Home sweet doggy home

I am so very pleased to be home. Away from that noisy place, where I had to shout just to keep up with the neighbours - now my bark is so hoarse, it hurts, so I'm thinking I'd better rest it for a few days. And talking of rest - all that barking at the kennels really tired me out: I couldn't sleep, couldn't relax, had to stay alert 24/7 to keep up with all the gossip. Now I'm home, I'm really, really tired.

Slept by the Aga:

Then helped to water the blue-berries

And sniffed around the bonfire. Rabbits have been very busy in my absence - loads of droppings! Yum!

Missed my blankie! Gave it a good chew.

Didn't want mum to leave me anywhere again, so followed her around everywhere, even helped with the washing.

Got between her and the dishwasher, between her and the bin, between her and the kettle - managed to make her trip over me a couple of times too. Don't want her to forget I'm here.

Later tried to sleep again. But ...

... couldn't! Think I might just milk their guilt for a few more days.

After all, its not every day I get a bone and a nice long walk, with carrots:

What could I try for tomorrow?

Just one thing I don't understand - apart from, of course, the inexplicable need to banish and imprison me for over a week. What were they doing all that time without me? - and that is all the talk about teeth. What's the fuss? I ate mine when they fell out. Don't humans do the same?

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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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