Accidents, cancellations, applications and curtain poles

"That's weird!" says Littlest in response to the heading above, but as three of the accidents happened to her, it is perhaps more unfortunate than weird ... and the tooth fairy needs to be on standby, again!

First, four-legged-friend dropped the blackest, most disgusting of his well chewed bones on her foot, while she was, as per usual, wearing no shoes, out in the garden (mild ouch!)

Next, same friend stood on her foot (slightly bigger ouch!), while both of them were trying to look in the fridge, she for something to drink ... he just being hopeful, and hoping no-one would notice he was there. Although, if you don't wish to be noticed, standing on Littlest's already tender foot is probably not the best plan.

Then, wind blew the back door shut, at just the moment when four-legged-friend was on his way out to his dinner bowl. It caught his foot ... but he was so focused on his food that he hobbled out, in silence and stood shaking, while guzzling in his usual if-I-don't-eat-this-really-quick-it-might-disappear way. Not until the food was finished (about forty seconds later), did he feel sorry for himself, but by then I had checked for any serious injury and gone inside to see Littlest who had rammed her new wobbly tooth into the teeth below (big, big ouch!) and there was blood in her mouth, on her lips and on her fingers - the latter, because visible to her, causing most distress. As both she and four-legged-friend are now asleep, no lasting harm has been done, but the tooth fairies should perhaps be keeping Lady Penelope's car's engine warm.

Life at the moment is a bit like going into a restaurant and ordering Japanese for starter, Italian for main and Mexican for dessert: a real mish mash of disjointed things crammed into one day - hence the cancellation (driving lesson), application (do I really have to work more? Couldn't I just procrastinate for a living? I seem to be quite good at it) and now curtain poles - in new study/computer room/library/fire-letter sorting room/only place to make a private phone-call room/needing its door painted room/room with the most man drawers in the house room. (If you don't know what a man drawer is, think screw drivers, elastic bands, old film containers containing assorted drawing pins, nails, screws etc., batteries, passports, conference badges, paper-clips, tyre pressure gauge, paint charts, foreign coins, the bit for the freezer door that we might need one day, a map of Genoa .... )

Also gardened; discussed his future with son; advised daughter on holiday in Corsica how to purchase a new asthma inhaler, as the one she took with her was 3 years out of date; gave directions to eldest trying to find cousins' house in Edinburgh; cooked dinner ... and procrastinated. Fairly normal day, really.

Collected a new oxymoron at the weekend: Best Kebab, written on the side of a van that didn't look like it could provide the best of anything, let alone kebab - I'm not a fan and I'd go so far to say, that in my opinion, almost any other food is more deserving of the accolade best.

Lastly, just read that the average middle aged women spends £1000 on her holiday wardrobe - How?!!! I spent £20 on mine: a new swimming costume, after we got back from France!

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

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