Failed again ... and again ... and

My to do list is beginning to look more like a wish list - a flight of fantasy jot-it-down-but-know-I'll-never-get-round-to-doing-it list. Every time I look at it, it has grown. But actually, that's a lie because I can't "look" at it since it isn't written down anywhere, unless you count the list inside my head that stretches to the disappearing horizon of my imagination. If my list were a business, it would have collapsed months ago, weighed down by unmet targets and disastrous time management.You might reasonably ask what I plan to do about it. Here are some ideas

eat chocolate
drink wine
demand hugs from Littlest
tackle ironing pile while watching DVD = guilt free filling of time that could otherwise be devoted to items on list = avoidance technique no. 1
walk Four-legged-friend = avoidance technique no. 2
attack garden = guilt free activity because good for health = avoidance technique no. 3
apply self to housework = good for the soul = avoidance technique no. 4
work = aaargh! = horrible necessity, good for the purse. Not optional, therefore not an avoidance technique!
sort shoes = completely brainless but calming pastime = avoidance technique no. 5
blog = best and most enjoyable avoidance technique = the home of the procrastinator, and perpetual list maker, but serial list-ticking failure.

So where do I go from here?

Littlest - hug time?

Comments

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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