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Where the wind comes from nobody knows. And when top dog doesn't know when he isn't

No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
AA Milne

The last line of the full poem is, 'Where the wind comes from Nobody knows.' Clever chap that Nobody.

AA Milne was pondering, in a Pooh-stuffed-full-of-honey sort of a ponder, on the peculiar nature of the weather type of wind; that it has strength and direction, comes from over there and goes to the opposite over there, and varies from day to day. All very puzzling to Pooh, a self-confessed bear of little brain, particularly one who asked, "Did you ever stop to think and forget to start again?" Which is a trait I share with Pooh. Practised on a daily basis.

Weather wind can be cold or hot or anything in between. Temperature can also be applied to figurative wind.

Politicians stir up a lot of hot wind; very hot wind - sometimes, and this seems to be a problem particularly experienced by loud blond politicians and those that are also property developers, it does strange things to their hair. 

Wind can also emanate from various bodily orifices - all such gaseous seepages or explosions being rude and some necessitating rapid evacuation of the kitchen following a canine I've-been-eating-rabbit-droppings-again-scented eruption. 

Pooh, if indeed it was he into whose mouth AA Milne put the wind puzzling words, was musing on weather wind which is good for some things - flying kites and sailing, for example - but bad for others - wedding veils and barbecues.

On a blustery day recently,

Littlest observed that freezing rain falling on a warm face felt like pins and needles

 and Four-legged-friend observed that the wind makes it difficult to control one's ears.


                                            


but that you can 'help' by finding the bucket that blew away.


                   


While Bertie Baggins ignored both wind and buckets, and his uncle's ears, and posed for a photograph - which is pretty typical of teenagers today. And surprisingly (to me in any case) this somewhat narcissistic behaviour is more marked in boys who in a recent survey were found to spend longer posing for selfies than girls. Bertie Baggins hasn't found a way of taking his own selfies yet but he knows how to sit and look fit. Or sick. Or is it gorg (as in short for gorgeous)? ... Fit apparently, according to my sources. Although, in Bertie's case maybe chocolate-eyed, you-love-me-don't-you-head-tilted, if-I-gaze-longingly-at-you-for-long-enough-you'll-give-me-one-of-those-biscuits-you-have-in-your-pocket and all round beautiful boy, might be more appropriate.





Technically though, he is no longer a teenager - more of a twenty-something diva.

A diva who's taking control. Stealthily. For the past few weeks, we have noticed the beginnings of a hierarchical change. Bertie Baggins now sidles up to the aga, pushes and nudges and wriggles, forcing his uncle to accept his new position both on the floor and lower down the canine dominance rankings.





Four-Legged-friend has the air of one who quite frankly doesn't give a damn - 'Let the youngster think he's on top - we all know who was here first, finishes-his-food-so-that-he-can-barge-in-on-yours first and is first to bark at anything and last to bark at nothing at bedtime. Everyone else knows who really is top dog and it does no harm to indulge the child - what's a bit of radiated heat among friends, especially when the colour of your coat means that you absorb the heat quicker than him anyway?
Bet his youthful brain hasn't considered that!'


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