Muse on the frustrations linked to work

Bunty, Bobby and Beatrice (Emerald Frog blog) will have to wait until tomorrow ... sorry ... got it all planned out in my head but forgot that B B & B are red squirrels and that the baddies must therefore be grey, so planned names wouldn't fit - will have to sleep on it and see if more inspiration drifts my way. If this makes no sense to you at all, then apologies and for explanation read chapters 1 - 3 of B B & B in Emerald Frog.

Somewhat miserable day today - work; kids music exams & driving test; and work.

Reasons why work was distressing today:

wasn't at home
got stuck behind tractor; then lorry; then another tractor on way there
computer system had changed - made me run late; made me look/feel stupid; meant I missed my coffee break
couldn't be there to give my son a hug when he failed his driving test
dog = maniac when got home, after a morning shut in his pen listening to builders singing
work!!! need I say anything more
and ... got to go back tomorrow
and ... slightly jealous of son who will be at Wimbledon tomorrow

Tip to all you undecided youngsters out there (if anyone is actually reading this) aim to do a job or enter a profession that you actually enjoy - that way work won't feel like work and you'll be happy. Maybe.

Eldest has just told me to go to bed ... because I "have to go to work tomorrow!!!!!"

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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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