Skip to main content


Showing posts from February, 2014

Laughter as the best medicine and absolutely nothing about dogs.

Rushing ... to deliver Littlest to a play date. Rushing ... to the station so that Eldest could catch a train. To take her away. Again. Rushing ... against the traffic and distance and time to get to work. On time. (Or is it in time?) And the following (slightly embarrassing event) occurred - We reached the venue for the play date. I said good-bye to Littlest - kissed three times, quick (I'm rushing) squeeze - and jogged (still in rushing mode) back to the car. I sat down, a little out of breath. Strapped in. Right hand onto steering wheel. My head was now rushing. Thoughts of arriving late at work. Worry about keeping people with appointments waiting. Feeling just a little stressed as time ticked on (somewhat faster that Google maps had predicted). I reached down to put the engine into first gear and the hand-break off. Both my hands now ready on the steering wheel. Brow furrowed. Eyes fixed on the bend ahead and the navigation hazard of a builder lifting some

Saying 'thank you' and meaning it. And listening to your gut instincts.

How often do you say "Thank you"? And how often do you  really  - so sincerely that you could-gather-the-recipient-up-in-your-arms-and-hug-them-but-don't-because-that-would-be-a-bit-weird- really  - mean it? There are lots of ways of saying 'Thank you' from the I've-been-told-to-so-I'm-saying-it-under-my-breath-and-you'd-better-be-listening-because-there-is-no-way-I'm-going-to-say-it-again muttered thank you of the child, who far from understanding why he might have to say sorry sometimes, really can't see why he has to say thank you for something he didn't ask for, doesn't like and will throw in the bin as soon as granny has left the house, to the sarcastic f***-off -"THANK YOU VERY MUCH" when someone drives too fast through a puddle and soaks you and Littlest and her school shoes and her new coat and your lovely leather winter boots. There's the warm 'thank you' implied in a kiss. And the courteous 'tha

Twigwams. And the brutality of flailing that makes me Furiouser and FURIOUSER.

Walking the Dog did not venture far yesterday. We reached the other end of the garden, where Littlest built a twigwam and filled it with imaginary woodland creatures - a badger, a hare and a "cute little hedgehog who had lost his mother." Bertie Baggins wondered if he was imaginary . We seemed to have forgotten about him. Or forgotten to let him through the gate into the Outside World ( I haven't got over Piglet's capitals yet - see previous blog). That the Outside World was fifteen feet or so of woody overgrown verge and dropped steeply onto an Unfriendly Road had escaped his imagination. My imagination, however, stretched to smashed cars and squashed dogs, so Bertie Baggins remained garden-bound.  And he protested loudly.  For hours.  Which did little to settle my temper.  Why would you do this to a hedgerow?  What sense is there in ripping into a young tree, shredding its branches and scattering the broken bark an

Floodier and floodier. And a dog that can fly.

I do love Winnie-the-Pooh. Even (although, I hate the gopher) the 1968 Disney version of The Blustery Day, in which The Hundred Acre Wood becomes "floodier and floodier" and the Sherman brothers wrote 'The rain rain rain came down down down' to accompany Piglet's predicament, in which, as AA Milne originally wrote, he - Piglet - "is entirely surrounded by water." Piglet endearingly says to himself "It's a little Anxious to be a Very Small Animal Entirely Surrounded by Water." Pooh meantime escapes onto a broad branch of his tree with ten pots of honey. And sits, dangling his legs, until all the honey is gone. Disney or book, the story has an innocent beauty and a happy ending. It lingers in memories of childhood and later, of sitting with a sleepy child curled up on your lap, sharing something that made you both smile. However, I share Piglet's anxiety and don't love real floods. Particularly, when there are no upturned honey-ja

A cauld dreich day/week/month ... (hopefully not) year

Dreich I've mentioned it before - dreich-drookit-and-mauchit . But I mention it again now because dreich is such an excellent little word and as it means dull, gloomy and bleak, it is also timely. A YouGov poll in January 2013 (yes, amazing the things governments spend their money on) revealed it to be Scotland's favourite word. You can put all your frustration and disgust into the 'dr' at the beginning and the ending even sounds like the 'yuck' that you are feeling and wish the word to convey. Try it. It can be quite therapeutic. Make your lips work. Hiss out the throaty gurgling "ch" at the end. Splutter a bit. Feel the angst leaving you. This is onomatopoeia at its very best. Driech however might occasionally meet a situation where it needs to be beefed up - could the weather (if you can call it weather - I thought weather implied some degree of short term climatic change as opposed to the unmitigated rain, rain and more rain of recent weeks