Gentle musing: Are you ever too old to like pop music?

Changed my FB status last night to "Ironing ... Coldplay at Glastonbury on TV. Happy!"

And later (okay, Coldplay finished at midnight,so it was very late cos I couldn't sleep) I started thinking ... am I too old to like bands like Coldplay and Take That so much that I can sing along to their songs, in the car, with the windows down, while driving back from the school run and secretly hope that one day I might drag an embarrassed child or two along to a concert? Yes, I also love some classical, musical and choral music (more appropriate for my age perhaps???) but my eclectic mix, if ever (unlikely!) invited onto Desert Island Discs (popular British radio programme), would be tilted heavily toward the sing along, feel good, pop ballad.

Personally, I like what I like, and it doesn't really bother me that my kids might think me a little quaint. What perhaps does make me feel a little uncomfortable is the suspicion that my peers might think I am just trying to impress the kids ...

Sweltering day here (26 degC) and due to be more sweltering tomorrow (29degC!!). Little worried about prospect of swimming gala - lots of little people and parents sitting in the sun for an hour tomorrow afternoon. Hats and lots of water!

Dog wearing black fur coat is not a happy boy, but has had a good soaking form the hose and is now lying in the shade. Too hot for a walk me thinks.

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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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