Walking The Dog

Self and help, as in the title above ... we all know what self is. It's me. It's who you are to you. And help ? We understand that too. But self help . Do we really know what that is? Or more importantly, do we know how to practise self help? Or where to find it? Or if we find it, what to do with it? And why we should bother? Let's start at the beginning; with a definition - Self help is the assistance one gives to oneself. This assistance is achieved through the solving of personal problems ... what does that mean? Basically one turns into a hunter-gatherer, tracking and trapping helpful resources which are then used to benefit oneself. Hmmm ... there are too many ones and oneselves here ... essentially you search for things that will help and then do whatever those things are. Self help - done properly - results in improved resilience and wellbeing. Thus, self help is good. It sounds easy-ish. But the -ish becomes more heavily weighted when the world is being t...

The words 'happy place' probably turn the title of this blog into an oxymoron, coming after the eight words and numbers that precede them. I don't think many of us are feeling particularly happy at the moment. Me - I'm anxious; nervous; and sitting on the edge of my chair (which is possibly more to do with the general decrepitude of the chair and its broken undercarriage than any agitation I'm feeling). Why ... am I anxious - not why do I persist with a broken chair? Well - partly the obvious, the p word ... pandemic; but also two other words beginning with p. Might I have to put on PPE (personal protective equipment) at work tomorrow? Personal and protective. Personal - to me; to keep me safe. Protective - is it? I'll park that particular worry for now and deal with it tomorrow. There's nothing I can do about it today. You see, this is why I need to focus on my happy place. Why I need to escape. If I step back for a moment from the anxious l...

Confetti - noun: small pieces of coloured paper thrown over a bride and groom following their marriage ceremony. Also the bane of church yards and wedding venues - who wants to exit church after their favourite spinster aunt's funeral and slip on the papier mâché mush of last weekend's weddings, or step, in your wedding gown, onto a pink spattered step when your colour theme is lilac? Confetti - derived from the Latin confectum, meaning something prepared. Which suggests that there is something missing from the traditional wedding rhyme 'something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue ... something prepared.' How about something shared ... declared ... or ensnared?? Nature's confetti is all over the ground at this time of year - The garden, footpaths, and pavements are covered in blossom snow. And, when he falls asleep beneath the apple tree, it speckles Four-legged-friend's black coat. The confetti we know today - bits of b...

Spring. ' The Spring has sprung, the grass is rizz, I wonder where the boidie is ' - words often wrongly attributed to Ogden Nash; instead penned by the more prolific writer, Anonymous.  How do you judge when Spring has sprung? For me, it is stepping outside and the surprise, after a winter of damp, earthy smells, of breathing in warm, green air.  And the jostling, yellow gatherings, bursting above the grass. Or as Wordsworth rather more eloquently put it  " All at once I saw a crowd, A host of yellow daffodils, ... fluttering and dancing in the breeze " I neither flutter nor dance in breezes. Nor do Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins. They do however like a spot of lazing in the Spring sun. Particularly when that lazing involves watching me; gardening. Garden watching is all very well and companionably pleasing even if motivated by we-know-there-are-dog-biscuits-in-one-of-those-gardening-jacket-pockets-so-we'll-...

Discombobulation is fast becoming one of my favourite words; not least after someone who should have known better, asked a little sardonically "Discombobulation isn't a real word, is it?" and Littlest erupted in defence of one of her favourite words. She likes to utter it in full Blackadder fashion, with heavy emphasis on the central bob . And, before any doubters ask, she knows exactly what it means. Sadly, I think I may, soon, have to stop referring to her as Littlest. Unless, unless, ... unless I do continue, simply because she occupies that position in this family, but with the caveat that in age, if not stature, she is not particularly little any more and indeed, understands more than her affectionate moniker might suggest. There then lies the end of an era, perhaps, if childhood can be an era and is not too short to be era-worthy. I suspect (correctly as it turns out) she may appreciate the irony of being called Littlest. So until she asks me not to, she will for...

Broadband.  What is it? We take it for granted. We think we sort of know what it is. Do we? A ...  broad ...    band ...  ? Broad as in wide? As in encompassing a wide range of frequencies. The frequencies of multiple messages that, because the band  is  indeed wide, can be transmitted simultaneously. Or not. When it fails, picture a band that's so broad it frays and curls in on itself at the edges; rolling itself up into a tight constipated tube that no information - even information backing up like logs behind a beaver dam - is ever going to burst through.  Broadband at its most basic is simply electrons bumping into each other. It inhabits the earth and the air in a variety of forms, a broadband spectrum of electron collisions, if you like. In my imagined spectrum, there's SS broadband - the  s low,  s tuttering but mostly working variety.  This is almost but not quite as b...

The work do. That unique cocktail of duty, deference, dread, drama and dignity. It exists in many forms - from the snatched coffee at the nearest coffee shop to the full black-tied, multi-coursed, competitively-dressed, formal, vast-venued dinner with all sizes and shapes of gathering in between. They are associated with a stalwart we-are-all-in-this-together mentality and are, we are told, proven to be good for team work and bonding. So we commit to the do, even if staying in to clean and re-grout the bath might be a more attractive or more appealing option for an evening's entertainment. Attending your partner's work do might elevate bleaching the loo to a preferred way to pass the hours. However, however, however ... my cheeks are burning as I admit that it needn't be so. If the dread can be swept under the carpet and the gossip suppressed and the bitchy 'I can't believe she's wearing that' tongues bitten, it can be fun. When your partner's colle...

Another season. Another picture of the never-sat-upon bench.  Not sat upon by me anyway.  What would I do were I to sit there?  Probably fret about not pruning, mowing, clipping, picking, weeding, trimming, burning, edging, feeding, watering, planting and writing/reading/blogging. Arguably, I could do the last three from the bench, but as I haven't sat on it, I don't know if the house internet stretches that far. Reading doesn't need the internet. I could sit and read. But I would need blinkers to hide the 'hello-we-thought-you'd-missed-us-so-we're-just-going-to-perform-a-little-seed-scattering-dance-in-the-breeze-for-you' weeds. And it would also require a plentiful supply of bribery for Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins, to stop them bothering me until I get up; I suspect they think I'm ill when I stop and need to check that I can still move and that the hand that feeds them hasn't popped her clogs. Or that some other cliche-ridden disas...

Plants can't speak but sometimes thy do. More eloquent than words - they thank you for unearthing them from beneath the overhang of an over-exuberant neighbour by perking up, covering themselves in buds and waving bright colours at you the next time you pass. So plants repay kindnesses but they are not exactly friendly and proper company while gardening is always appreciated. Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins are always happy to sprawl nearby. Watching someone else work can be so exhausting; looking out for strangers or monsters or rabbits or tossed morsels of something delicious is always tiring. But seldom so tiring that you actually fall asleep because you remain ever hopeful and alert to the possibility of one of those aforementioned morsels that might if you're very lucky come flying through the air and smack you on the cheek. And that might happen at any minute. So you fidget. And scratch. And stay awake. And watch. Sometimes you have two people to gua...