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...

Walls - hmmm - why am I building them? Why am I writing about them? Well ... we all build walls. Of a sort. From time to time. Some of us more frequently than others. What are they? Ok, so you know what a wall is; a vertical (usually, depending on their age) structure of stone or brick (again; usually) that forms a barrier, or divide, between discrete, physical spaces. Or it could be a verb, as in 'it walls us in', meaning traps or imprisons or encases. The noun version isn't necessarily bad - think the elegant weave of drystone walls, sweeping across the Yorkshire moors, or the walls, covered in favourite pictures and shelves and books, that build your home and support the roof over your head. The verb, on the other hand, traps you. So which am I writing about? Good walls or bad walls? Both, actually. First, the aesthetically beautiful example of the noun  wall,  that I have spent all weekend uncovering from beneath a tangle of ivy - Then, the penning-in verb...

Is it just me or do you also sing the 6 words in the title of this blog entry? Do they evoke memories of skipping round and round on the school playground? Do they spark off hints of other long forgotten tunes in your head? Memories of scuffed shoes, warm cartons of odd-smelling milk, an itchy, ill-fitting and snaggle-threaded-at-the-cuffs school jumper and of not having the words to explain the neediness of wanting to be included and the fear and shame of being different and alone. What power a nursery rhyme, eh! Nursery rhyme - definition: a short traditional poem or song for children. On a cold and frosty morning, specifically, is the 8 note final line of the nursery rhyme 'Here we go round the mulberry bush.' As with most traditional rhyming songs there is a history to it - Mulberries do not grow on bushes. They grow on trees. Unless clipped or stunted to restrict their growth. The frosted mulberry, burnt back to the size of a bush is probably a scathing reference ...