Difficult for dogs: decisions, empty bowls and decorating

Many things are difficult for dogs, but some are more difficult than others:

Which one first? The white fluffiest one would be the easiest to mess up a bit, but, on second thoughts the blue alien (Snitch? Glitch? Or perhaps, Stitch?) looks a tougher challenge - better stuffed, therefore more to get my teeth into. Or maybe, I could toy with the wee Scottish sheep first; as an aperitif? The grey dog looks a bit too sad, so I'd probably leave him alone. Too much choice: where decisions don't involve (proper) food, they are really difficult for a dog ...

And after a spot of soft toy tossing, the last thing a dog wants to find is this -

Soft toys give a dog a terrible thirst - all the dust and fluff and clumps of spongy stuffing. And the sink taps are much too difficult for a dog.

But in my opinion, far worse than difficult choices and empty bowls, is the disruption in my sleeping, warming, treat stealing, floor-crumb-scavenging, foot nibbling, body leaning room.

The room where I do all of those easy things smells funny and is covered in sheets that slip around on the floor and dangle down from the table and chairs. So all the easy things that I normally do every day are now really difficult - I can't sleep, because whenever I try I get nudged, then shoved, then shouted at; I can't warm myself by the Aga, because it's disappeared under another sheet; I can't steal any treats, because there aren't any on offer and no-one has eaten in here today, so there aren't any crumbs; there aren't any people, with feet for nibbling either, because if they come in, they get nudged, then shoved and then shouted at, too - something about paint that mustn't be spilt.

Except it has been spilt - all over the walls!

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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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