Walking The Dog

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...

Imagine having a word that you can't mention. Like Voldemort, say, in Harry Potter land. Or fart when in the company of a great aunt. Or ice-cream if surrounded by toddlers. A bad idea, in the wrong situation, to utter any of those out loud. So it is with the W word in our house. If we say it and don't act upon it, it becomes a form of torture and a source of great, moaning-laden frustration. Utter it and the excitement created could be bottled. If you are in possession of a canine companion ... that looks wrong; arguably, it is the canine companion who possesses you ...  you will be aware of the strike-a-match potential of the W word. And the need to find alternatives - shall we go for a perambulation in half an hour? Or is it time for a stroll ? Or what about a wander across the fields? Or anyone fancy placing one foot in front of the other for an hour or so? Speak the W word itself and observe the transformation, from this to this ... actually it is s...

Early morning sun and a walk with Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins Frosty underfoot giving way to blue sky and long shadows and sunny boys Taking 'the path less travelled by' takes on a whole new meaning here - left, right or straight to heaven? But perhaps, this procrasti-rambler needs to forget heaven and see it as up . Stepping upwards and onwards. Taking the harder choice, the brave one, the one where challenges are met and tackled and overcome. Maybe, I should see it as a metaphor for ceasing to procrastinate and doing the things that are frightening and hard to face. When it comes to writing, criticism and rejections are hard to receive; praise is seldom fully believed and there is, ever present, the niggling doubt that the only person you write for is yourself. Being a writer can be immensely lonely. Sharing your writing risks increasing the loneliness, because, once it's out ther...

Dreich - Scottish word: meaning dull, damp, gloomy, perhaps a bit misty, and generally miserable as applied to weather. It could involve rain or just the heavy wetness that hangs in the air going nowhere until you step out into it and soak some of it up. It's wet. British. And in summer, associated with midges. Thankfully, this is winter and England. So no flying beasties with teeth. Just a pair of dogs and lots of water - raindrops on the village duck-pond deer on the horizon and dogs in the stream A clean stream. A stream (hopefully) protected by UK or (at the pre-Brexit moment) European laws. Unlike streams, waterways and rivers in America. They were protected. But no more. Not after Yuge  D and his gang of environmentally unfriendly friends swung behind a Congressional Review Act to repeal the Stream Protection Rule. They prefer coal dust on their hands to clean water in their streams and lakes and taps. Mining companies will no longer ris...

One road.  One walk.  One day. And I want to cry. How hard is it to keep rubbish in your car?  Clearly, the answer is quite hard.  Picture the litter-lout or litter-bug. Why in the UK we (or is it just me?) use lout, which is male and defined as a man or boy who acts boorishly or with aggression and without consideration towards others, is a puzzle, because I suspect littering is not an entirely male habit. Anyway, back to the lout who, in his  (or her. But I will use his and let you assume his or her ) first act of loutish behaviour, broke the law eating while driving. And probably thought he was driving safely - it didn't cross his mind that eating may have been, perhaps, a little distracting. Why would it have been? The wrapper unwrapped itself, of course! The ring-pull tugged and folded itself against the can; the crisp packet yawned itself open and the dozens of probiotic drink bottles (yes!!) pulled their own foil caps off. So th...

What do I remember of the year we spent in Australia? The heat; the long drives; long-striding lightning dancing across distant, dry plains; the gorillas at Melbourne zoo; an abundance of unfamiliar fruit and vegetables; kangaroo (and roo-burgers); trams; crisp slithers of eucalyptus leaves underfoot on forest trails; a little girl who didn't like sand between her toes; vertiginous peaks and plummeting shadows and cliffs where the earth had broken and fissured in the Blue Mountains; the Twelve Apostles of the Southern Ocean; spiders (lots of spiders); a relaxed cafe culture; Italian food on Lygon Street; earthy browns and creamy dots of aboriginal paintings; verandahs; snakes; public parks; wind, buffeting and forcing dry grit into your face round every pavement corner; and a distant city that sat on the palm of my hand - yes to all of those. But the sharpest memory is of the light: a fierce light, forcing a wash of white over everything burning in its glare. An unforgiving lig...