Some Moment When The Moon Was Blood Then Surely I Was Born …

Good Good Friday All

Today seems like the perfect time to share with you one of my all time favourite poems – The Donkey – so I will …

When fishes flew and forests walked

    And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

    Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry

    And ears like errant wings,

The devil’s walking parody

    On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,

    Of ancient crooked will;

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

    I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;

    One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

    And palms before my feet.

G.K.Chesterton

Why is this one of my favourite poems? Because it equates to each and every one us, in one way or another. Simply, we have a dumb creature, ridiculed by all because of his comical appearance and apparent lack of purpose and yet he, above all, had the task of carrying Jesus. A pretty big day-job hey?

I said it can equate to each and every one of us and I truly believe it can . As much as I hate to say the following I am going to say it anyway. You know me now and you know I speak my mind.

This is a beautiful world. The beautiful people sit on the top of the social ladders. Take a look in any magazine. Where will you find an ugly person advertising pretty much anything. You see, I used the word ugly.

Ugly can mean anything. Sticky-out ears. A hooked nose. Eyes, which,  as my dear mum used to say were, ‘one eye on the pot and the other up the chimney.’ Too fat. Too thin. Too short. Too tall. Etc Etc. Just like Mr G.K.Chesterton’s Donkey, opinion is formed on the visual. But what happens if we go deeper. Deeper into the heart and soul? What if these places are not what is considered ‘ugly?’ Beautiful creatures can hide behind the plainest of shells. 

Why and how can we judge people on their visual appearance or the tones of their voices? Or on their seemingly shallow and pointless lives? Perhaps they too hold a secret? Perhaps they too have had, or are about to have, their one fierce hour and sweet?

Each time I see a donkey the words never fail to spring to mind …’FOOLS! for I also had my hour!’

Happy Easter.

Take care my lovelies x

 

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Wheels In Motion – And Where Is That Sheba Rep?

Good Morning All

I have just learnt a valuable lesson – never leave Chea with insufficient food to get her though the night. Because if I do she’s scratching at the kitchen door at 4.00 am. Not good enough that there are crunchies overflowing her dish, no, Chea wants soft food, preferably chicken or rabbit. She isn’t to put out by tuna or salmon but won’t look at trout, beef or lamb. And she has finally settled on Sheba cat food. The one in the small foil trays, having ditched Whiskers, Felix and is utterly disgusted by supermarket own brands. So, you lovely Sheba people, if you are reading this I think I deserve a complimentary case of your delightful cat food by way of advertising on your behalf.

Other than her picky feeding habits this little RSPCA rescued cat is, as I write, well, growing nicely, as good as gold and massive company for me when Richard is out at work on his silly three-shift-system. If I’m in the lounge Chea is in the lounge. If I’m sitting at the table writing Chea is sitting on the table by my side or curled up in the basket on the table in which I keep my writing pads etc. To date I have learnt three things of importance re Chea. 1. She can’t come down from any tree. 2. She is terrified of helicopters. 3. Never leave her with insufficient food overnight. If you take these three things into consideration she is the perfect cat. And I so nearly didn’t have her.

After losing our border collie and two cats within an eighteen month period we felt like we had had 3 ‘real’ deaths in the family and we were gutted. Devastated more like. Richard would have caved in long before me and taken in more creatures but I said no. I couldn’t get over the look from the eyes of the previous trio as they had all been put to sleep. Something about that final look drives deep into your brain and you never forget it. Often it is just a pure look of thanks. Thank you for ending my pain. Thank you for being here with me. Some things I can live with. Some things I can’t. I have a tender heart and I knew it needed a little time to heal.

We had called by the RSPCA on two occasions and looked at the cats. On both occasions we turned and walked away. Richard misty-eyed. Me convinced that I didn’t need another cat.

And then one Saturday I met up with my son at the shopping precinct for coffee and we chatted and he asked what I was doing next and I said I thought I might call in at the RSPCA on the way home and have a look at the cats/kittens. He said nothing. He knew the score. So I did. And there, sleeping and nestled beneath her two brothers was Chea. And I knew instantly, beyond that shadow of doubt that she was the one. That she needed me and I needed her. The rest, as they say, is history.

Which leads me to something that I have really only just come to realise over the past few years – when the time is right for something or someone to come into your life – it will and they will. When these things are meant to be they are meant to be. I truly believe that sometimes we should just trust in the universe,  God – whatever. There is no need to knock ourselves out over these things. Wheels are already in motion. These things are destined?  Who knows?

I remember one New Year’s Eve, with Richard fast asleep, standing at the front bedroom window watching fireworks exploding above the rooftops and thinking what a flipping boring, pointless New Year this is. Richard asleep. Me watching everyone else on the planet having a riotous time. This would be chalked up as totally uneventful … and then, eight weeks later, we picked up Meg, our border collie puppy who was to be in our lives for the next fourteen years. She had been born on New Year’s Eve.

Wheels in motion.

Patience and faith. Ask and it shall be given … when the time is right!

Take care my lovelies x

VW UP… Up And Away … Eat Your Heart Out Betsy Land Rover! …

 

Good Morning All

 

It has stopped snowing! Hurrah! Having said that the temperature is still -4. But not to worry. They predict a cold week and then after that who knows? We could have a mini heat wave? I may have to abandon The Sleeping Field and start pushing seeds into compost faster than a squirrel hoarding his nuts! Talking of which …

Yesterday we decided to pop off in the morning and see Richard’s mum, Betty, she, after whom the dear rot-box that is Richard’s Land Rover is named. I prefer to take the motorway. Richard prefers to take the cross-country, scenic route. I prefer the shortest point between A and B. Richard prefers to go around the houses – usually getting lost on the way. So I was a little surprised as we turned right off the drive and headed for the M1. It was totally clear and no incidents occurred.

When we left Betty’s house Richard headed back towards the M1 and I flicked through a magazine that his mum had given to me. When I looked up we were heading towards the country.  I remarked sharply, ‘Where’s the motorway!’

He mumbled, ‘Thought we’d go back cross-country.’

‘You idiot!’ I spat. ‘If we get stuck in a snow drift don’t expect me to be impressed. And you can bloody well get us out of it!’

Silence ensued but I could almost hear Richards ‘chuffness’ at the fact that the lanes were quite passable. And then it happened. We suddenly came up behind a snow plough. Richard stopped the car and his vibe changed. I said nothing. He pulled around the plough which appeared stuck in the snow and from that point onwards it was like something out of Ice Station Zebra. The wind had whisked the snow into twelve-foot drifts with just the narrowest of tracks leading through them. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t need to. With the drifts towering above us, Richard, with his nose pressed hard to the screen and me contemplating calling a taxi and leaving Richard with the car, we crept on.

Eventually we came out the other side and Richard, who was looking quite pink and slightly guilty said, ‘That was fun wasn’t it?’

Actually, and I would rather die than admit this to him but it was fun. And beautiful. Totally and utterly beautiful. Nature at its prettiest. And our little VW UP coped beautifully with not a slip or a skid at any point. Eat your heart out Betsy you old heap of tin!

My new garden shed arrives today!! Yippee! Unfortunately you can’t see the garden for the snow so I fear it will have to wait for the thaw before we can begin construction of said article. Oh well, Rome wasn’t built in a day so I guess there is no shame in not building a shed in one day either?

… Oh hold the sodding horses! Richard has just received a call from the ‘shed people.’ They can’t get through the snow so it is going to have to be tomorrow now! Brilliant! Bloody brilliant! Who are these people? WE ploughed through snow drifts in a tiny VW UP – they have a truck! Where is the Dunkirk spirit? That’s what I want to know? This only happens in Britain. You do know that don’t you? Pathetic! A mere sprinkling of snow and the country grinds to a halt. Oh well, I learnt a long time ago not to beat myself up regarding things which are out of my control.

I’m clock watching. I can’t wait for 1.30 when Richard goes to work. I NEED to work on my novel but simply can’t with him on the premises.

‘How do you set the video?’ ‘Do you know where my thermal socks are?’ ‘What do you think I should take to work for my tea/supper/snack?’

I don’t know and I don’t care. Just bugger off to work and let me get on with my book. I’m a good mind to tell him that I need the car this afternoon and make him go to work on his ‘pizza delivery’ moped. Lets see if he decides to go ‘cross country’ on that! I may even go out there into the snow, find a shovel and attach it to the back of the moped for him!

But of course, I won’t. I shall just have to turn off my brain for a few hours and hope that I can find the enthusiasm to write after he has gone to work. It’s tough though because I’m a morning person and I write best in the mornings. Oh well, it appears you can’t have everything – neither peaceful writing time or a garden shed.

I shall have to go and find his bloody thermal socks now. It’s way too much to expect him to find them. Maybe I need to label his sock drawer, ‘Sock Drawer.’ Perhaps then the clue will be in the labelling and he can find his own socks?

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

PS A huge welcome to those of you who have recently started following this blog. Lovely to meet you and please feel free to comment/share -whatever.

PPS I also wanted to say that any comment which gets delivered to my spam box gets deleted whether it looks cool or not. And I will always delete comments that may be hurtful or inconsiderate to others who read this blog. That, to date, has not been necessary because my readers are lovely, sensitive human beings.

 

 

A Gagging Order Has Been Issued …No Tweets Allowed …

Hi All

We have 6 inches of snow outside and it is still snowing! Even the birds are sitting huddled together scratching their heads. The dawn chorus has had a gagging order placed on it and not a single bird is daring to tweet – the bird kind – not the Twitter kind, obviously.

The conifer outside the kitchen window is banging its arm-like branches on the frozen ground, admitting defeat, as the snow goes in for a headlock, the weight of it holding the conifer down hard. I fear that its back will break. Good old English weather.

It is truly beautiful. No doubt about it. But ‘please – stop snowing!’

I am at a loss for words today, other than blathering on about the weather. Strange but true. I think the reason being I have just spent the last two hours writing and have used up all available? I have been struggling now for several months to ‘get into’ my new novel and the silly thing is I don’t know why? I know the plot from start, to middle, to end – I just can’t write it.

I have stared at the screen time after time determined to write something and each time I have failed miserably. I thought for a while that it was because I hadn’t taken the time to get to ‘know’ my characters, after all, why should fictional characters be any different to real characters. It takes time to get to know real people, right? Or was it that I didn’t like my characters. If I didn’t like them it was of little interest to me what they did – again just like real life.

It seemed to me that the best plan was to have no plan, so I side-lined it. I told myself that I didn’t have to write another novel. That I could sit all day on Facebook and Twitter. What did I have to prove? I’ve already written two novels and a short story compilation, sod it, I didn’t need to write anything else, ever again, if I didn’t want to. What did it matter that all ‘works’ were sitting on some virtual shelf with me doing sod all on a daily basis to sell them or to move forwards. Don’t shout at me, sunshine. I’ve done it. I’m the all-conquering, all-singing hero. I can sit on my laurels and do nothing if I want to. But that’s just it you see – I’m not like that. I can’t sit-a-spell and smell the roses (not much chance of that with all this snow!) so it didn’t really surprise me that I did eventually rise Phoenix-like from the ashes and get a grip. I’d been trotting around like a headless chicken, direction-less – well you would without a head wouldn’t you? – and purposeless.

I don’t know what happened. I guess I had just taken enough time out? Healed? Maybe that’s what we need to do. If we have an injury our bodies deliver pain and our tiny brains think, ‘Ouch that hurts, I’ll send messages to the idiot to rest a while.’ So why do we think that forcing ourselves to write is the way to go? Obviously something is saying, ‘You’re burnt out, dude, rest a while.’

I have now, with the help of one of the most helpful human beings on the planet, sent Starfish to Feedaread to put into paperback. That will be both of my novels in that form and in Ebook form.

And I have chopped, cut, altered, destroyed and reshaped The Sleeping Field and I am now back on track.

I am a fortunate person who, through the hand of misfortune rendering me with two slipped neck discs, has all the time in the world to stand back and smell the frozen roses. Richard applies no pressure whatsoever. If I’m happy writing all day – he is happy for me to sit writing all day. If the loo isn’t bleached  on a daily basis he doesn’t throw a wobbly – well he can’t really because he is the one who fouls it! If I say I’ve decided not to cook he has a cheese sandwich.  My only true commitments on a daily basis are the chucks and Chea because they can’t attend to their own needs. So I have no reason, commitment wise, for not finding the time to write.

The only problem with this is that when I get into a novel I rarely come up for air. When I’m not writing I’m thinking. Last night we ate our meal in front of the TV watching The Chase and Richard was saying something. I had to say to him, ‘Can you not talk to me until I say so because I’m thinking about my book.’ He smiled, wearily I think, and went back to his badly cooked scampi and the question being asked on The Chase which he eventually answered wrong.

Thank heaven for brains that eventually kick in and understanding sweethearts like Richard.

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

PS It’s still snowing!

 

 

 

Spring Is Busting Out All Over …Or Not! …

Good Morning All

 

It’s officially. Today is the first day of spring! Spring has sprung! And as soon as the frost lifts – I may actually believe it. I was still slipping and sliding my way up to the chucks at 6.00 am this morning and the lock on their cage door was still frozen. But, I am nothing if not optimistic. This cold spell can’t last for much longer, can it?

Any day now the ‘boys’ will be back in town. Frogs of all shapes and sizes will arrive at the fish pond. Every year they toil and squeeze through netting placed around the garden perimeter to keep the chucks in. The pond will almost bubble with activity. And they aren’t choosy in their sex-craved actions. It wouldn’t be the first time a disillusioned frog has attached itself to the head of an ancient goldfish, digging its probing fingers into the poor creature’s eyes and holding it nose down in the water. And it takes me ages to release it with the net – without harming one or the other.

It has been a long winter this year. Isn’t it the same length every year I hear you ask? Well yes it is, of course, but this wintry weather started early, back in October and it is now March.  I’ve just realised I’m writing about the weather! We English tend to do that – talk about the weather. I think it is often the forerunner to ‘proper’ conversation. Not that you are ever really going to ‘hear’ much proper conversation here! As I have said many times before there are hundreds of proper, intelligent blogs out there, you really don’t need another one.

Richard came up with a purler the other night. I was sitting watching Emmerdale with Chea tucked under my chin having a cuddle and such and he looked up from his … no, not Land Rover mag, his Biker mag and emotionally announced, ‘You’ve enhanced the lives of so many animals in your lifetime.’

I glanced across at him.

‘You have,’ he continued. ‘Every animal that ever came your way has been loved and treated like royalty. You have a special way with them. It’s like you know what they are thinking.’

I glanced across again. And then came the punch line.

‘It’s a shame you’re not the same with people.’

I think at that point we both fell silent before breaking into giggles. It was either that or throw the cat at him, which frankly would have dispelled the theory.

Today is not only the first day of spring – it is the day on which my dear father would have been celebrating his ninetieth birthday. I have been without him in my life for six years now. And quite a lot has happened in that time. The sad part is I can’t tell him about any of it. In my father’s later years, after mum died and he was alone, I used to pop in every afternoon and we’d have a cup of tea together and sit in front of the fire and dad would relive his memories, telling me about his life in the navy, the war and such like. A bit like Uncle Albert in Only Fools And Horses. He’d tell me how he met mum. What a ‘looker’ she’d been.’ And it’s funny but sitting there with him back then I never imagined what my life would be without him. We don’t though, do we? Envisage our loved ones gone?

I shall pop to the church when Richard gets home and take dad some flowers. The sodding frost will probably kill them within twenty-four hours, but at least, for that time, they will stand proud in the weak sunshine and silently announce that here is a man gone but not forgotten.

The photo I have added today is a picture of my dad, on his pony, taken eighty-five years ago.

I’ll end today on that slightly nostalgic note.

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

 

Every Picture Tells A Story …

Morning All

I’m rather late today. The reason being, I’ve been out down Memory Lane and I have only just returned.

I’ve had this thought (just the one) for the last few days that I would dig out a photograph my little racehorse. As ‘regular readers’ of this blog will already know, I am a div when it comes to technology. So faced with the brain-racking problem of how to get an ancient photograph onto my new laptop, and not knowing the answer, I let the idea ride. But I am nothing if not persistent. The answer was simple – take a picture, of the picture, and load it onto the laptop.

First I had to find the picture and if it hadn’t been for the fact that Chea had gone into the bedroom and I’d gone in to fetch her, I probably wouldn’t have dropped to my knees at the side of the bed and pulled out the drawer containing the photos.

This was my trip down memory lane.

A picture of Ginger, the first cat I’d had in this house. Then Snowy, Kitten and Tishka.  Missy, my barmy English setter. Mishka, Oscar and lastly Meg, our border collie.

Then I came across the pictures of the house martin babies that had fallen from their nest and been deserted by the parent bird. Tiny little creatures with gaping mouths. Someone had brought them into the surgery one day. They were virtually dead and my then husband gave nothing for their survival chances. But I stuck at it, feeding them a mixture of egg yolk and cat food every two hours and they flourished. One bright morning we released them and they took to the sky dipping and diving. Hopefully they were in time to strengthen their wings before their long flights to Africa.

Then there was the picture of Gull. A young seagull that we had come across on a holiday we’d had in Brixham, Devon. It had a broken wing and again, its chances of survival after the holiday makers had left and there were no more easy pickings was minimal. So my brother and I had sneaked down to the harbour at day light and caught the bird. My husband had said that the shock of transporting it all the way home would surely kill it. It didn’t. It flourished. We removed the broken wing and Gull lived a long, happy and protected life.

Just one picture of Crowie ( yes, you guessed it, he was a crow) which my husband came across on his rounds. Crowie was a young bird that had fallen from his nest in a storm and my husband brought him home to see if there was anything I ‘could do with him.’ He was an easy chap to rear. Totally tame and adorable. I remember thinking, at the time, that we should feed him as near to how nature intended and one day we bought him a rabbit that he could rip up and bolt down. He flatly refused to come down off his perch and even look at such a thing. So he was fed on liver and heart and all that kind of  stuff.

I found pictures of the horses I had owned. Some crazy, mental individuals, others beautiful, soft-natured and kind.

At some point I think it crossed my mind that 90% of the photos were of animals – one kind or another.

Each picture had been taken at a different age and stage of my life. Each picture brought with it a memory. Not just a memory of the animal. But a memory of the emotions that I’d felt at that time.

Sitting there, on the bedroom floor, with Chea playing in the empty drawer, I think I had a moment of – something? Scattered all around me were pictures of long gone,  sadly missed, previous loves. And here was little Chea – young, happy, at the very beginning of her life, with a million new things to experience. I stroked her head and she purred and I made a private promise to her that she too would have a lovely life before her picture nestled lovingly with the pictures of those long gone –  but by no means forgotten.

Take care  my lovelies x

Sap Is Rising … Start That Diet Now! …

Good Morning All

Yes you are in the right place! I’ve binned the pink for now. You can have too much of a good thing – and frankly I’m not too sure that it ever was. We will go with this pretty little theme – for now. I’ll most likely be fed up with it by the end of the week . But as they say, ‘A change is as good as a rest.’ And I believe that to be true. And besides, resting has to be the most boring thing on the planet? I believe I will rest when my bones can no longer support my body. I shall have all the rest I need when this old heart beats its last beat and the congregation are mumbling their way through Danny Boy, exchanging glances, all of which will silently say, ‘Trust her to over dramatise!’

I feel positivity, change and renewed enthusiasm all around me today. Sap is rising. Spring is a blink away. Buds are ready to burst. The days are lengthening. This morning the birds were clearing their throats, preparatory for the dawn chorus, which I am sure will be in full flow by the weekend. The wood pigeons, already paired, were coo coo-ing from the conifer just outside the bedroom window. How can we not feel this happening all around us and by default feel it happening to us too?

I realise that I am applying these sentiments to followers in the UK. You other guys have probably all had your springtime’s  But it would have felt much the same, wouldn’t it? Renewed hope and enthusiasm?

I think New Year resolutions should be held on to until the first day of spring. How on Earth are we expected to keep resolutions made at that time of the year. It is dark, cold, miserable. Many people have little extra cash to go around because Christmas costs more and more each year.

And what form do these resolutions take?

The biggie is, ‘I’m going to lose weight!’ Really? Plates full of lettuce and tasteless imported tomatoes? Really? How long is THAT resolution going to last? Days I should think. By the second week we are ensconced in front of the TV, watching some crap New Year programme on the perils of a fatty liver, scoffing spotted dick and custard. And bloody rightly so. Get the carbs down your neck. It’s cold out there. You need flesh on your bones! Mashed potato, thick gravy and the odd veggie sausage will see you right!

No, much more sensible to have resolutions on the first day of spring. NOW you can start your diet because you’ll be out walking, gardening, doing the odd spot of tile repairs on the house roof etc etc. Fruits and vegetables will actually come into season and they will taste so much better. Have we never stopped to think that our bodies  are designed to eat SEASONAL food. You try going out into your garden in January and picking fresh strawberries  You won’t because nature didn’t intend it that way. So filling up our little bodies on tasteless, watery fruit isn’t going to satisfy us now, is it?

This makes sense because yesterday Richard put down his Land Rover Weekly and peered at me. Never a good sign. Always preparatory to some odd word of wisdom. He said, ‘That’s it! I’m going on a diet tomorrow! I feel like shit.’

I merely widened my eyes slightly and nodded.

‘No, honestly. I’m going on a diet tomorrow. I know I’ve said it before but this time I really am.’

I nodded. This meant that apples would be purchased. Many apples! Whenever Richard goes on a diet apples are purchased … and thrown into the compost heap 4 weeks later.

I ventured, with a barely disguised yawn, ‘Yes, but it’s always tomorrow, isn’t it Richard?’

He shuffled the old mag a bit and said, ‘Well it would be today but Matt (my son) is coming over and he said he’s bringing chocolate with him that he picked up from Austria when he went skiing. So I’ll eat that and then tomorrow that’s it!’

The mentality of men. I’ll never suss it out. And if he thinks I’m dashing off to buy ten kilos of apples he can think again. I shall suggest that he walks to the supermarket and fetches his own Granny Smiths!!

But let’s again look for the positive in the negative. The apples will not be eaten but they will go into my lovely compost heap and make delightful compost!

I am off now to clip on Chea’s collar and go out into the garden with her. The chucks have had it hard the last week or so. The weather has been dreadful and they haven’t even wanted to venture far from their cage. And although today is springlike and the sun is shining there was a hard frost over night and yesterday it was snowing.

Spring isn’t quite here yet – but it is on its way. Of that I am sure. Sap is rising!

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

 

 

To Climb That Mountain And Beat My Chest …

Hi All

I want to be different! I want to creep out from under the table, climb the highest mountain, beat my chest with my fists and yell out to the world, ‘I am great!’

So why can’t I? Why can’t I do just that?

Was I kept small and subservient as a child? I don’t think so. Although, I do have to admit that I was never encouraged to make something, anything of myself. My parents attitude was simple enough to understand – girls didn’t need a career. Girls married, had children, stood by the side of a bubbling pot all day making nourishing soup for the men folks. Yeah right.

So when I left school, which by the way I hated because I was painfully shy, I was like a plastic bottle cast out on the mighty ocean, direction-less  bobbing along, never quite knowing which shore to make for. I was instructed by my dear mother that I should get a job as a dress machinist, which I did, ever the compliant one. I hated it, obviously, but around that time something good happened. I bought my first horse, Irish.

He was an absolute pig. Chestnut. Thoroughbred.  Ex racehorse. He terrified the life out of me. I looked like a pea on a mountain sitting astride his huge back. He would lash out in the stable and piss off with me across fields. He had to be sold before he killed me. I realise now that I lied through my back teeth telling his new people what an angel he was and how much fun they would have with him – that’s if they ever managed to catch him.

They came to collect him one morning and off they trotted, literally. I received the phone call an hour later to say that they didn’t want a horse any more. Irish had deposited one of them in the middle of the road and was now standing in the post office doorway and no one could get in or out.

I had given up riding Irish weeks previously. He had pushed me to the point where I daren’t even get on him. He was a liability on the road, shying at lorries and then cars and then cycles and finally at pedestrians. And frankly, this was because I was weak and terrified. I blamed myself. I thought a decent rider would be OK with him. Obviously I was wrong. I had no choice but to go and fetch him back.

Sure enough, he was still wedged in the post office doorway, standing in several piles of dung. A small crowd had gathered.  I caught him by the bridle and began my long walk back. Half-a-mile down the road a lorry approached and I felt him tense up. As the lorry passed Irish reared, almost kicking me in the head, before dragging me into a ditch full of stinging nettles.

I think that was a major turning point in my life. What the hell was I doing walking when I could be riding – if I wasn’t such a spineless shit! I rose out of the ditch, like the Incredible Hulk, grabbed his reins and leapt aboard. For seconds nothing happened. I think we were both in shock. Me because I was actually on his back, and Irish – because I was actually on his back! Our ‘moment’ was broken by the approach of a lorry. I felt him tense … and then I let him have it! With a swift swipe of the crop I hit him. With my heels I kicked him. And with my delicate tones I cursed him to hell. The lorry was right in front of us but Irish was mobile, trotting forwards. The lorry passed, I held up my hand to thank the driver for slowing down and off we went.

Every time a vehicle approached I growled at him. His ears flicked back. He caught the gist. And he trotted all the way home like butter wouldn’t melt. I learnt a lot about myself that day. Mainly that I will only be pushed so far. And the greatest lesson of all I think – face my fears.

There was nothing wrong with Irish. He had simply cottoned on to a wheeze of a game and I had allowed it. If he could have spoken he would have said, ‘Hey dudes look at me. Am I not the greatest?’

This is an attitude that wrinkles my nose. So maybe that is why I can’t adopt that attitude. Other people can and do. But I can’t. You will never see the day where I have written the words, ‘I sold 5,000 books yesterday.’ Or ‘I’m guest of honour at the opening of the new Aldi shop.’ It won’t happen. Ever. And it isn’t because nice things don’t happen to me or that I don’t have book sales because they do and I do.

Perhaps the answer lies in the few words which were spoken to me just the other day. I was telling my chiro lady, Archna, that Mulligan’s Reach was selling in paperback form and then I said, ‘Oh God, that sounds so big-headed doesn’t it?’ and she turned to me laughing and said,  ‘Don’t be silly, you are the most humble person I have ever known.’

And strangely, no bull-shit compliment would have meant more.

So maybe that is the answer? The reason why I can’t climb that mountain, beat my chest and yell out, ‘Hey look at me.  Am I not great?’

I am humble? Who knows?

Anyway, dudes, I’m off to stand by the cooker and make some soup – but only because I want to!!!

 

Take care my lovelies x

 

 

Engage Brain …Open Eyes! …

Hi All

Extra Brownie points for me today. I was up before the lark this morning and arriving at the supermarket as they opened their doors at 7.00 am. No time for dust to settle on me this morning! I had a leisurely stroll up and down the aisles, falling for the hype on the new Garnier moisturiser that is supposed to make your skin feel smooth for 7 days and I also gave the new signal toothpaste a try as well. Not literally. Not yet. I’ve already applied said moisturiser to my forearms but have to say that they do not feel particularly smooth and as soft as a baby’s bum. But we will see. Maybe it will take a few applications before my rhinoceros textured forearms show an improvement?

As usual,  the greatest time was spent in the cat food section trying to find something that Chea actually likes. She has worked her way through the main brands, deciding that she doesn’t like them now. I thought I had the answer when I discovered she liked Sheba but that didn’t suit her delicate palate for long either -, at least not all of them suited her delicate palate. She doesn’t mind one or two of them. I pander to her wishes – up to a point. When she has pushed me far enough I simply inform her that is all she’s getting, eat it or leave it!

I also picked up the necessary Easter eggs. A bit risky I know. But if I hide them well enough from Richard they may survive until Easter. With trolley full and having bought the winning lottery tickets for this Saturday??!! I pushed on out to the car park and pointed the car key at my little black car to unlock it  – and nothing happened. And THEN I noticed a man sitting in the front seat. Horror! What the heck was I to do? And when the man turned on the engine and slipped the car into gear one thought went through my head, ‘How do I explain this to Richard?’ As the car pulled away, there, still waiting for me was my little black car. I’d tried to unlock the wrong bloody car, and not only that, I’m sure the bloke saw me attempting to do it. I wrote a mental message to myself, that, if I’m going to go shopping at the crack of dawn I really needed to wake up properly first! Probably won’t mention it to Richard. He told someone the other day that I was out on a day pass. I can’t even remember what I said to incur such a comment.

OK. Breaking news. It is official that Chea can only climb up trees and not down. She has failed to come down from a conifer ( well she fell out of it actually), she has failed to get down the highest birch tree in the garden and yesterday she became well and truly stuck up the apple tree. I have no idea why because it has a lovely slopping branch which any feline should be able to navigate. I gave her twenty minutes before I had to accept she wasn’t going to get down. Richard was out. I daren’t leave her in case she fell through the greenhouse, so I have to admit, although the situation seemed rather amusing for twenty minutes, the novelty soon wore off. I had to run down to the house for my mobile and ring Richard and tell him to hurry home because Chea was stuck in the apple tree. As my luck would have it Richard was just home and getting out of the car. So another dash up the garden with the middle size ladder and Chea was once again rescued. All this nonsense about leaving cats up trees because they will find their own way down is a pile of pooh. Chea thinks it’s all fun, swinging from weak, canker ridden branches that could snap at any moment and send her hurtling through the greenhouse roof. But then, after twenty minutes or so the penny drops and she realises she is stuck. Then the pitiful wailing begins … For a small cat she sure has a big voice.

I’m off to hide the Easter eggs

Take care my lovelies x

To Turn Me On …

Hi All

This morning I rise like a phoenix from the ashes, refreshed, renewed and ready to take on this sometimes shit of a world. OK. Maybe that is stretching the truth slightly. But that’s what I’m telling myself. I work on the principle that if you tell yourself something for long enough you do actually end up believing it.

And frankly there is nothing much wrong with my world. I have just felt a great lethargy of late. That ‘can’t be bothered’ syndrome. And yesterday I just about polished myself off. As I mentioned, it was Richards birthday and he chose to go to the cinema to see Oz in 3d, which by the way was quite good. We took a slight detour first and popped into Marks for one or two little items of ladies stuff. Well, it was Richards birthday and he does enjoy trotting along behind me through the ladies undies section. We also took a stroll through the food department and bought a bag of jelly babies, a bag of chocolate eclairs, a bag of mini-eggs and a packet of cherry shortcake biscuits to eat in the cinema. I feel quite ill just typing this!

We scoffed the lot between us. I would like to say that the birthday boy pigged the larger amount but I’m not sure that he did. An hour into the film and I felt my eyes closing. How flipping embarrassing was that? I NEVER fall asleep in the company of other people. I say other people when actually there were only four other people in the cinema. But that still counts. I rallied round at the point where the wicked witch of the west hurtled off the screen and appeared to land on my head.

I continued the assault on my body when we arrived home by working my way through two bowls of broccoli and Stilton soup, two oranges and a bowl of muesli. I had to crawl up the stairs last night and lie flat on my back to ease the burden.

However, here I am. A survivor of the gluttony. Up and dancing. I tell a lie …but I am up. And I am back on the road to ‘CAN be bothered!’ And, I hear you ask … why? Because the sun is shining, even though it is cold, and I have a new garden shed imminently due. Yes. A garden shed. How cool is that? And what reason to rejoice!

You see, I’m not a girlie. I’m a tomboy. Always have been. Always will be. I don’t possess one item of jewellery other than a silver chain with a tiny frog on it …and that’s broken. I wear nail varnish purely to cover-up the potting compost that I can’t shift from under my nails. This pink blog is the nearest I get to that colour. My requests for birthday presents involve things like, a new wheelbarrow, a garden trug, a bird table, a greenhouse and stuff like that. Mind I did have a tantrum one year when I walked into the kitchen and found my birthday present from Richard’s mum, Betty.

Sitting there, in the middle of the floor, with a red bow on it, was  … wait for it … a doormat! A frigging doormat! When questioned, with a very powerful light shining in his face and with a turn of the thumbscrews, Richard said, ‘Well you said we needed a doormat, so I told mum you would like one.’

I think, at that point, I may have walked away… before I  wrapped it around his daft head and suffocated him with it!!

A doormat! He has NOT made the same mistake twice.

So I am up and bouncing at the prospect of my new shed.  I shall fill it with my tools, all arranged by size, and my billion plant pots, again, all arranged by size, because my COD allows nothing less. A place for everything and everything in its place.

Wow, I can barely believe the energy flooding through me now. I think I’ll just pop up and clean the loo before the tide runs out. And then I will have the chucks out and stand and stare a while at my patch of land where the new shed will shortly stand.

It takes precious little to please me, you know. The odd trug. A bit of greenhouse staging. A few plant pots. Four bags of compost for the price of three.

But I  firmly draw the line at doormats – even if they do come with a badly tied red bow!

 

Take care my lovelies x