Eating like an ostrich

Family dinner table conversation (which Littlest slept through, twitching occasionally on the sofa next to the kitchen):

"I'm eating like an ostrich."

"I'm never photogenic in France."

"It's a coincidink." (coincidence!)

"What's a Jezebel? ... "A cross between a Jeremy and an Isobel!"

How to stay young; which of our adult family friends look older than we (the parents) do, and what makes someone seem to be younger, when in fact they are older. Lots of potential for insults, but none given or taken.

Whether my sister, who is qualified to do ear piercing, will also pierce other regions, and "What is a vajizzle, anyway?" (suspect the questioner knew the answer and just wanted to check if her father had been listening when it was discussed, and his education was broadened, mid-river - the Dordogne - in a canoe, earlier this month). Managed not to correct the pronunciation or the spelling, or fall into the embarassing-of-mother trap of trying to explain. It reminded me of the evening, on holiday in France and out for dinner with much younger children, when son (now the boy-with-the-long-legs) asked in a loud voice, "What is a condom, then?"

The institution of family meals is a good one and should be repeated more; even when Littlest sleeps (which in the circumstances was probably quite a good thing), she is still with us. And laughter is such a good tonic (as was the gin and tonic earlier).

Four-legged-friend, who tried hard to contribute to the dinner conversation by singing mournfully in the room next door - "They have food in there, I know they do. Pleeeeeease let me in. Pleeeeeeeease." - is stretched out on the kitchen floor, nose now cold and wet again and drool all gone.

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