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.

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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