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).