Skip to main content

Inner sheep-dog

My inner sheep-dog is troubled.

By troubled I mean unsettled, discombobulated and partaking of a personal worry-fest.

Am I the only human to possess an inner sheep-dog? Surely not.

 Sheep dog - the keen dog that rounds up its little flock, coaxes it into a safe pen, then guards it fiercely. 'Over protective' possibly springs to mind but wouldn't be strictly accurate - this sheep-dog is happy to let it's lambs stray, but worries if they wander too far, or into activities that the sheep-dog may not consider 100% safe. I suspect most mothers are sheep-dogs.

Or do you need to be both mother and in possession of an over-active imagination?




Currently, this sheep-dog's concern is that snow, plus slopes, plus planks attached to feet, equals potential hazard. Or many, many, many potential hazards. Skiing like sailing has been spoilt for me by having children. Instinct tells me that I have a duty to get to the end of the day without breaking anything or drowning. After all I am 'Mummy' and mummy is needed to wash, feed and read to her flock, before tucking them up in bed and wishing that tomorrow wasn't another day of danger in the snow, or on the water. Pathetic? Possibly. Innate? Definitely.




Wary, my inner sheep-dog struggles to relax into this game of skiing. She sees danger over the edge of every piste. Round each corner. With the fast approaching scrunch of every snowboarder. And on all button drags and chair lifts. After all a lamb might fall off. Or over. Or down. Or be squashed by an out of control adolescent with both feet strapped onto one plank. Lashings of mint sauce may be required.

Part of the problem is the clarity of the sheep-dog's visions of calamity. They wake me with a jolt, just as I am sinking into sleep. But they aren't quite hallucinations ... despite the above, I'm not going mad. Not yet.

So what is the cure? Indeed, is there a cure? Are you shouting "Therapy!" at this blog? Or "More alcohol!" Or are you quietly agreeing, as you too have an inner sheep-dog?




For now - I ski (very slowly ... apparently - as I am told again and again, with that resigned, softly monotonous-verging-on-irritated tone of voice. But better the steady, safe tortoise than the reckless hare, I say ... to myself); I smile; I laugh; I joke about falling over (me ... many times); I admire the scenery; I sup the vin chaud; I keep my worries to myself; and I stroke my inner-sheep-dog, quietly telling her it will be over soon and we'll all be safely back at home.

Will I ski again? - of course, no sheep-dog is ever going to let her flock go on holiday alone!




Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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...
Post a Comment
Read more

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 ...
Post a Comment
Read more

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...
Post a Comment
Read more