"Tiny, teeny, absolutely weeny bit" stuffed

Christmas ... Such fun! : from the mince pies and mulled wine after carols, to the meals shared with friends, to the exuberant jig of joy from Littlest when she realised it was time for bed on Christmas Eve, to the plate left out for Father Christmas, to the late night but peacefully alone preparation of turkey and last minute wrapping, to the unexpected internet chat with distant pre-dram brother in law and friends/mums also wrapping or preparing food in the wee small hours, to the early morning tea prepared by Littlest and sister before they woke us (it apparently took the grown ups an hour to make the tea and light the fire before assembling for stocking opening last year - far quicker to do it on their own!), to the wonderful, insightful letter to Littlest from the big man himself which made her feel very special and is now with other treasures in her jewellery case, to Littlest's request for pudding - just a "tiny, teeny, absolutely weeny bit please", to sharing the kitchen with many helping hands, to walking the dog on the warmest Christmas Day any of us could remember, to marvelling at the movement in his hips when presented with the biggest marrow bone he had ever seen (how to keep a Four-legged-friend happy in one easy lesson), to spending Christmas with family, relatives and friends, to watching the sometimes edgy but mostly joyful dynamic at the dinner table - even the risqué chatter seemed not to bother the most formality prone, manner fancying, elderly relative (but I suspect he has never sat at a dinner where the word 'penis' was tossed up the table - as Littlest's eyes popped, everyone else just giggled, and elderly in law manfully continued to munch his "over al-dente'd sprouts"), to the table that kept us eating and drinking for over five hours (truly stuffed!) - with interludes for singing, barber shop, piano playing, and finally, to the games, the laughs, the hugs at home time. And the quiet satisfaction of a day well done.

Happy stompers all.

Except Littlest who found an easier way to travel -

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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&#

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.

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Walking The Dog

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