I increasingly do, I feel guilty that I’ve lost an opportunity, although God knows what that opportunity was. And then of course there is my own ongoing internal dialogue, the one that wakes me up each morning asking ‘what will I blog about today?’

Sounds funny, but it isn’t.

Sometimes I think I’d be better off reading a book or watching daytime television – anything but blogging away to myself in my own little corner of purgatory desperate for someone to notice me, even if it does mean me moving on and finding myself in hell.

Maybe that’s it. Maybe blogging is my own personal hell.

Where did it go?...

I should be blogging but I have no idea where today went so I'm going to open that mystery bottle of Pinot I was given at Christmas instead. Well, the weather suits.

Happy Christmas.

One man's mountain...

Here’s the mountain that I can see from my cottage bedroom window, past the hedge and across the fields in the distance. It isn’t a very big mountain by mountain standards, but it’s big enough. I’ve drawn it a number of times over the years. Sometimes with pens and pencils, pastels and crayons, paint and splatter, but I’ve never really quite caught the soul of it. This time it was water wash with a soft pastel overlay. It’s evening, after a long wet day and I’ve bumped up the green, but the mountain looked very blue that night. Mind you, it’s never the same twice.

There’s something going on in that mountain. I don’t know what it is but each time I look at it I know it to be true. There’s a heart beating within it, something hidden, a magic somewhere deep inside. Something is waiting to be awoken; I don’t know what it is though.

This mountain was once a volcano like all of the mountains around my cottage; perhaps that has something to do with it. Or maybe it’s the stones that stand dotted around its base; left their long ago by long forgotten peoples who wore bronze amulets and dressed in leather. Of course, it could just be that it stands above the landscape taking all weathers, all seasons, and has for millions of years with hardly a change except for the ravages of the elements and man.

Inside though it’s the same as it always was. I can hear its heart beating.

No, I haven't got it right again. It isn't quite alive enough. Next time maybe.

Seeds...

I keep thinking that I should take a break from blogging, after all there are only so many things that you can write about and eventually I’m sure to run out of things to say. In fact if it wasn’t for the weather and its effects I’d really have nothing much to write about today. Freezing isn’t it? Really cold for almost the end of March. What is going on I wonder as I listen to the wind swirling the snow around outside?

Ah bliss! This time last year I was sat outside in my yard garden in the mornings drinking coffee in my shirtsleeves. This time last year I had planted out some of my seedlings and they were already beginning to thrive.

Fast forward 12 months of haywire weather and this year it is so cold in my yard garden that the sap froze in my daffodil stems. This year my seedlings remain on my kitchen work surfaces the stems getting longer and longer as each day passes.

My seeds have germinated really well, I have dozens of ipomoea through and my scabious are beginning to come through. I’m looking for a blue theme this year. Yes, I know, I know, but I want a bit of a change from the Mediterranean feel I’ve gone with the last couple of seasons. Even so I’m growing some orange nasturtiums and a few sunflowers – well summer wouldn’t be summer without them and the blackfly.   

I’ve planted some of my seedlings into peat pots to try and calm them down a little, but I really need to get some of them into the ground outside. At the minute though there’s no chance of that – the ground is far too cold.

That’s that. Maybe I really should take a break from blogging.

James Herbert...

I was very surprised to hear yesterday that James Herbert the writer had died. I didn't know he was ill and hadn't expected it at all. Was it an accident? Did something bad happen? But no, apparently he died peacefully in his sleep. Not like most of the characters in his books then. Most of then came to various unsavoury ends.

I've been reading him for years. The thought that there would no more of his intriguing tales left me a little sad; and he was only 69. His books may not be great literature but they are damn good yarns with a little spice thrown in for good measure. I can't say I waited with excitement for his latest novel of strange and unnerving happenings to come out, but I eventually got around to reading his latest not too long after release.

A few years back I bid for one of his doodles in an on-line auction. I think I went to £25 and it eventually went for £40 or so. I wish now that I'd gone a little higher and bought it. I really liked it as a doodle and it was so typically him. There was always a good slice of tongue firmly in his cheek in whatever he wrote. It must have been his ad agency copywriter background. That's what he used to do, write copy in an ad agency. He wrote The Rats in a just few months, scribbling away in their time as he was bored shitless with the advertising game. Good on him I say.

Anyway, that's it. No more Rats or Magic Cottages, no more Survivors or even Spears - not even a Ghost of Sleath or two. I may try to reread his books, but I'm not sure they'll stand a second read. I think I'll do The Rats though - just for old times sake.

Bye James, with you another small piece of my past goes too. Thank goodness Stephen King is still around and writing.

Mr Shouty watches TV…

He’s still a fictional character resembling no actual person living or dead, but today Mr Shouty is watching television. He particularly likes to watch quiz programmes. He’s been watching them for a while now, watching them very carefully and he knows exactly what THEY are up to… EXACTLY…
Oh, yes he does.

I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THEY ARE UP TO. THERE’S NO FOOLING ME. WHAT DO THEY TAKE ME FOR? I’M NOT A PRAT YOU KNOW. IT’S A FIX, ALL A FIX. RUBBISH! RUBBISH I TELL YOU! THOSE LOTTERY BALLS ARE WEIGHTED. IT’S A FIX! IT’S BEEN SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN BY TOP SCIENTISTS THAT SOME BALLS COME OUT WEEK AFTER WEEK. JUST YOU WATCH WHAT COMES OUT THIS TIME. I TELL YOU 7 WILL COME OUT AND 43. THEY COME OUT EVERY WEEK. EVERY WEEK I TELL YOU. IT’S A FIX!

The balls are drawn. 9 – 15 – 22 – 23 – 31 – 44 – bonus 46… no 7 and no 43.

THERE I TOLD YOU 7 AND 43 AGAIN! THEY COME OUT EVERY WEEK. IT’S A FIX. A FIX!

From under her clouds Mrs Shouty quietly mentions that 7 and 43 weren’t drawn at all.

WHAT? WHAT? RUBBISH WOMAN! RUBBISH! ARE YOU STUPID WOMAN? THAT’S WHAT THEY WANT YOU TO THINK. 9 IS SO CLOSE TO SEVEN AS TO MAKE NO DIFFERENCE AND 44 MIGHT AS WELL BE 43. THEY CAN’T FOOL ME. IT WAS THE SAME WITH JUICE SONS FRONTERIERS. THAT WAS ALL A FIX TOO. WHEN DID WE EVER WIN THAT I ASK YOU? AND THAT SCHOKOMOELER, EVERY YEAR HE BEAT HARVEY. THEY USED TO LOOSEN THE BRICKS WHEN HARVEY WENT OVER THE WALL. EVERY BLOODY TIME, ALL A BLOODY FIX! AND THAT EUROVISION. A FIX! A FIX I TELL YOU! MOST OF THE SONGS WEREN’T EVEN IN ENGLISH. AND JUDITH CHALMERS GOING ALONG WITH IT ALL. WELL, THEY CAN’T FOOL ME. I DIDN’T COME IN ON THE LAST BANANA BOAT. THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT RUBBISH!

Mr Shouty FRANTICALLY switches channels… Deal or No Deal.

AH! ANOTHER FIX! THIS IS AS BAD. IT’S ALL SCRIPTED YOU KNOW. FIXED BEFORE THEY ANSWER AND THEY KNOW EXACTLY WHAT IS IN THE BOX. THAT’S NOT EVEN THE REAL NOEL EDMUNDS. IT’S OBVIOUSLY A LOOKALIKE. THAT BEARD’S A STICK ON. THEY DO THAT A LOT ON TV. I SHOULD RING THE OCCIFERS AT THE POLICE STATION. GET THEM ARRESTED FOR IMPERSONATING A TV PRESENTER WITHOUT DUE CARE AND ATTENTION. IT’S AN OFFENCE YOU KNOW! AN OFFENCE! I USED TO WORK FOR THE POLICE SO I KNOW ALL ABOUT THE LAW! DID YOU KNOW THAT REG VARNEY FROM ON THE BUSSES IS SELLING CARS ON THE SIDE. IT’S ALL A FIX. WELL I’M NOT WATCHING THIS RUBBISH EITHER…

Mr Shouty switches channels again… Millionaire.

A FIX! ANOTHER FIX! AND HES A PRAT I TELL YOU! JUST LOOK AT HIM, ANOTHER FIX I TELL YOU. ANOTHER FIX!

The £10,000 question comes up on screen: Which of these is not a type of cheese.

1. Edam
2. Ricotta
3. Parmesan
4. Flamenco

The contestants think they know but decide to go 50-50.

JUST WATCH THIS 50-50. IT’S A FIX! IT ALWAYS LEAVES THE TWO ANSWERS THAT COULD BE RIGHT, AND ONE OF THEM ALWAYS IS! IT’S A FIX!

Mrs Shouty says that she thinks the answer is Flamenco as it’s a dance.

RUBBISH WOMAN! I KNOW THAT FLAMEMCO’S A CHEESE. I’VE EATEN IT. DO YOU THINK I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’VE EATEN? THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS RICOTTA. IT’S OBVIOUSLY A MADE-UP WORD. THEY DO THAT YOU KNOW. TRY AND CONFUSE YOU SO THAT YOU DON’T WIN THE MONEY. NOBODY WINS ANYTHING ON THIS PROGRAMME. IT’S A FIX! YOU JUST WATCH, IT’LL LEAVE A AND B.

It leaves C and D. The contestant answers D – Flameco - Final Answer. And wins.

THERE – TOLD YOU! WHATTT!! RUBBISH! IT ISN’T FLAMENCO, IT’S RICOTTA. IT’S A FIX I TELL YOU. A FIX! WELL THEY CAN’T FOOL ME. I’M SORRY BUT I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS CRAP! I’M NOT WATCHING THIS RUBBISH ANY MORE!

Mr Shouty turns off the TV, hurls the remote control at the wall, snatches the plug from the socket and smashes it into pieces by repeatedly banging it on the floor.

GRRRRRRR. IT’S ALL FIXED. IT’S ALL FIXED. IT’S ALL FIXED. IT’S ALL FIXED. IT’S ALL FIXED. I’M SORRY, BUT I’M NOT STANDING FOR IT. I’M GOING TO BED TO WATCH TELEVISION. 

Before Mrs Shouty has chance to reply Mr Shouty storms out of the room slamming the door behind him. She sits in the silence listening to the rain fall on her head. She was looking forward to Coronation Street. Sometimes she wishes that someone would fix him.

I think therefore...

I think therefore I am, and that’s the rub.

I seem to spend most of my time thinking and not enough of my time enjoying. Was it always so? Was there never a time when I simply enjoyed myself without asking myself why I was enjoying myself? Laughed without having to work out what it was that had made giggle? Sat down to eat a meal without needing to work out the ingredients that went into it and in my mind suggesting ways for it to be improved.

The more I think about things the more I’m unable to enjoy them, thinking forward to possible outcomes that will ‘inevitably’ come along to spoil my enjoyment – spicy food to indigestion, sunshine to thunderstorm, full bloom to autumn spoil.

Oh how I wish I could stop, but somehow the thinking habit has grown and grown until it takes the shine off of everything.

Cats don’t seem to live their lives worrying about why they enjoy sleeping in the sun or chasing bees. The last thing on their minds as the happily exist is whether to use factor eight or twenty or will the bee sting them if they catch it. There must have been a time like that for me, mustn’t there? Some time when I was so young that I didn’t know that I could get my fingers burnt and that the government would tax any happiness I managed to find, and that one day – not that far away – there would be no more fun to be had.

It’s all very well being cognitive, but if the price is true joy then I think I’d rather be a cat. Maybe it is better not to know what might be coming if you run across the road without looking.

There I go again, thinking too much instead of just enjoying writing my blog.

Escapology…

Looks like after all these years I’m getting to know the ropes. They get a little closer with each passing day and I wonder if soon I might be on them.

Ropes; this isn’t the way it was meant to work out, tying ropes to the clouds and jumping. This wasn’t in the plan. I’m freefalling, just waiting for the bump at the end. How did that happen? I made provision. Sensibly denied myself all those things I would have liked just to protect my future and now all that are left are clouds and ropes and bottles to drown in.

Yes, not everything makes sense. Lesson learnt. But when nothing makes sense…

Watch me fly through the air with the greatest of ease. Now you see me, now you don’t. The one and only… the greatest show on Earth…and ‘Hey presto!’ - The lady vanishes.

So tie the ropes to my ankles. Yeah, that wasn’t the way it was meant to work out at all. And heck, how did that happen? Maybe the sky was just too big and it escaped, or maybe the ropes held tight, or maybe the life of a trapeze artist isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be. Peter Allen and John Walby would know.

Happy birthday Albert Einstein...

This may or may not have relevance relatively speaking, but in theory it should do. After all, it's all part of the equation.

Today is Albert Einstein’s birthday, that much-loved absent-minded genius who gave us the theory of relativity (two of them, in fact, special theory and general theory of relativity), but did you know that Einstein was born with such a large head that his mother thought he was deformed? Or that Einstein had a secret child before he was married? Or that he liked to play with puppets? Or that his brain was removed on death and taken on a cross-country trip to California in a Buick Skylark with Einstein's brain sloshing inside a jar in the boot to meet Einstein's granddaughter? Or that he married his cousin Elsa Lowenthal, but only after being turned down by her daughter? Or that he wasn’t poking his tongue out at all in that well known picture, he was licking some barbecue sauce from his chin?

Hmmmm… happy birthday Albert are you sure that E = mc² ,or could that have been some spilt barbecue sauce as well?

Here’s one I did earlier…

It seems to be one of those days when inspiration is not only in short supply, but has packed its bag and left without even a goodbye. Hopefully it’s just gone off on a break and will return refreshed and full of ideas because I don’t have any.

On days like this I find my mind returning to Dubby the duck.

Ah, Dubby – arch enemy of Misty the cat, explorer, hero of my rubber duck soap opera ‘Little Duckington’. I often wonder what he’s up to. The last I heard of him he was off on honeymoon with Doris, newly married and leaving behind the terrible murder of the local duck vicar.

Yes, my Dubby days - they all seem so long ago and far away now.

Sometimes I think that I might bring him back. Probably not in a ‘Little Duckington’ tale, they are a lot of work - this photo alone took me hours to set up and the only bit of Photoshop is the smoke from Dubby’s fag. The rest is real. Well, when I say real, staged upon my kitchen table.

Yes, maybe it’s time for the return of Dubby... Dubby II - the sequel.

Perhaps I’ll make him darker this time. Yes, The Dark Duck... Watch this space.

Luna's birthday, the internet, Douglas Adams, and fish...

Today is Luna’s first birthday. Thank God... without this celebratory event I’d have probably ended up writing about Douglas Adams’ birthday - which was yesterday and his sixty-first – well it would have been.

She may not have gone where she intended to go, but I think she have ended up where she needed to be. Yes, she’s made it to fifteen in cat years and is officially a teenager. You live and learn. At any rate, you live. Cat birthdays aren’t like human birthdays. For one thing there’s no cake - just fish and cat treats - and the first year of a cat’s life is equivalent to fifteen human years and not one. After that the second year is equivalent to ten, and then each subsequent year is the equivalent to four human years. Cats, as you can see, grow up pretty quickly. I know this to be fact as I read it on the internet.

Luna meanwhile doesn’t really care about the internet. All she wants is lots of food, to be allowed outside for a play, have plenty of time for sleeping and limitless places to sleep. For Luna time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so, as lunchtime is any time she wants it to be. The closest Luna has come to the internet is falling asleep on my laptop. Why does she do this? Well I asked her and she refused to answer that question on the grounds that she didn't know the answer.  How utterly cat-like. It would seem that in some ways cats seem to be a little like human beings, almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, and also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.

Mind you if cats do ever become internet users I think that we can expect a few changes. For one thing there will be even more pictures of kittens… if that is possible. Mice and fish will probably feature a little more than they do currently and all online games will feature a ball of wool that rolls around waiting to be chased and caught. Seems pointless to me, like thinking fish is nice is some undefined way, but then I think that rain is wet, so who am I to judge?

Who knows? Maybe the internet might be a better place for the intervention of cats. For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much - the wheel, New York, wars and so on - whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man - for precisely the same reasons. This could just as well apply to cats, except instead of mucking about in water which most cats hate (not Luna, she loves it), mucking about with balls of wool would apply. But then you never know with cats. If you try and take a cat apart to see how it works, the first thing you have on your hands is a non-working cat. And that would never do 

Douglas Adams would have been 261 in cat years today, which unfortunately isn’t the answer to the great question of life, the universe and everything. It seems that life is wasted on the living and the answer, as all cats know, is Forty-two.

Anyway that’s it. And as Luna would say if she could be bothered - so long, and thanks for all the fish.

A new lost world…

The world just got a little bit bigger; at least it did for me. After all, it isn’t every day that something new turns up on this planet. I’d pretty much got used to the idea that we’d found pretty much everything ‘new’ and then scientists find eighty ‘something news’ at a place that goes by the fabulous name of The Hindenburg Wall.

I’d never heard of The Hindenburg Wall until today. It’s a huge limestone escarpment in the Star Mountains in the far west of Papua New Guinea. The Star Mountains have an annual rainfall of 10,000mm a year, earthquakes are frequent, and massive landslides are common; so not the place for a quiet camping holiday. The name sounds like it might have been dreamt up by H. Rider Haggart, massively tall and remote the Wall could have come straight from the pages of Conan Doyle’s Lost World or King Kong’s mist-shrouded island. The sort of place where pterodactyls nest in the crags, giant rats scurry in the undergrowth, and huge carnivorous plants munch on unsuspecting intruders.

When I heard about it on the radio my old long-ago wonder began to bubble once more I became an eight year old boy again. I loved Jules Verne’s Journey to the Centre of the Earth and Dr. Challanger’s expedition to The Lost World with the dinosaurs and other wonders I found there.

The Hindenburg Wall is a real lost world, with over eighty new species of animals and plants discovered already. The scientists say that it’s one of the most bio-diverse spots on the planet. So far they’ve found a rat as big as a small dog, new types of carnivorous plants, a rose-pink orchid, a new species of spurflower and rhododendron, giant butterflies, previously undiscovered insects and frogs, and what could be the world’s smallest wallaby.

No dinosaurs yet, but who knows what else is out there waiting to be discovered? The expedition team were only there for four weeks so they’ve probably only scratched the surface of what is wandering around in the steamy jungle. Anything could be hiding in there just waiting to be found.

Shang-a-lang

So another year down the tubes. Somehow I don't have quite the same enthusiasm as I did for birthdays as I did as a child. It isn't that I don't enjoy them - I do - it's just that I hate another one rolling around bringing promises of new aches and pains and all the other stuff that getting older brings with it.

Excuse me a moment....................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
Sorry, I needed a wee and if I don't go when I feel it, well let's just say my wife complains about the all the washing.

I was surprised to be personally wished happy birthday by the WWW this morning. It was Google actually. Yes, Google wished me a happy birthday by name and posted a birthday picture for me when I logged on this morning. To be honest I'm not quite sure how I feel about that. They know my birthday, they know my name - surely they can't know about my increasing forgetfulness and how I say 'they don't write songs like that any more' and nod my head sagely whenever I hear the Bay City Rollers.

Google search or I'm feeling lucky?

Well, maybe I wasn't after all - a doin doo wop be dooby do ay.

And then of course there were my Facebook friends, all wishing me a happy birthday and clogging up my timeline all prompted by a Facebook flag. Seriously though, it was great that they took the time to drop me a message. Thanks to you all, there really was no need - and for those of you who didn't (and you know who you are) there really was no need (but it would have been nice).

So there we go, another one down and who knows how many more to come?

Shang-a-lang, as they say.

Kenny, Acker, and me...

I wasn’t surprised to hear that Kenny Ball had died, but I was surprised to see Acker Bilk on the telly talking about him after his death. I thought Acker had died years ago.

Apparently not, Acker lives on.

Some of my childhood was spent listening to Stranger on the Shore and Midnight in Moscow, Stranger on the Shore and the March of the Siamese Children, Stranger on the Shore and Stranger on the Bloody Shore. Some of my childhood was spent hating that song. Some of my childhood was spent hating Acker Bilk. Well, not so much the man, but his name.

My father was a fan of Acker and Kenny; as much as he was a fan of anything but himself, and had a few of their records in his limited and seldom played record collection along with Lonnie Donegan and The Batchelors.

He said he liked Acker Bilk. Liked him so much that he grew an Acker beard and therein lays the tale of why I hated Mr Bilk so much when I was a child.

That stupid beard was the bane of my life for years. The kids around by us would pick on any difference to catcall and snigger and having a father with a jazz clarinettist’s beard was bound to draw attention. They called him Acker and I was quickly labelled with the nickname too. Wherever I went on the estate I heard them calling ‘Acker’ after me and not in a good way; it was used as a criticism, a term of derision as if the speaking of that one meaningless but meaningful word was the ultimate insult. And to me it was – and a shame.

Acker, Acker, Acker, Acker, Acker…

I’d hear it everywhere I’d go, a slight elongation of the final two letters to drive home the fact that they knew how much I hated them calling me…

Ackerrrrr…

Sometimes they’d chant it…

Ack - Er - Ack - Er - Ack - Er - Ack - Er…

On and on, wherever I went, it came to the point where I wouldn’t go out to play any longer, keeping my eyes open when I was out and about so as to avoid the other boys.

Ackerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…

‘Ignore them’ was his best advice. Yeah right, that would make them stop. But it didn’t of course. I carried that name with some of the local wags until my mid-teens, dreading it being used and more than once getting into a scuffle because of it. In retrospect I should have tried to turn that name into a positive, Worn the T- shirt with pride, taken up the clarinet, perhaps been seen around town in a bowler hat and a stripy silk waistcoat. But that sort of strategic knowledge didn’t come until later and even today I can’t hear the name Acker without recalling the feeling of shame I felt back then.

How strange and fragile we are as children. No wonder some never grow up.

Right Acker?

Blog recipe…

Writing a blog is like deciding what to have for dinner. There’s no recipe for it and it’s really hard to come up with something interesting and different each day, let alone tasty. Some days I really can’t be bothered to serve up even the equivalent of literary beans on toast and there’s no chance of a wordy salmon en croute with fine beans and fresh parsley sauce.

Today I don’t think I can even manage a lump of cheese, and believe me I did consider it.

I had three potential blogging meals on my not very long menu when I awoke this morning – cheese, daffs and that awful murder of a 16 year old girl on a bus in Birmingham. A bit of a mixture really.

The terrible and pointless murder of Christina Edkins took place outside a building I used to work in sometimes – 54 Hagley Road. As I watched the scenes outside the building on the news it made me think about how strange it is that I should feel a sense of personal ownership when I see a place I know well on the television. Somehow it makes it makes the watching experience seem more real. I watched an episode of the Baker Boys, a cooking programme, the other evening and they visited an Exmouth pub I used to frequent way back when. It made me feel so nostalgic that I could almost feel the stickiness of the carpet on the soles of my shoes.

The cheese idea was simply about cheese. I love cheese of all types and I particularly like eating it on its own with a glass of port. Last night I had some Cheddar, a crumbly Cheshire, a dollop of Brie and a thin slice of crystallising Parmesan with a quite nice glass of Taylors. For a while I though that cheese might make a good blog but I didn't quite know where to take it. I suppose I could have cheesed it up a bit but...

And that left the miniature daffs which are the only flowers in bloom in my yard at the moment. I can’t remember planting them, but I must have - unless of course the flower fairy planted them for me. For a few seconds I wondered if I might wax lyrical about flower fairies and stuff but...

So much for 54, daffs, and cheese - a tasting menu of the blogs I didn’t write because I didn’t think them interesting enough.

Not that it usually bothers me.

And then of course there was that all important picture. Andy Warhol was good at taking the ordinary and making it appear more interesting. But all I had was a very uninteresting photograph of my mystery miniature daffs that I took this morning when I still thought I might write about them.

So, no post at all today I’m afraid. Perhaps I’ll find a recipe tomorrow.

Cat worrying...

I worry about my cat. I worry about here every time I let her out. I worry if I’ve done the right thing – will she come home / get lost / get run over / get hurt? I worry when she doesn’t want to go out. This week so far she has lost two collars, so I worry about how she lost them. Is someone trying to steal her? Did she get hooked up in a bush and almost strangle herself? I worry that she isn’t eating enough. I worry that she isn’t eating properly. I worry when she eats too much. I worry when she sleeps too much. I worry when she moults too much. I worry when I hear a cat howling outside that it might be her. I worry when I hear a dog barking that she’s being chased. I worry when she darts across the road. I worry when she hasn’t used her litter tray. I worry when she isn’t affectionate. I worry when she doesnt purr. I worry when she’s too affectionate. I worry when she won't stop purring. I worry that I'm worrying too much over her. I worry that I'm not worrying enough over her.

Hmmm… I thought cats were meant to be calming. I wonder if she worries about me?

Off the treadmill...

You know that treadmill, the one that you always want to get off when you are on it? Well, once you are off you realise that maybe it wasn’t such a treadmill after all and once it has stopped you wonder what are you going to replace it with?

Yes, deep thoughts (joke) occupy my mind a lot recently. Ever since I realised that my old treadmill was actually a stroll in the park. Enough of that though.

I dreamt I was in an Escher drawing last night, constantly climbing impossibly horizoned staircases to nowhere, climbing up only to find I was climbing down or sideways. I awoke in a sweat thinking of treadmills. It got me thinking – just why did the treadmill have such negative connotations?

I expect that most people associate treadmills with those walking machines in gyms. They’ve always seemed pretty pointless to me. Why not just go for a walk if you fancy a little exercise? Of course treadmills have been around much longer than man’s need to wear over-tight shorts and a sweatband. Ancient treadmills were used to move water from one level to another, step after step in a massive hamster cage contraption. Then in the nineteenth century farmers started using animal driven treadmills – dogs, horses, sometimes oxen – to grind corn or churn butter.

But it was the English who put the negative into treadmill. You could always trust the Victorians to make a potentially good thing into something to punish the poor and ungodly with. In 1817 the prison treadmill was invented in London. Its purpose was to “reform offenders”, making them work the ‘evil’ out of their systems. The prison treadmills really caught on and were introduced to America where, in New York prisons, offenders stepped-after-stepped on the mill for twelve hours a day grinding corn and rye for the whisky making industry.

Then in a complete turnaround of purpose, the early 1900’s saw the treadmill become a pleasurable way to keep fit and no self-respecting gentleman would be seen without a treadmill in his apartment. No longer the need to go out in the foggy streets to take your evening constitutional, you could even smoke your cigar and drink a glass or two of the whisky made from grain ground in the state penitentiaries whilst partaking of your exercise.

It’s funny how things seem to intermesh and cross over in a seemingly purposeless way. Grinding grain for whisky destined to be drunk on a treadmill, punishment to self-imposed punishment through exercise - and then in a historical full circle animals were once again put on the treadmill. With a revolution in pet care in the forties and fifties you could buy a treadmill for your dog mail order. No longer the need to leave the comfort of your armchair when Fido needed a walk, simply stick him on the treadmill and watch his tail wag as he padded away to nowhere.

Off the treadmill or nowhere?

Perhaps that’s it.
Perhaps we are all on the treadmill to nowhere.

I dreamt I was in an Escher drawing last night, constantly climbing impossibly horizoned staircases to nowhere.

Man overboard...

Ah, a life on the ocean waves.

‘Yes, a seafaring life, that’s the life for me!’ I thought as I read the latest e-mail from someone telling me that they had just the job for a man with my skills and experience, one matching my criteria ‘perfectly’ they said.

Sea Freight Manager - Based Middlesex.

Well yes, I could do that. I don’t live anywhere near Middlesex, but I’d be prepared to live in the area at least during the week. I wonder if I could live on a houseboat or perhaps they might rig me up a hammock in the engine room. Money looks good, and there’s a bonus - maybe they’ll pay me in doubloons. And a benefits package… does that include a rum ration I wonder? There’s a car, but no mention of a launch. Perhaps I’ll get that later.

It’s looking good, and I’m sure I’ve got a sailor cap somewhere. Now, just what are they looking for?

Forward thinking – Yes; I’m already thinking next Tuesday and that’s almost a week away… Proactive – Yes; I can make that happen… Must be able to proactively lead a team and be responsible for delivering profitability, customer satisfaction and team development within your area – Yes, yes, yes. Come on team splice that mainbrace, we have customers to keelhaul and a pieces of eight to count. It’s in the bag. I can almost smell the sea, the salt in the air, the tang of the rime on my tongue.  

Key responsibilities look fine, nothing I haven’t done before. Now just where did I put my old deck shoes? I hope that they pipe me on board, I’ve always fancied that. Maybe I should wear an eye patch to the interview, a parrot might be over the top and I should probably draw the line at sawing me leg off (me hearties).

Yes, it looks like I’m off to sea, this job is practically mine. Maybe I should practice my knot tying, brush up on my semaphore.

Wait a minute… what’s this?

• MUST possess a minimum of five years experience and extensive knowledge of sea freight forwarding – imports, exports, customs and all related processes.

Well, I did have a shop on Bangor pier once. I wonder if that counts?

Oh well, maybe the job doesn’t match my criteria quite as much as I was led to believe after all. Strange that. Still, I’m not going to go overboard about it… apparently I’d be ideal as a nuclear testing unit manager.

Now where did I put my Geiger counter?

The Gardening Bug...

Did I mention the Gardening Bug? Yes, I knew it would happen as soon the sun came out. I’ve caught it and I’m in the early stages of Gardeneratti Buggerononis. It hits me every year at around this time, usually earlier if I’m honest. But I’ve lost all sense of time and season as I meander aimlessly through my life.

This year I’m a little later than usual but I’ve contracted it now and there is no known cure. I've well and truly got it, so it looks like another summer of gardening until I can shake the bug off in the autumn.

I spotted the symptoms yesterday, spending my Sunday afternoon removing all the dead things that I should have sorted out last November. No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t seem to fight it off and soon I was out there pulling up the dried stems and stalks of last year’s nasturtiums, sunflowers and tomato plants and stuffing them into the recycle bin.

Snip, snip, snip. I always mean to do it before the winter comes but somehow, despite my best intentions, it never seems to happen. Then, on the first or second almost-sunny-day in spring, the bug bites and I set about the job. I have no choice but at least within a few hours it’s done, and then the bug begins to really get its teeth in.

So here I am with a pretty much blank canvas ready to be transformed into an oasis of peace and tranquillity. Yes, I know that it’s more like a desert at the moment, but time and sunshine and lots of work will sort that out. So, seeds next and the question of what to grow.

All that I have to plant at the moment are the over-wintered foxgloves that I sowed the last time the bug infected me. I’ll probably plant them at the back to give some height and get some seeds to grow some smaller plants for the front. You see I’m getting worse, beginning to ramble… I wonder when the fever and delirium will begin?

I’ll let you know.

The rite of spring…

So is it over, the winter that is? One sunny day and it feels like spring has sprung. Let’s not be fooled though. Just because it has turned a little warmer and there’s no snow on the ground, it doesn’t mean that it was the first day of spring yesterday.

The signs are there though. The snowdrops have been out for a while and I’ve seen fluffy white lambkins skipping in the fields (ahhh). The birds are singing too early in the morning, and I spotted a sparrow investigating my nesting box the other day (oooerrr missus). It’s noticeably staying lighter in the evenings and the sun seems to wake up me earlier each morning. And I know I must have dreamt this, but I’m sure I heard the vibrating hum of a returning migrant lawnmower this morning.

Unsurprisingly, the supermarkets are definitely convinced that spring is well and truly here. They’ve started selling packets of easy to-grow-seeds that will sprout, wither, and die on windowsills everywhere. They have hundreds of bunches (almost a host) of golden daffodils on display, and of course Easter eggs, which have had scouting parties out since just Christmas, have now arrived in the shelves full force and ready to take over the country.

Using my country wisdom I see that the catkins are out on my willow and if I look closely enough I can see tiny buds forming (oooerrr missus again).

Boing, it could be spring. I’d better get ready for the gardening bug to bite me again.

Mr Shouty pops his clogs…

To celebrate St. David’s Day (amongst other things*) here’s a special Mr Shouty. Remember Mr Shouty is a figment of my imagination and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is just a coincidence. 

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Alas, Mr Shouty has died and people have gathered at the crematorium to see him off. Most are smiling and laughing, patting each other on the back and exchanging wads of notes.  Somebody must have been running a book on something.

The service begins. The vicar, who never met Mr Shouty in his life, and is working from notes, begins to say a few words about the dear departed. After a few general platitudes he runs out of things to say and finishes “Mr Shouty knew a lot about the price of petrol.”

A muffled shout comes from somewhere. It sounds like someone is trapped inside a box.

IS THAT IT? IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT TO SAY ABOUT ME? WELL I’M TELLING YOU I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN ALL MY LIFE. PRICE OF PETROL? I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT I KNOW ABOUT THE PRICE OF EVERYTHING.

Someone calls ‘and the value of nothing’ and another someone at the back of the chapel mumbles about him being dead, so life doesn’t apply in being insulted terms.

WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHAT DID YOU SAY? WHAT SORT OF FOOL DO YOU TAKE ME FOR? I’LL DECIDE WHETHER I’M ALIVE OR DEAD OR NOT. NOW LET ME SEE… HEARTBEAT - NO…. PULSE – NO… BRAIN ACTIVITY…

Someone at the front of the crematorium says that there was never much of that anyway and how Mr Shouty was always too busy shouting to think. Yet another someone calls out that shouting is the next best thing to being right and that Mr Shouty was very good at shouting.

RIGHT! THAT’S IT! I’M NOT STANDING FOR THIS! I DIDN’T DIE JUST SO THE LIKES OF YOU LOT CAN TALK ABOUT ME LIKE THAT! I USED TO BE IN THE POLICE YOU KNOW. ANY MORE OF THIS AND I’LL RING THEM. I WILL. NOW WHERE’S MY PHONE?

The coffin begins to shudder as Mr Shouty checks his shroud for his phone. Unfortunately the shroud doesn’t have any pockets.

BLASSSSSTTTT, THAT STUPID WOMAN HAS MOVED MY PHONE AGAIN. SHE’S ALWAYS DOING IT. WELL I’VE HAD ENOUGH. I’M GETTING OUT OF HERE. I WON’T STAY WHERE I’M NOT WANTED!

Someone shouts that he is wanted – at least, there’s someone that wants him where he’s going and he might want to take a handcart.

RIGHT, I’VE WARNED YOU LOT ONCE. I’M NOT STANDING FOR YOUR INSULTS. YOU’RE ALL PRATS! DEAD OR NOT I’M NOT STANDING FOR IT I TELL YOU. I’M LEAVING!

The coffin begins to rock from side to side as Mr Shouty attempts to get out.

 BLASSSSSTTTT, THESE STUPID COFFIN NAILS. WHOEVER PUT THIS LID ON DIDN’T KNOW WHAT HE WAS DOING. PRAT! GET ME A BLOODY HAMMER WOMAN!

People begin to leave the crematorium chapel their heads hung in disappointment. They were looking forward to the sandwiches and telling a few home truths.

AND JUST WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU ARE GOING? I HAVEN’T FINISHED WITH YOU LOT YET. COME BACK. COME BACK, OR I’LL CALL THE POLICE. YOU’RE LEAVING OVER MY DEAD BODY.

A cheer goes up.

THAT’S IT! I’M WRITING YOU LOT OUT OF MY WILL. I’VE NEVER BEEN SO INSULTED IN ALL MY DEATH. NOW WHERE’S THAT HAMMER? I’LL GET OUT OF HERE IF IT KILLS ME…

And them Mrs Shouty wakes up. It had all been a dream. She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

* Today is also the first day of Spring by some reports (amongst other things).