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.