Plop, Stomp and Belle

When, over morning coffee, your daughters inform you that they have changed their names to Plop, Stomp and Belle - and you know that everyone had breakfast, no-one is hung-over and the throbbing finger that got trapped in the hinge of the garden loppers five minutes earlier confirms that you are awake - you cup your drink in your hands, smile and say "Fine." Then you try to figure out which is which and join the joke, and laugh, and reflect how great it is to have them home, and love the way they tease each other. And wish that it would never end.

The coffee conversation leaps around from funny names, to the funny faces that dogs make before they sneeze - imagine squirting the bitterest most astringent liquid into its mouth and you get the picture. The giggling chatter then tumbles into the subject of fruit and the one calling herself Belle says "It's impossible to eat a banana at school now."
To which Littlest (or Stomp) adds, "I always eat a banana when I have Thursdays."

Perhaps it's the 'having Thursdays' with their associated banana consumption that is making her grow - we did one of our there-isn't-enough-space-in-my-cupboards-because-I-have-too-many-hand-me-down-clothes sorts of her room (mostly the floor) yesterday and some of the too-little-items (which we pass on to the Little family ... yes, really) were a trigger for 'But I like that one' and 'Can't I keep it and turn it into something?' This was followed by "Either my clothes have been shrunking or I've grown 10cm!"

Littlest isn't alone in growing -

In the garden, weeds have taken over the fruit and veg' plot. There are raspberry canes here. Somewhere.

And rather sickly gooseberry bushes cowering beneath the weeds. Pruning out the lichen and broken branches to create a classic goblet-shaped bush may have promoted a healthy recovery.

But perhaps a sudden demise is more likely following the vigorous bark shredding, stem crushing chewing that all the cut branches got while I took a barrow load of weeds and clippings to the bonfire heap.

"Me!" Nooo ...

Spring will no doubt tell if mangled gooseberry bushes are capable of recovery and growth. Spring is also a time to contemplate the undesired growth that is the consequence of months of hibernation, wrapping-up warm and comfort eating - both Bertie Baggins and Four-legged-friend have added winter thickness to their girths and are on a diet - slightly smaller cupfuls of dried food per meal and chopped carrot for treats, adding moisture to the hardened, crumbling, bread gravel in my pockets.

I need to switch to carrots and longer walks too.

Which will happen shortly after I give up chocolate.

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