Walking The Dog

Beware of ranting ahead. Sometimes something just has to be said. The mock orange -  a handsome, richly scented, majestic garden shrub, topped with a prolific exuberance of frothing white hair  ... oops! ... flowers, that misleads with aplomb, pretending to be something that it isn't, as it masquerades as an orange. From gardening to referendum in one giant mocking leap. For anyone who knows me, this will come as a surprise, as I am not known for my political prowess or astute deliberation on current affairs. However, in the light of current circumstances and because it is perhaps, sadly, unlikely that Ruth Alexander and Andrea Leadsome will pull together a united bid to beat Boris - I propose the establishment of a new political 'party'. There! Surprised? Indeed; perhaps, surprised that I know who Ruth and Andrea are. Okay, so you know I'm not serious. But ... indulge me. There will be a point to this. For a moment assume that at the birth of this resolut...

Ok folks ... 'folks' so often repeated in the referendum results coverage last night, that it could be trending on its own ... yes, folks - here is an early morning, bleary-eyed, need-another-coffee quiz for you: who knows where the title of this blog is from? It is misquoted; a little. Shortened and cropped; a little. Poetic? Apt? Gloomy? All of the above; a little. I'm a little bit tired - something to do with cups of tea and ironing and watching television till 2am - so I'm hoping you'll forgive me. Perhaps, if I give you a clue ... Or spread this analogy a little thicker? Beefing up the analogy, would take it to a little island. To an apocalypse, too. Although, that's perhaps, a little strong. Maybe, a 'seismic' shift in the world we thought we knew. On our little island. And if indeed a seismic shift - another word too often said, in the referendum results coverage, last night - why does no-one know how to pronounce seismic? Or at least, agre...

Love. However you look at it, love in all its forms is what makes getting up in the morning worth while. Whether it be the all consuming, unquestioning love for your child; the intoxicating, sometimes maddening, sometimes downright agonising love shared with a partner; love of the sound of birdsong outside the window; love of expectation and excitement for the day ahead; love of knowing that you will see, or taste, or smell, or hear, or read something new - a face, a painting, a view, a flower, a reflection in a window, a poem, a tune, a meal  - before you next sleep; love of knowing that you will do something good, be your best and make someone smile today; and love of the memories of friends and loved ones departed, for whom you go on because they would have wanted you to and every step you take is a step for them, keeping them alive inside you and you love that feeling of doing something for them. A lot has been written and said and sung about love (a lot = massive understat...

How can they - again and again - attempt to justify the unjustifiable? To claim that they are safer exercising their right to bear arms. America's gun control legislation - or lack of gun control legislation - is again to blame for a mass shooting on American soil. Not religion, not extremism, not hatred, not mental illness. All implicated, yes,  but all underpinned by the ready and easy access to lethal weapons. What stands at the root of all blame? Guns. Just guns. Another mass execution has happened. In Florida, this time. It will happen again. Somewhere else. And again. In another place. And again. Over and over. It will continue until politicians muscle up against the NRA and call an end to laws that put lethal weapons in the hands of American citizens. Yes - American citizens. Americans killing each other. Because their interpretation of the Second Amendment says they can carry arms. It is their right, as written by the founding fathers, to do so. Written at a time when ...

When is it acceptable to overhear a stranger's conversation and admit to the stranger that you have been listening? Yesterday, I overheard. I listened. I admitted. All without uttering a word myself. Until I nearly fell over the stranger's child. My body language betrayed my eavesdropping. My mumbled apology confirmed it, as I stumbled round the child. My embarrassment flamed my cheeks, when I recognised the look on her mother's face, as she wordlessly demanded to know what the hell I was doing. "I thought I'd missed something. What you'd said. I - I was stepping backwards ... eh ... looking for the ... um ... 'blue-bells' ..." The mother laughed - of course, she did; it  was the National Gallery, after all. A library-hushed place of polite whispers and manners. And of course, being English and also in England, she apologised to me. We are a nation of apologists. Or should it be apologisers? Or apologees even - though, I suspect an apologee...