On hating Monday now that it's Tuesday.

On Friday, I caught myself thinking “I really don’t want Monday to come.”

Shortly followed by “If I think like that I’ll spoil the next two days.”

Spoiling in this context refers to walking around in a dream, refusing to make decisions about anything, forgetting the location of the car keys, putting off doing jobs, allowing the washing to grow into piles that would require a troop of sherpas and several laundry-basket-carrying pack-horses to transport down one flight of stairs, failing again to find my green fingers and plant up my pots, not submitting (of course!) and procrastinating into the wee small sleepless hours. Why?

Does working somewhere new do this to everyone? Or does it just happen to me? It’s not the foreign place, nor the clientele but the threat of an alien computer system. Which has a logging-in and password set up that never works at the first attempt. A practice with its own way of doing things; that files letters in irretrievable places and where equipment resides in unlabelled drawers, or cupboards half way down a distant corridor, or with someone in Room 6. All of which conspires to build my flair for stifling incompetence, renders me dysphasic and feeds a caffeine craving that only exacerbates my already nervous tremor. This is how I feel inside. The expression 'polar opposites' springs to mind (one frequently abused by Littlest even when the subjects are not particularly different like cats and dogs, orange and yellow, peas and carrots) since I must appear completely different outside - evidenced by the fact that I have been asked back! Aaargh!

Acting calm is the key. And don't succumb to panic.

I have tricks to “stay calm” – concentrate hard on the landmarks during the journey to work and think, think, think about the journey home – it will happen no matter what; breathe; send texts to the outside world and hope that someone replies; have that promised coffee; breathe; make a list of all the things I didn’t do over the weekend and will do tomorrow – imagine doing them and feel good about it while indulging in a patting-self-on-the-back moment; and ... write in whatever breaks arise, such as now (half an hour for lunch). And resolve to post later. Or on Tuesday.

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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.

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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