A dog less walked is ...

What is it with children and towels?

Mine (children) appear to think that their (towels) reside on the floor and are careless of their particular addresses. Allotted towel residences include flooring of the carpeted, tiled or wooden variety, on landing, stairs, playroom, bedroom, or kitchen. And in the latter abode, the said towel is quickly appropriated by the four legged tenant who pushes, pulls and shoves it into a soft, hair-covered heap, that he then sits on and chews.

Wooden towel racks lurk in dark corners of the house, ignored, forlorn and recklessly unemployed. Sometimes they are joined by the shoe rack, washing basket, cardboard tubes from the inside of loo rolls, and toothpaste caps, all seeking solidarity in their collectively pointless lives. Maybe the sock eating monster takes solace there too, following particularly rigorous forays under beds and in the bottom of wardrobes, and might hang the odd odd sock on the empty rails of the towel rack in an act of healing.

The same magic (mildly marinated), midnight (usually) fairy who makes the children's beds; empties the bath and picks up the soap also picks up the towels.What's her name? Muggins, of course.

And why is this called a dog less walked? Because a dog less walked yesterday is a dog more vigorously animated today. And one who woke at 5am, which is when I scribbled above mini rant on a piece of paper.

... After nearly falling over a towel on the stairs.

Comments

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful. Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!

Curlews, summer skies and walking in circles.

Summer skies over the Yorkshire Dales and my mind is set to rest mode. But that rest is not totally restful; there is a niggle ... a memory, a hint of childhood, something that unsettles slightly - a light brush stroke of discomfort; a gossamer breath of discombobulation and a 'Woah! Wait a moment!' moment of 'that's-not-right!' - we're about as far from the sea as it is possible to be in middle Britain and yet, I can hear the distinctive Peep! Peep! of oystercatchers and the piercing cry of curlew. Here - in the blue skies of the North Yorkshire dales and along the footpaths - and above the endless miles of drystone walls are birds that should be at the coast. Oystercatchers, with their distinctive red pliers attached to their heads feed on - you've guessed it - oyster beds. All along the coastline of the British Isles, their distinctive cry is the call of summer. Drowned out somewhat by the banter of seagulls but sharp and

Walking The Dog

Search This Blog