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 planks out of a white van. Racing in my mind through the journey ahead against the ever-diminishing time.

I felt a slight muscle-tensing lurch of my upper body, in a bracing-myself-for-forward-momentum-reflex

... but that anticipated forward momentum failed to occur. Completely. Nothing. I flopped back against the seat. We went nowhere.

Hmmm ... one small, insignificant, tiny, little thing was missing amidst all the early morning rushing - the car key; still in my pocket and very much not in the ignition.

Eldest and I laughed.

`

Laughter is so great at popping the bubble of stress.

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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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