Weather forecast - accurate ... and ignored

Weather forecasts? - forecast the weather - so when it is going to snow you can prepare by doing things like not going out for dinner, or if you do go out then by clearing the drive and salting it before you go; then the car may not have to be abandoned where it slid to rest. Also, if an outside job - such as erecting a fence has been started and there is a clear, frosty day in hand, then perhaps it would be sensible to complete the task - instead of waiting for the forecast to fulfil its prophecy and finishing it in the snow.

Putting jobs off until tomorrow is one thing, but putting them off until it snows is a novel way of making them more difficult. Four-legged-friend never puts any job off - whether its eating his meals, chewing his bone, worrying a stick, curling up on his mat, or chasing the vacuum cleaner across the floor - he's a man of immediate action. Maybe I need to take a leaf out of his book.

The man of action was not sure what to make of the snow, or of the new fenced area next to his run.

"This pallet hasn't got hinges! How do I get out of here, then?"

What he would really like to have done today was helping to eat the dinner - instead of just the carrot tops and whatever potato peelings strayed onto the floor where he waited, wedged between me and the bin.

This rather odd looking roast was a direct consequence of the snow - or rather of the forecast for snow and the resulting panic-buying which meant there were no legs of lamb left, no large chickens, no broccoli, no cauliflower, and no more than one bag of parsnips.

Still as friend who came for lunch at 4pm (!!) said, "Nom, nom ...", meaning it filled a spot. Twice. His spot and several others, actually; all human - Four-legged-friend had to make do with a few of the scraps.

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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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