The Plumber
Greenwich has this wonderful scheme which provides free odd jobs to we vintage models. Wonderful I hear you say and I said too. Unfortunately there is a fifteen-minute limit to this visit and there's not a lot that can be done in fifteen minutes. However they will assess your needs, make a report , then you apply for a claim and in the fullness of time the work will be done. Our blocked sink seemed to be more urgent than this process would allow so my friend got on to a plumber.
He arrived nearly within the half hour he promised and did the usual head shaking with warnings that it wasn't going to be a straightforward job and that the pipes had vicious bends that might be unreachable and he may have to dismantle the entire drainage system. Then he went off to Wicks to get a piece of pipe, he would be back in ten minutes. We did a joint panic job envisaging floorboards up and general disaster. Our lodger chose this moment to make a cake and we were in such a state of anxiety - twittering among ourselves - that we watched her go to it with the aplomb that she brings to everything.
After an hour I was convinced he had abandoned the job with the sink in bits and ourselves in turmoil. He rang to say that he had to go somewhere else for the spare part but would be back soon. ' I bet he's having a fry up in some café!' I said. 'Probably on his third cup of tea now.' My friend was building up to fury with beetled brow and dangerous eyes. She began to speak of the British workman in derogatory terms when the intercom went. 'Plumber!' his cheery voice rang out and he bounced in with no sign of a pipe and I fancied I got the scent of fried bread off him, I licked my lips and he proceeded to apply his vacuum thing to the dismantled waste pipe and in two minutes it was all over, clean as a whistle clear as a bell as if by magic.
He looked triumphant like a conjuror and we, in our relief joyfully paid him what he asked and thanked him profusely. 'Just make sure you put boiling water down it once a week and it will be fine! It's a build up of grease.' I am the fry up merchant of the family and I hung my head slightly. But all in all we were delighted and it was a nice pantomime: scare the bejesus out of the punter, leave them for an hour to build up the tension then come back and do the job that would have taken all of ten minutes. I like to think of it as an exercise of the emotions! Fair play Mr plumber. We came away happy and so did you.
The lodgers cake was excellent.
Friday, 29 October 2010
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
The Literary Event
The Literary Event &
I had read weeks ago in the Guardian about the 'To Hell with the Lighthouse' event which takes place monthly in a Rock and Roll Club in Denmark street. Naomi Alderman was to read on that occasion and I had enjoyed her first novel 'Disobedience' enormously. Unfortunately I was unable to get to that particular meeting but what I had heard I liked so I decided to go anyway and had been looking forward to it too, happily dismissing a mention of 'young talent'.
I thought it would be fun to meet some new people, make a few contacts, network. I am fairly new to the networking game and I am sure I will never get the air kiss past the edge of a face right. But I can't believe this is vital. I do hope not. I have quite recently begun to tweet and have been blogging with great enthusiasm since February so now for some flesh-to-flesh networking I thought and I must say I found the idea rather exciting. In fact I tweeted somebody who was reading and she sounded keen to have me there so I was hopeful. I descended the stairs into a club that reminded me very much of places I had known in the sixties and the shop above was enchanting, in fact Denmark street appears to have absorbed all the music shops in this part of London. It's been a long time since I've been there and had forgotten how great it is.
The barman sold me some fairly unpleasant white wine pointing at a happy hour poster and I found a seat beside a young woman at a table so I could begin my networking straight away. 'Hi' I said and she smiled and carried on her conversation. I looked around the fairly empty bar where some jolly men in reversed baseball caps were having a merry time, I wondered if I should give up on networking and join them - they looked friendly enough - at least they smiled.
But no, I am here for a purpose I thought and tried the girl on my right again.
'Who's reading tonight?' she mentioned one name but said she didn't know who else. She went back to her conversation. I noticed a magazine on the table called 'Fat', I asked if I could buy one and she smiled and said I could. It was a misnomer I thought for this very slender mag that cost £2, the content was pretty slim too, and it was called a countercultural ladies' mag. I might be countercultural if they allow women of advanced age to be countercultural, which seems dubious. But 'ladies' is a word that I take issue with. I imagine it is used ironically though there was not much sign of irony in the interior of the magazine. There was a little self conscious swearing in the editorial so perhaps that is the countercultural bit. Spare Rib it 'aint, more's the pity.
I found a stray book on the table and began to read, it was an interesting idea about gods on Hampstead Heath, I wondered what the cruisers and bathers made of them. Probably wouldn't notice them I thought - particularly if they were over thirty - but gods are immortal of course. I liked reading it and a woman came up and told me it was a proof copy so I was welcome to it and could get it signed. I said thanks and she left before I could engage her in any conversation. Besides the place was filling up with young women with a few men among them and the noise level had increased to what I imagine it must be like in a parrot cage just before feeding. Not all the noise was that of kissing air, some was from the many 'hello darlings' and a generalised squawking.
I have been reading a lot about obesity of late but here there were few above size eight and most in tiny printed cotton dresses. I asked the woman on my right in one of her breaks from leaping up to deliver a kiss; 'Why is the magazine called Fat when you are all so thin?' I think she said something about tapestry but will never be sure. The lights were dimmed and there was a plug for the magazine and the first reader, a substantial American woman was introduced. She read well and told us with delight how she had annoyed her mother with her first book. There was nothing that shocked me in her reading and nothing new either, but what do I know? The audience liked it.
Then there was a break and the lights went up and the woman who had given me the book dashed in to take the book back:' I'm going to steal this back' she said 'Oh fine!' I said limply. Then I got up to go to the 'Ladies' room and when I came back my seat had been taken and I left sadder and no wiser.
Never has a woman been so comprehensively spurned by so many for so long. I thought as I hit the local Subway for solid solace.
I had read weeks ago in the Guardian about the 'To Hell with the Lighthouse' event which takes place monthly in a Rock and Roll Club in Denmark street. Naomi Alderman was to read on that occasion and I had enjoyed her first novel 'Disobedience' enormously. Unfortunately I was unable to get to that particular meeting but what I had heard I liked so I decided to go anyway and had been looking forward to it too, happily dismissing a mention of 'young talent'.
I thought it would be fun to meet some new people, make a few contacts, network. I am fairly new to the networking game and I am sure I will never get the air kiss past the edge of a face right. But I can't believe this is vital. I do hope not. I have quite recently begun to tweet and have been blogging with great enthusiasm since February so now for some flesh-to-flesh networking I thought and I must say I found the idea rather exciting. In fact I tweeted somebody who was reading and she sounded keen to have me there so I was hopeful. I descended the stairs into a club that reminded me very much of places I had known in the sixties and the shop above was enchanting, in fact Denmark street appears to have absorbed all the music shops in this part of London. It's been a long time since I've been there and had forgotten how great it is.
The barman sold me some fairly unpleasant white wine pointing at a happy hour poster and I found a seat beside a young woman at a table so I could begin my networking straight away. 'Hi' I said and she smiled and carried on her conversation. I looked around the fairly empty bar where some jolly men in reversed baseball caps were having a merry time, I wondered if I should give up on networking and join them - they looked friendly enough - at least they smiled.
But no, I am here for a purpose I thought and tried the girl on my right again.
'Who's reading tonight?' she mentioned one name but said she didn't know who else. She went back to her conversation. I noticed a magazine on the table called 'Fat', I asked if I could buy one and she smiled and said I could. It was a misnomer I thought for this very slender mag that cost £2, the content was pretty slim too, and it was called a countercultural ladies' mag. I might be countercultural if they allow women of advanced age to be countercultural, which seems dubious. But 'ladies' is a word that I take issue with. I imagine it is used ironically though there was not much sign of irony in the interior of the magazine. There was a little self conscious swearing in the editorial so perhaps that is the countercultural bit. Spare Rib it 'aint, more's the pity.
I found a stray book on the table and began to read, it was an interesting idea about gods on Hampstead Heath, I wondered what the cruisers and bathers made of them. Probably wouldn't notice them I thought - particularly if they were over thirty - but gods are immortal of course. I liked reading it and a woman came up and told me it was a proof copy so I was welcome to it and could get it signed. I said thanks and she left before I could engage her in any conversation. Besides the place was filling up with young women with a few men among them and the noise level had increased to what I imagine it must be like in a parrot cage just before feeding. Not all the noise was that of kissing air, some was from the many 'hello darlings' and a generalised squawking.
I have been reading a lot about obesity of late but here there were few above size eight and most in tiny printed cotton dresses. I asked the woman on my right in one of her breaks from leaping up to deliver a kiss; 'Why is the magazine called Fat when you are all so thin?' I think she said something about tapestry but will never be sure. The lights were dimmed and there was a plug for the magazine and the first reader, a substantial American woman was introduced. She read well and told us with delight how she had annoyed her mother with her first book. There was nothing that shocked me in her reading and nothing new either, but what do I know? The audience liked it.
Then there was a break and the lights went up and the woman who had given me the book dashed in to take the book back:' I'm going to steal this back' she said 'Oh fine!' I said limply. Then I got up to go to the 'Ladies' room and when I came back my seat had been taken and I left sadder and no wiser.
Never has a woman been so comprehensively spurned by so many for so long. I thought as I hit the local Subway for solid solace.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Memory
On Memory
It is usual to express regret about forgetting words. To lambaste oneself and to see this as a fault of the ageing brain. The fact that I can remember a blues riff and all the words from something I heard in 1958 is given no value. I disagree. I would far prefer to remember 'My Kitchen Man' and forget the name of Glucasamine Sulphate than the other way around and when I go to my local health shop I can wander about the place until I find it- and I have no idea where I would find the words of the wonderful Bessie. Certainly not in Holland and Barretts.
So. I conclude that the brain very sensibly picks the vital more interesting memories and discards the others. It sometimes embarrasses but only momentarily and I have my own methods of bluffing and recognise other people with even better methods and I am not slow to heist these. One of the most profound misconceptions about we vintage models is that we become rather naïve and I wish to deny this, most of the characters I know are as crafty as ever they were and as venal too, if that was their inclination. I think some ancients go along with this 'simple minded' belief and let on that they are innocent as new borns thus leaving themselves open to any amount of patronising. And I do wish they would stop. There is no value at all in being pathetic.
This train of thought was brought on by looking up Blues that I used as titles of chapters in my novel. I chose titles that were suitable and now the original Blues Who's Who book has disintregeted with half the index gone I know not where. But I began looking at it again and can remember hearing this music from over fifty years ago and know the words in full and can sing them in my terrible voice and I am back in a smoky dive dancing or snogging to the music. The personnel involved are mostly and wisely gone from my memory and just the songs remain and the essence of the time - another clever trick of the good old brain.
I am about to make, with a lot of help from my friends, a CD of the blues in question as background to a reading and this has brought forth some delicious memories of times long gone and I must congratulate my brain on its taste in selection. It is good to remember blues parties in Somerleyton road in Brixton and dances in the St Louis in the East End and the Flamingo Club it seems that there is nobody around to correct me if I get the name wrong. And that's what is also excellent about remembering those long gone times; they don't have to be precise just the essence comes back so you remember a song and relive the heartache that you thought would never go away and the woozy joy of being in love again. And it is safe now - no danger of the heart breaking just a gentle marvel at the amount of time I spent engaged in futile but enjoyable passion and I am delighted that I have these sweet memories and that my good old brain has the sound sense to filter out the dross of the price the gas bill was last year and when my car insurance is due. People will remind me of these boring details and I don't need a reminiscence group to jog my memory it is a fully functioning part of me thanks to my very sensible brain.
And next time I forget my keys or I go from the room to do a reprise to jog my memory because I have no idea why I came in I shall know that whatever it was will come back to me and not to worry eh? And when I forget the procedure for downloading a photograph I will know that my brain is busy elsewhere remembering fascinating titbits from the dim and distant past
And I shan't castigate myself - if I remember!
It is usual to express regret about forgetting words. To lambaste oneself and to see this as a fault of the ageing brain. The fact that I can remember a blues riff and all the words from something I heard in 1958 is given no value. I disagree. I would far prefer to remember 'My Kitchen Man' and forget the name of Glucasamine Sulphate than the other way around and when I go to my local health shop I can wander about the place until I find it- and I have no idea where I would find the words of the wonderful Bessie. Certainly not in Holland and Barretts.
So. I conclude that the brain very sensibly picks the vital more interesting memories and discards the others. It sometimes embarrasses but only momentarily and I have my own methods of bluffing and recognise other people with even better methods and I am not slow to heist these. One of the most profound misconceptions about we vintage models is that we become rather naïve and I wish to deny this, most of the characters I know are as crafty as ever they were and as venal too, if that was their inclination. I think some ancients go along with this 'simple minded' belief and let on that they are innocent as new borns thus leaving themselves open to any amount of patronising. And I do wish they would stop. There is no value at all in being pathetic.
This train of thought was brought on by looking up Blues that I used as titles of chapters in my novel. I chose titles that were suitable and now the original Blues Who's Who book has disintregeted with half the index gone I know not where. But I began looking at it again and can remember hearing this music from over fifty years ago and know the words in full and can sing them in my terrible voice and I am back in a smoky dive dancing or snogging to the music. The personnel involved are mostly and wisely gone from my memory and just the songs remain and the essence of the time - another clever trick of the good old brain.
I am about to make, with a lot of help from my friends, a CD of the blues in question as background to a reading and this has brought forth some delicious memories of times long gone and I must congratulate my brain on its taste in selection. It is good to remember blues parties in Somerleyton road in Brixton and dances in the St Louis in the East End and the Flamingo Club it seems that there is nobody around to correct me if I get the name wrong. And that's what is also excellent about remembering those long gone times; they don't have to be precise just the essence comes back so you remember a song and relive the heartache that you thought would never go away and the woozy joy of being in love again. And it is safe now - no danger of the heart breaking just a gentle marvel at the amount of time I spent engaged in futile but enjoyable passion and I am delighted that I have these sweet memories and that my good old brain has the sound sense to filter out the dross of the price the gas bill was last year and when my car insurance is due. People will remind me of these boring details and I don't need a reminiscence group to jog my memory it is a fully functioning part of me thanks to my very sensible brain.
And next time I forget my keys or I go from the room to do a reprise to jog my memory because I have no idea why I came in I shall know that whatever it was will come back to me and not to worry eh? And when I forget the procedure for downloading a photograph I will know that my brain is busy elsewhere remembering fascinating titbits from the dim and distant past
And I shan't castigate myself - if I remember!
Thursday, 23 September 2010
Berlin Blues
I had no thoughts of falling in love with Berlin, I am already in love and that is quite enough for me. Like many people of my age who remember the war and the pictures of Belsen that were shown to us as children, I had very mixed feelings about the Germans. So, as I climbed the stairs to the flat we had borrowed I had jackboots in mind.
Then I met some Germans and the first thing that occurred to me was the fact that they looked exactly like the British, but with less preoccupation with fashion. In fact there were few bum revealing boys and midriff bare girls (a relief for me because my kidneys begin to twitch in sympathy) perhaps the cold there has something to do with this though I doubt it. I have very clear memories of wearing pelmet skirts and boots with bare legs in the sixties in snow or gale and feeling no cold - or not admitting I did anyway.
Also there seem to be far more extremely good looking people about, and tall too .It was the time of the Christmas markets, gluwine, marvellous snacks and everybody stuffing their faces with crepes and similar gorgeous stuff, but I noticed a curious lack of obese people. I am a people watcher and stare so I tend to assume a benign look for the safety factor and to smile kindly at people I don't know. In Berlin this worked well and I got lots of smiles back.
On the metro they read newspapers that are not like the Sun as far as I can see. They have no barriers on their metro and while the stations are nowhere near as astounding as the ones in Moscow, there is a curious freedom about them with characters carrying their bicycles down the escalators.I grew up reading Isherwood and longed to find Cabaret and decadence, in fact there was a 'Swingers club' within yards of our flat but we didn't fancy it. And that's the thing about Berlin, there is no pretence. what you see is what you get. We decided against a cabaret as neither of us speaks German but we did a pretty extensive tour of pubs all over the city. We were welcomed everywhere we went with a nice enthusiasm that is curiously lacking when it comes to a couple of old birds in London!
I had another agenda too, I wanted to see a guy who I had a dalliance with in 1962 - before sex was invented according to a poet (fortunately we didn't know about this!) Last seen sharing acid, now a successful artist of sterling apparent respectability. And me? What do I look like to him? Would he recognise me? I have grown appreciably - horizontally and all the long hair is gone along with my bare feet. and white lipstick so I doubt it. Stout sensible shoes are the order of the day now and a nice warm coat. And both of us old. But we are both in there somewhere and during our conversation we peep out, slyly, briefly, while his formidable wife offers cake carefully. And talks to my girl friend almost exclusively. An old flame become an ember with hardly any life at all. My guru become dull, all his originality taken up with warnings of ice slips and fear of broken bones. I hadn't expected him to look the same, in fact I would have recognised him but his fierce energy has gone and mine has not - my physical energy is certainly diminished but my joy and anger seem intact, his wife clearly has him on tight rein and they are happy and what do I know? I envy him his peace but am quite glad that I haven't succumbed. I wanted to play 'do you remember' and I think he may have quite liked that but it was not possible and they were hectic years so perhaps that was for the best. What I would really like to have done is take acid again with this old man and find the parts of us that still believe that life is wonderful because it is.
And now I am going back and I hope I like it as much as that first time. I know we were only there for a month and can't know it properly and when I speak to some Germans who hate Berlin I wonder if I got it wrong but it was right for me and I will stay in Krietzburg again and have wonderful breakfasts at the bar and eat Turkish food again and my work will be part of a visual show at a gallery and my words exposed in a bookshop so it won't be all bad.
No, it will be good to be back.
Then I met some Germans and the first thing that occurred to me was the fact that they looked exactly like the British, but with less preoccupation with fashion. In fact there were few bum revealing boys and midriff bare girls (a relief for me because my kidneys begin to twitch in sympathy) perhaps the cold there has something to do with this though I doubt it. I have very clear memories of wearing pelmet skirts and boots with bare legs in the sixties in snow or gale and feeling no cold - or not admitting I did anyway.
Also there seem to be far more extremely good looking people about, and tall too .It was the time of the Christmas markets, gluwine, marvellous snacks and everybody stuffing their faces with crepes and similar gorgeous stuff, but I noticed a curious lack of obese people. I am a people watcher and stare so I tend to assume a benign look for the safety factor and to smile kindly at people I don't know. In Berlin this worked well and I got lots of smiles back.
On the metro they read newspapers that are not like the Sun as far as I can see. They have no barriers on their metro and while the stations are nowhere near as astounding as the ones in Moscow, there is a curious freedom about them with characters carrying their bicycles down the escalators.I grew up reading Isherwood and longed to find Cabaret and decadence, in fact there was a 'Swingers club' within yards of our flat but we didn't fancy it. And that's the thing about Berlin, there is no pretence. what you see is what you get. We decided against a cabaret as neither of us speaks German but we did a pretty extensive tour of pubs all over the city. We were welcomed everywhere we went with a nice enthusiasm that is curiously lacking when it comes to a couple of old birds in London!
I had another agenda too, I wanted to see a guy who I had a dalliance with in 1962 - before sex was invented according to a poet (fortunately we didn't know about this!) Last seen sharing acid, now a successful artist of sterling apparent respectability. And me? What do I look like to him? Would he recognise me? I have grown appreciably - horizontally and all the long hair is gone along with my bare feet. and white lipstick so I doubt it. Stout sensible shoes are the order of the day now and a nice warm coat. And both of us old. But we are both in there somewhere and during our conversation we peep out, slyly, briefly, while his formidable wife offers cake carefully. And talks to my girl friend almost exclusively. An old flame become an ember with hardly any life at all. My guru become dull, all his originality taken up with warnings of ice slips and fear of broken bones. I hadn't expected him to look the same, in fact I would have recognised him but his fierce energy has gone and mine has not - my physical energy is certainly diminished but my joy and anger seem intact, his wife clearly has him on tight rein and they are happy and what do I know? I envy him his peace but am quite glad that I haven't succumbed. I wanted to play 'do you remember' and I think he may have quite liked that but it was not possible and they were hectic years so perhaps that was for the best. What I would really like to have done is take acid again with this old man and find the parts of us that still believe that life is wonderful because it is.
And now I am going back and I hope I like it as much as that first time. I know we were only there for a month and can't know it properly and when I speak to some Germans who hate Berlin I wonder if I got it wrong but it was right for me and I will stay in Krietzburg again and have wonderful breakfasts at the bar and eat Turkish food again and my work will be part of a visual show at a gallery and my words exposed in a bookshop so it won't be all bad.
No, it will be good to be back.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
VERMIN RETURN
It is patently obvious that my house gets the five star rating from the local mice. The Ritz of the rodents! I reckon it is very probably ideal. I am away most weekends for four days so they have the house to themselves and it must be a shock when this great lumbering creature re-occupies with her dog. I understand their point of view. However my point of view is that I don't want to share my home with a lot of highly incontinent mice. The smell is foul and it increases the housework load and my cleaner threatens to defect if I don't get rid of them. Besides they are cheeky little buggers and after meeting one eye to eye on my draining board I brought a zeal to my anti mouse purge.
I got the pest control people in and killed some with poison, they died and festered under my white goods, rotted and stank. They were removed and I had seen none of the tell -tale signs of mice for more than a week. 'Hooray!' I thought, they are gone. I was wrong.
On Tuesday evening I came back from a lovely day out with friends I hadn't seen for fifteen years and I was cooking quietly thinking nice thoughts, going over conversations we had had earlier in the day, smiling at our memories of trying to join a group of pagans who greeted us with a phalanx of hostile backs, speaking of our first meeting and genrally indulging in deja vu of the best class. It is always slightly odd rejoining friends you haven't seen for this long, will we still like one another? have they changed ? have I? But it had all worked wonderfully well as we sat and drank milk shakes and talked and talked. I liked them even more than before or I had forgotten this easy closeness. I smiled to myself feeling mellow.
This silence is rare for me, a radio 4 addict. Usually I arrange to cook when I listen to the Archers or when Moral Maze is on and I yell at the ghastly Melanie. Or listen to Any Questions and take an active part, one of the advantages of living alone.is the freedom to listen to annoying people and shriek. In fact I seek out the Atkinses of this world to give me a nice rush of fury, and when, as sometimes happens I agree with her, I worry about my integrity.
In my ruminative quiet state I heard a metallic noise I listened intently and there it was again a rustling against metal located in my balanced flu water heater. The sound unbalanced me totally . Mice! I gave it a whack. Nothing. I remembered once before that mice had set up residence and fortified themselves with eating the plastic round the electric wires, dangerous this and could cost me a lot of money. I opened the bottom part of the heater and a confetti of chewed bedding and the ever present mouse turds descended on to the counter beneath. They are back in force. A new crew ready to take advantage of the superior facilities and my sloppy housekeeping. I put bleach in water and wash all the counters. I had had all holes cemented after their last incursion . It was mouse-proof I thought. The mice thought otherwise and now that I am away again I try not to worry. And I feel feeble about the mice because I don't even dislike them and when they are dead they are cute little creatures.with sweet wee faces that would soften the hardest heart but when they scuttle under my feet and startle me with a sudden impromptu appearance, then it's me or them and its got to be me! So watch it next time I'm home.
The guy next door tells me he is getting the mouse worriers in on Monday and I only hope they don't all trot in retreat into my house again.
PS This blog got caught in the works was supposed to go up last week, since then no mice are apparent but I am not entirely reassured they are crafty little varmints!
I got the pest control people in and killed some with poison, they died and festered under my white goods, rotted and stank. They were removed and I had seen none of the tell -tale signs of mice for more than a week. 'Hooray!' I thought, they are gone. I was wrong.
On Tuesday evening I came back from a lovely day out with friends I hadn't seen for fifteen years and I was cooking quietly thinking nice thoughts, going over conversations we had had earlier in the day, smiling at our memories of trying to join a group of pagans who greeted us with a phalanx of hostile backs, speaking of our first meeting and genrally indulging in deja vu of the best class. It is always slightly odd rejoining friends you haven't seen for this long, will we still like one another? have they changed ? have I? But it had all worked wonderfully well as we sat and drank milk shakes and talked and talked. I liked them even more than before or I had forgotten this easy closeness. I smiled to myself feeling mellow.
This silence is rare for me, a radio 4 addict. Usually I arrange to cook when I listen to the Archers or when Moral Maze is on and I yell at the ghastly Melanie. Or listen to Any Questions and take an active part, one of the advantages of living alone.is the freedom to listen to annoying people and shriek. In fact I seek out the Atkinses of this world to give me a nice rush of fury, and when, as sometimes happens I agree with her, I worry about my integrity.
In my ruminative quiet state I heard a metallic noise I listened intently and there it was again a rustling against metal located in my balanced flu water heater. The sound unbalanced me totally . Mice! I gave it a whack. Nothing. I remembered once before that mice had set up residence and fortified themselves with eating the plastic round the electric wires, dangerous this and could cost me a lot of money. I opened the bottom part of the heater and a confetti of chewed bedding and the ever present mouse turds descended on to the counter beneath. They are back in force. A new crew ready to take advantage of the superior facilities and my sloppy housekeeping. I put bleach in water and wash all the counters. I had had all holes cemented after their last incursion . It was mouse-proof I thought. The mice thought otherwise and now that I am away again I try not to worry. And I feel feeble about the mice because I don't even dislike them and when they are dead they are cute little creatures.with sweet wee faces that would soften the hardest heart but when they scuttle under my feet and startle me with a sudden impromptu appearance, then it's me or them and its got to be me! So watch it next time I'm home.
The guy next door tells me he is getting the mouse worriers in on Monday and I only hope they don't all trot in retreat into my house again.
PS This blog got caught in the works was supposed to go up last week, since then no mice are apparent but I am not entirely reassured they are crafty little varmints!
Monday, 6 September 2010
Dogs Glorious Dogs
Now that I have a connection with Woofbark on Twitter I feel that I can give myself licence to get really doggy. My Border Terrier Saffron is the first female dog I ever had and by far the nicest, which is only to be expected. She has a sweet nature, is extremely pretty, gathers fans about her on the train when we travel and if I leave her outside a shop she draws a group of concerned citizens who reproach me.
I acquired her from some friends who bought her for their daughter just about that time of pubescence when she found the poop scoop deeply embarrassing and boys totally fascinating, so poor Saffie was not getting much exercise.
I was grieving for my last dog, Zit, more of whom later. I had mostly had rescue dogs before and this enchanting little creature was a totally new experience for me,a civilised girl, the arrangement initially was that I had her during the week and took her back weekends but I found excuses to keep her with me and finally, when she began to pine for me and go into ecstasies when I arrived they said I could keep her.She does of course have her own vices, a passion for rolling, in fox spraint main among them and I have become accustoned to perfume of fox as accompaninment to life with her and only bathe her when she rolls in a dead toad, old fish or if I expect fastidious friends to visit.( oddly they seem to have fallen by the wayside over the years!)
She is a great contrast to my last dog, Zit who was a rogue of the first order whose main aim in life was escape and who would slither away low to the ground, in imitation of Muttly whose grin he could do, between car and door looking over his shoulder with what looked like a gotcha grin to me. He was sly and endearingly funny. He also had hideous breath and stupendous farts . I got him from a friend whose boyfriend swore he would leave if she didn't get rid of him, predictably he left anyway. I felt that she should have chosen the dog but was glad to have the pup who was a few months old and already an escape artist.
His mother Daisy was a Jack Russell mixed with something indefinable and even after being spayed she had a distinct taste for lusty adventures with the local dogs. Zit was a further variation on the mutt theme. He would bounce four feet into the air at the hint of walkies reduced to a mere two feet before he died at twenty. He was never spayed and now that I have a bitch I realise that he was a pest, at the time I felt it was the unkindest cut and when he was seventeen we tried to mate him with a similar bitch called Libbie. They were enthusiastic and went off for a weekend sojourn together, which they enjoyed but no progeny resulted.
When he was twenty his back legs quite suddenly were paralysed. He dragged himself around for a day or two looking thoroughly miserable, he was a dog who lived to roam and now he couldn't walk. I made up my mind, took him to his favourite place: Mudeford where he attempted to jump from the car and landed in a heap on the ground dragged himself along the beach a few feet and collapsed looking reproachful. I had seen dogs with wheelie things for back legs but he was twenty had a heart murmur and arthritis I decided to put us both out of our misery. I made him a bowl of his favourite Boulognaise which he gobbled up and then I took him to the vet, a long term admirer of his. I held him as he died my face alongside his and he wagged his tail as he went, the death of a reprobate. I spread his ashes on Hegistbury Head one day in the Spring. I swore I would never have another dog.
I missed him dreadfully and realised that apart from our life together it was a case of a social life that had gone. Those conversations about dogs, the mutual admiration of our dogs. The instant comradeship of fellow dog owners, the routine conversations that go on fairly set lines, they never nag you or reproach you (a downright lie this - Zit could cut me to the core and ignore me for an entire day if I curtailed his freedom)I know many people by the name of their dog and they call me Saffie's mum.
This may sound trivial to the non doggie among us,I expect it is but it precludes the usual judgements that colour my own relationships and limit me. So I had a great friendship with a Labrador's mum who, one day shook me rigid by voicing an admiration for Mrs. Thatcher. I caught my words before they got out into the atmosphere and we are still 'friends.'
My partner is not English and finds the whole business of dog talk bizarre and threatens to make a video record of the routine 'sharings' with other dog admirers, not a bad idea!
I acquired her from some friends who bought her for their daughter just about that time of pubescence when she found the poop scoop deeply embarrassing and boys totally fascinating, so poor Saffie was not getting much exercise.
I was grieving for my last dog, Zit, more of whom later. I had mostly had rescue dogs before and this enchanting little creature was a totally new experience for me,a civilised girl, the arrangement initially was that I had her during the week and took her back weekends but I found excuses to keep her with me and finally, when she began to pine for me and go into ecstasies when I arrived they said I could keep her.She does of course have her own vices, a passion for rolling, in fox spraint main among them and I have become accustoned to perfume of fox as accompaninment to life with her and only bathe her when she rolls in a dead toad, old fish or if I expect fastidious friends to visit.( oddly they seem to have fallen by the wayside over the years!)
She is a great contrast to my last dog, Zit who was a rogue of the first order whose main aim in life was escape and who would slither away low to the ground, in imitation of Muttly whose grin he could do, between car and door looking over his shoulder with what looked like a gotcha grin to me. He was sly and endearingly funny. He also had hideous breath and stupendous farts . I got him from a friend whose boyfriend swore he would leave if she didn't get rid of him, predictably he left anyway. I felt that she should have chosen the dog but was glad to have the pup who was a few months old and already an escape artist.
His mother Daisy was a Jack Russell mixed with something indefinable and even after being spayed she had a distinct taste for lusty adventures with the local dogs. Zit was a further variation on the mutt theme. He would bounce four feet into the air at the hint of walkies reduced to a mere two feet before he died at twenty. He was never spayed and now that I have a bitch I realise that he was a pest, at the time I felt it was the unkindest cut and when he was seventeen we tried to mate him with a similar bitch called Libbie. They were enthusiastic and went off for a weekend sojourn together, which they enjoyed but no progeny resulted.
When he was twenty his back legs quite suddenly were paralysed. He dragged himself around for a day or two looking thoroughly miserable, he was a dog who lived to roam and now he couldn't walk. I made up my mind, took him to his favourite place: Mudeford where he attempted to jump from the car and landed in a heap on the ground dragged himself along the beach a few feet and collapsed looking reproachful. I had seen dogs with wheelie things for back legs but he was twenty had a heart murmur and arthritis I decided to put us both out of our misery. I made him a bowl of his favourite Boulognaise which he gobbled up and then I took him to the vet, a long term admirer of his. I held him as he died my face alongside his and he wagged his tail as he went, the death of a reprobate. I spread his ashes on Hegistbury Head one day in the Spring. I swore I would never have another dog.
I missed him dreadfully and realised that apart from our life together it was a case of a social life that had gone. Those conversations about dogs, the mutual admiration of our dogs. The instant comradeship of fellow dog owners, the routine conversations that go on fairly set lines, they never nag you or reproach you (a downright lie this - Zit could cut me to the core and ignore me for an entire day if I curtailed his freedom)I know many people by the name of their dog and they call me Saffie's mum.
This may sound trivial to the non doggie among us,I expect it is but it precludes the usual judgements that colour my own relationships and limit me. So I had a great friendship with a Labrador's mum who, one day shook me rigid by voicing an admiration for Mrs. Thatcher. I caught my words before they got out into the atmosphere and we are still 'friends.'
My partner is not English and finds the whole business of dog talk bizarre and threatens to make a video record of the routine 'sharings' with other dog admirers, not a bad idea!
Saturday, 28 August 2010
COMPUTER HELL
When my computer has a hiccup I have a kind of neurotic tremor rather like a nervous breakdown or an emotional earthquake.. And I do know it makes no sense but it doesn't stop me for a second, I telephone my love for my password - like she'd know! I talk to my web master in frantic tones, they - insensitive bastards - laugh. I am a three-year-old in full tantrum mode. I want to kill. Fortunately I have not done so yet but the spirit is definitely willing.
When my computer crashed some months ago, before I had found Twitter or Facebook, I went into huge gloom and wept real tears. Not for long but I was without a computer for more than a week during which time I became intimate with my nearest internet facility which has pictures of Tibetan horsemen galloping across the walls and a Babel of eastern European languages mixed with Arabic, Punjabi and Pashto. As I understand none of these languages they float over me quite pleasantly if noisily with a few Russian words that intrude into my consciousness from a couple of kids playing games. A guy sings along to some religious music and an African guy and myself pull faces at each other and grin. All this sounds attractive but it doesn't make for concentration and it was a big relief to get back to my normal nice isolation with the dog.
This time, with the added loss of Twitter I was even more destroyed. All that fractured energy while I read the odd dozen tweets from people I don't know at 2am. It has become a habit and I don't approve but I enjoy it anyway. In fact this time it was a mere upgrade - something I have resisted for years. I must have been feeling over adventurous this week and the computer is demanding an ancient password and bombarding me with news of how good this particular facility is, how it is protecting me. Protecting me from what? My own emails?
But I do worry about my reaction, which is totally out of proportion. I can only think that all my nascent lunacy has gathered itself into one vast screaming panic that gushes out wantonly as soon as somebody takes my toys. I know it smacks of a deeply sad person and saddest of all I have a sneaking feeling that my computer is doing it on purpose. That it is punishing me for my lack of careful file keeping, my untidy way of keeping eight files open simultaneously as well as the sneeze splattered screen that I forget to clean for months (I am a morning sneezer). And I haven't been backing up either.
So, I must conclude that rather than accept that these things are random - like life - I have some grim belief that I am being punished by my computer. That it is a spiteful entity that sits looking back at me with malice waiting for a time when I am feeling particularly pleased with myself and hits me a whammy. I worry about my mind.
Of course I don't believe this, not really, still I rush around bleating like a wet hen and I know hens don't bleat but my voice does and I hear myself tearful over the phone to my lovely Belfast voiced internet supplier. Shrieking at my friends because they can't help, abusing the poor old guy in the computer repair shop and rage and shame overcome me so I have to go and do an abject one later.
It's only a bloody computer after all. Isn't it?
And I know people who go off for weeks with no communication at all, and they tell me they enjoy it too! Clearly not for me but I must get out more!
When my computer has a hiccup I have a kind of neurotic tremor rather like a nervous breakdown or an emotional earthquake.. And I do know it makes no sense but it doesn't stop me for a second, I telephone my love for my password - like she'd know! I talk to my web master in frantic tones, they - insensitive bastards - laugh. I am a three-year-old in full tantrum mode. I want to kill. Fortunately I have not done so yet but the spirit is definitely willing.
When my computer crashed some months ago, before I had found Twitter or Facebook, I went into huge gloom and wept real tears. Not for long but I was without a computer for more than a week during which time I became intimate with my nearest internet facility which has pictures of Tibetan horsemen galloping across the walls and a Babel of eastern European languages mixed with Arabic, Punjabi and Pashto. As I understand none of these languages they float over me quite pleasantly if noisily with a few Russian words that intrude into my consciousness from a couple of kids playing games. A guy sings along to some religious music and an African guy and myself pull faces at each other and grin. All this sounds attractive but it doesn't make for concentration and it was a big relief to get back to my normal nice isolation with the dog.
This time, with the added loss of Twitter I was even more destroyed. All that fractured energy while I read the odd dozen tweets from people I don't know at 2am. It has become a habit and I don't approve but I enjoy it anyway. In fact this time it was a mere upgrade - something I have resisted for years. I must have been feeling over adventurous this week and the computer is demanding an ancient password and bombarding me with news of how good this particular facility is, how it is protecting me. Protecting me from what? My own emails?
But I do worry about my reaction, which is totally out of proportion. I can only think that all my nascent lunacy has gathered itself into one vast screaming panic that gushes out wantonly as soon as somebody takes my toys. I know it smacks of a deeply sad person and saddest of all I have a sneaking feeling that my computer is doing it on purpose. That it is punishing me for my lack of careful file keeping, my untidy way of keeping eight files open simultaneously as well as the sneeze splattered screen that I forget to clean for months (I am a morning sneezer). And I haven't been backing up either.
So, I must conclude that rather than accept that these things are random - like life - I have some grim belief that I am being punished by my computer. That it is a spiteful entity that sits looking back at me with malice waiting for a time when I am feeling particularly pleased with myself and hits me a whammy. I worry about my mind.
Of course I don't believe this, not really, still I rush around bleating like a wet hen and I know hens don't bleat but my voice does and I hear myself tearful over the phone to my lovely Belfast voiced internet supplier. Shrieking at my friends because they can't help, abusing the poor old guy in the computer repair shop and rage and shame overcome me so I have to go and do an abject one later.
It's only a bloody computer after all. Isn't it?
And I know people who go off for weeks with no communication at all, and they tell me they enjoy it too! Clearly not for me but I must get out more!
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