Aaaaargh! Computers.

Computers: love them most of the time. Hate them when they go wrong.

Decided that today was the day when I would finally stop procrastinating and do some of the things I have been promising myself I would do for the past couple of days (or weeks, or probably several months if I am honest). Got off to a good start - sat at computer, made coffee, walked the dog, sat at computer again, made lunch, put on a washing, sat at computer and imagined glue holding me to seat, typed letter & managed to add attachments to email (without resorting to consultation with children, which with most things computerly is quite an achievement for me. I probably still did it vastly more slowly than they would have done. Ho hum ...) and pressed send. Yippee job done.

Then, the email bounced back - notification of failure to deliver. What?!!! Was the web postie on his tea break? Turns out my server has probably been blacklisted by the recipient (whatever that means). Resorted to normal behaviour of my generation and sent it again and then again - a bit like shouting louder at the foreign waiter in the deluded belief that he will then understand - it bounced back again and then again, somewhat inevitably perhaps.

Luckily, I have two email addresses and apparently the second is not blacklisted yet, so posted email to myself and then forwarded it on to desired destination. Felt very clever about that. Especially when it didn't bounce back. Little bit worried now that it might have got lost somewhere in the flickering ether of the web; not very confident about the web postie's ability to find the right address really. Guess I won't know for sure until I get a reply ...

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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...

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 ...

Heaven clearly can't wait. Ranting and screaming inside. Growing old and lecturing ... myself, mostly.

What follows should come with a warning - it is a preachy rant. Stop now if you're not in the mood for a lecture. Or, if you're into procrasti-reading, read on and (hopefully) enjoy my latest piece of procrasti-writing. Apologies too for the reference to elderly leakages. And farts. And now, for being deeply irreverent. Sorry. Heaven can't wait. Meatloaf was wrong. Clearly the 'band of Angels' is impatiently putting together a gig. There's a party happening which we haven't been invited to. Yet. What a terrible year 2016 has been, so far. And we are barely dipping our winter-wrapped toes into Spring. Is it that the roll-call of those summoned to a higher place grows ever more poignant as we age? Prince was but a few years older than me. Victoria Wood, a meaningless number of years older still. Meaningless because what does age mean astride the long plateau of middle age before the eventual slide into decrepitude? A few years here, a few there - we...

Walking The Dog

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