Skip to main content

Teenage invasion and a case of mispronunciation

Tooth fairy delivered (though only just: quite how she almost managed to forget, after all last night's careful preparation, probably has something to do with the wine (a very pleasant Italian Sangiovese) that lubricated her journey. Thanks to four-legged-friend, who serendipitously barked at 5am, she jumped out of bed - which of course, was in one of Daddy's shoes, in his wardrobe - and found and placed her coin beneath the pillow). And she apparently used her special clippers to pinch out a tiny piece of tooth. Littlest is very happy.

Not sure Littlest has enjoyed being littlest today, though - assorted teenagers can come across to seven year olds as puzzling and very cruel e.g. in their totally inexplicable, roll-on-the-floor hilarity when she mis-announced, "I want some cock!" as she watched some coke being poured into someone else's glass. (Apologies if I have shocked anyone ...)


Four-legged-friend not sure about teenage invasion, either - first, they build strange, billowing pods and camp in his garden and keep him awake half the night; then their sleeping bags, beer cans, headphones and cameras (all damp, because of the rain) take up residence on the hall floor; then there are the shoes - dozens of them, and all soggy, lined up, in prime dog spot, in front of the Aga; and the constant music, constant eating and constant lying on the new sofas that four-legged-friend has been eyeing up longingly, ever since they arrived.

He doesn't know yet that he is being left in the care of teenagers over the weekend - while adults and Littlest go to visit the tooth fairies/Granny's garden for one night, after attending a wedding celebration. 

Maybe, we could have saved the tooth fairy a journey!



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

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...