I'm sure I've heard that one is supposed to learn from mistakes; that the word mistake is in fact a Swahili one which when translated into English means lesson, actually I may have just made that bit up. But I'm sure that if you do something that you regret you should make changes so that you don't make the same mistake again.
Well not me, once I make a mistake it seems to establish a pattern of behaviour that I then keep repeating. I have now made the same mistake three times and am worried that this hat-trick means that this mistake has become a habit now. Admittedly the three errors have occurred over a twenty year time period, but a pattern is a pattern even if it happens over ten year cycles, the latest of which happened yesterday.
You see yesterday I knew that I was getting low on petrol, so headed to the petrol station. It was unusually busy so I had to queue for a free pump. Eventually my turn arrived and I filled the tank with unleaded, fastened the cap, I grabbed my handbag and went into the kiosk to pay. As soon as I reached into my bag to get my purse out I realised my mistake. The purse was there OK, but without even looking I knew that it didn't contain my debit card. I knew this as I knew for sure that the card was in my pocket, in my jacket....at home. The same as had happened the other two occasions. I'd taken my card out with me the previous day and hadn't wanted to take my purse or bag so just slipped the card in my pocket. Seemed like a good idea at the time but not such a good idea when I realised that, although I had my purse, I couldnt pay for my petrol.
The first time I did it I was living in Surrey and explained to the cashier what I'd done and offered to leave my wallet at the garage whilst I nipped home to get my card. Luckily she agreed to this. If she'd have looked in the wallet the attendant would have found my kidney donor card and library card, so pretty good collateral, as although only offal a human kidney must be worth at least a tank of petrol. The second time, I had to fill out a form before I dashed off to get some money. Yesterday, I knew I had a twenty pound note in my purse, the only trouble was I'd taken thirty three pounds fifty six worth of petrol. As I queued I started to try and surreptitiously count out the coins I had to see if I had enough money. This plan failed when I managed to drop all my loose change over the floor. I crawled around trying to retrieve all the bits of shrapnel, no copper too small or insignificant to be searched for. It was nearly my turn at the till and by my rough reckoning I was only a few pence short. I wasn't yet at the front of the queue but already had everyone's attention.
I got to the till and with mounting shame and embarrassment explained my predicament to the cashier and in turn to the rest of the queue. I explained that I had some money with me and she kindly offered to count it for me. It's amazing how long it takes to count thirty three pounds out when thirteen pounds of it are loose change and when you are shrivelling up inside from humiliation and the queue of people behind you is getting longer and longer.
It turned out that I was just five pence short, five little pennies that spelt the difference between me being a law abiding citizen and a thief. Five pence that meant that instead of carrying on with my day I would instead have to go to the police station and the rest of the day would be spent trying to wash the ink off my hands after being finger printed. I was busy imagining myself playing a staring role on Crimewatch, my face plastered on western style Wanted posters and standing in court with Rumpole trying to defend my indefensible actions, being prosecuted by Atticus Finch and sentenced by Judge Dred. In fact I was so busy imagining the worst I barely heard the cashier telling me that she'd let me off the five pence. When her words did sink in I felt huge relief and gratitude, winning the lottery could not have felt any better. I stammered my thanks and slunk away, making the walk of shame back along the queue and across the garage forecourt.
So unfortunately I don't seem to learn from my mistakes and have become a serial offender. But once again the Porthtowan One walks free, all thanks to a very kind lady at Redruth Tescos petrol station, just goes to show, every little really does help.
Tuesday, 3 November 2015
Tuesday, 27 October 2015
Bats, vampires and pumpkin soup
Halloween is fast approaching and I have a skeleton in the closet that I need to lay to rest. Whilst nearly every one else is excitedly planning their fancy dress costumes, which scary movie they are going to watch and what ghoulish tricks they are going to play on each other, I'm just waiting for the whole thing to be over. You see I don't really like Halloween or the horrors it entails. So here's my list of nine reasons why Halloween and I don't get on.
- I don't like being frightened. Other people seem to find being scared thrilling, but I just don't get it. I've tried to watch horror films many times and have either bottled out a few minutes in, often before the title scene has finished, or have regretted it for months after. I think that I have only ever watched 4 frightening films all the way through; Salem's Lot, Con Air, Carrie and Scream, all of them have given me nightmares for weeks, and in the case of Con Air I've had bad dreams for years. I reckon that there must be a gene, which I'm lacking, that's responsible for the enjoyment of fear. It's a well known fact that nature abhors a vacuum so instead of the scary appreciation gene I was given an extra ah! what a cute puppy gene.
- I'm allergic to cats so the iconic black cat of Halloween really is an evil omen to me as when one comes near I start sneezing.
- For years I've bought sweets in the expectation of trick or treaters calling only for none to come knocking, so I've been left with a load of cheap sweets I don't really like. For the last couple of years I've bought chocolates that I enjoy instead. So if any trick or treater's call this year they'll be offered dark chocolates with sour cherries, I'm not sure how popular these will be with kids though.
- I'm not keen on spiders, severed limbs, ectoplasm and call me fussy but zombies and the living dead leave me cold.
- If I hear the noise of a door creaking eerily on its hinges, as a candle splutters and an owl hoots, I am tempted to reach for the WD-40 and turn the electric light on rather than go looking for the phantom who is probably lurking in the cellar.
- I'm confused also about when vampires became so sexy and often goodies in modern media portrayals. I'm sure that Bram Stoker's Dracula would be turning in his, well his coffin if he could see how vampires have become the stars and often heroes of teen dramas and literature.
- Orange and lime green really aren't my colours.
- Werewolves? Unlikely, to say the least. In fact when I think about it I'm not convinced about ghosts, goblins, ghouls or Frankenstein either.
- Bats are really cute and not the evil creatures they are made out to be. One flew into my living room the other day when I had the patio doors open, it swooped around the room a couple of times then headed upstairs. I followed it up to the bedroom and after a couple of circuits of the room it alighted on my bedside cabinet and I was able to get a good look at it. It had brown fur, was bigger than I thought it would be and although looked very elegant when in flight whilst it was trying to pull itself across my cupboard it looked most ungainly. I opened the bedroom windows and it soon found its way out.
So this Halloween I won't be getting my ouija board out, or heading down to the graveyard at midnight dressed in a sheet with eyeholes cut in. But be reassured I'm not a complete killjoy, I'll probably get a pumpkin to make some soup and may well serve it with garlic bread, just to ward off the vampires you understand.
Tuesday, 20 October 2015
Squirrels, Zebedee and Freddy Krueger.
This week Billy dog has been getting in touch with his inner squirrel. He has decided that he likes nuts which he gathers from underneath trees. It started with hazel nuts a few weeks ago which he crunches up to get the nut out, discarding the shell, and now he has discovered chestnuts. Again he chews up the tough brown skin, which he spits out to get to the kernal inside. He's becoming a bit nut obsessed, like Scrat from Ice Age he's always on the look out for them and refuses to let me prise them out from his tightly clenched jaws. It was when I got home after a walk where he'd been eating nuts and checked online, that I found that acorns and beech nuts can be toxic to dogs. I'm not really sure how discerning he is, so I think I'm going to have to discourage all nut eating from now on. It won't be easy though as it's the time of year when natures bounty comes raining down from the trees. The woodland floors are littered with hazel nuts, acorns, beech, chestnuts and conkers and I have one greedy little dog who although he likes meat and bones seems to be toying with the idea of becoming a vegan, like his squirrel mates.
Generally when we go for woodland walks he is on the alert looking out for squirrels and if he thinks that he has heard or smelt one he takes off through the undergrowth in hot pursuit. If he knows that there is a squirrel up a particular tree he practically tries to climb up to catch it, bouncing off the ground like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. He's never got near catching one though. Unlike my sisters dog Ceilidh (pronounced Kayley...yes I know, but that's my sister for you. Can you imagine the various names the dog gets called at the vets! I always like to spell the name differently, as if it's not spelt strangely enough).
My Mum and sister took Keilijh out on one occassion and she was chasing after every pesky little rodent she spotted. My Mum was worried about her catching one, as our cousins dog was bitten by a squirrel and lost his toe as a result, so Mum kept trying to call Cmayligh back. My sister assured her that Khazum would never catch one. Famous last words, no sooner had she said it than the dog catches the end of a squirrels tail and flips it up in the air. Apparently there are 44 breeds of flying squirrels, well this one wasn't officially one of them but by all accounts it did a pretty good impersonation. The story goes that the squirrel did some aeronautical gymnastics that the Red Arrows would have been proud of before landing neatly, pausing to get its breath back and then scuttling up a tree, none the worse for its encounter and no doubt still dining out on the tale. I'm not sure who was more surprised Mum, my sister, the dog or the squirrel.
I've just remembered another dog versus squirrel incident that happened in my family. When I was young we had a spaniel called Suzy and like most dogs she liked to chase squirrels. One autumn day we were walking through a wooded area when we came upon a squirrel ahead of us on the path. Suzy took off after it and for a few seconds the squirrel took flight, suddenly though it changed its mind, stopped and turned to face the dog. Suzy immediately put the brakes on and came to a skidding hault just in front of its twitching whiskers. Dog and squirrel stood and stared at each other just inches apart. We stood watching expecting a squirrel massacre any second, a Freddy Krueger moment, or quite literally a nightmare on elm street. I suspect that the squirrels life flashed before its eyes: it probably remembered snuggling with its litter mates in the drey; possibly it looked back fondly on its first excursion onto the forest floor and learnt what a rich larder it was and maybe it thought about its own children waiting in the nest for him. It was a tense moment but then Suzy, upset that the squirrel wasn't playing by the rules, tucked her tail between her legs and scuttled back to us whimpering.
So in my family, despite what you might expect, it's squirrels 4, dogs 0. The natural order has been reversed but despite this the world keeps turning, night still follows day, toast still falls butter side down onto the carpet and the thing that you have lost is still always found in the last place you look. I guess this is all a long winded way of saying that the world won't end if you do something unexpected or unpredictable, in fact it might turn out surprisingly well. If you're still unsure then ask a squirrel.
Generally when we go for woodland walks he is on the alert looking out for squirrels and if he thinks that he has heard or smelt one he takes off through the undergrowth in hot pursuit. If he knows that there is a squirrel up a particular tree he practically tries to climb up to catch it, bouncing off the ground like Zebedee from the Magic Roundabout. He's never got near catching one though. Unlike my sisters dog Ceilidh (pronounced Kayley...yes I know, but that's my sister for you. Can you imagine the various names the dog gets called at the vets! I always like to spell the name differently, as if it's not spelt strangely enough).
My Mum and sister took Keilijh out on one occassion and she was chasing after every pesky little rodent she spotted. My Mum was worried about her catching one, as our cousins dog was bitten by a squirrel and lost his toe as a result, so Mum kept trying to call Cmayligh back. My sister assured her that Khazum would never catch one. Famous last words, no sooner had she said it than the dog catches the end of a squirrels tail and flips it up in the air. Apparently there are 44 breeds of flying squirrels, well this one wasn't officially one of them but by all accounts it did a pretty good impersonation. The story goes that the squirrel did some aeronautical gymnastics that the Red Arrows would have been proud of before landing neatly, pausing to get its breath back and then scuttling up a tree, none the worse for its encounter and no doubt still dining out on the tale. I'm not sure who was more surprised Mum, my sister, the dog or the squirrel.
I've just remembered another dog versus squirrel incident that happened in my family. When I was young we had a spaniel called Suzy and like most dogs she liked to chase squirrels. One autumn day we were walking through a wooded area when we came upon a squirrel ahead of us on the path. Suzy took off after it and for a few seconds the squirrel took flight, suddenly though it changed its mind, stopped and turned to face the dog. Suzy immediately put the brakes on and came to a skidding hault just in front of its twitching whiskers. Dog and squirrel stood and stared at each other just inches apart. We stood watching expecting a squirrel massacre any second, a Freddy Krueger moment, or quite literally a nightmare on elm street. I suspect that the squirrels life flashed before its eyes: it probably remembered snuggling with its litter mates in the drey; possibly it looked back fondly on its first excursion onto the forest floor and learnt what a rich larder it was and maybe it thought about its own children waiting in the nest for him. It was a tense moment but then Suzy, upset that the squirrel wasn't playing by the rules, tucked her tail between her legs and scuttled back to us whimpering.
So in my family, despite what you might expect, it's squirrels 4, dogs 0. The natural order has been reversed but despite this the world keeps turning, night still follows day, toast still falls butter side down onto the carpet and the thing that you have lost is still always found in the last place you look. I guess this is all a long winded way of saying that the world won't end if you do something unexpected or unpredictable, in fact it might turn out surprisingly well. If you're still unsure then ask a squirrel.
Tuesday, 13 October 2015
Strictly Come Dancing, Margaret Thatcher and sandals
"To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven" (Ecclesiastes 3:1)
This is one of my favourite Bible quotes and always seems appropriate at this rather melancholy time of the year as we start to move towards winter. Autumn is finally, definately here. I know that officially it started a few weeks ago but for me it has now undeniably arrived.
You might be wondering what has brought me to this realisation. What were the telltale signs that drew me to this conclusion? Maybe I should have realised sooner: the leaves changing colour and drifting to the ground like golden confetti; The Great British Bake Off ending (go Nadia!) and Strictly Come Dancing re-starting; the sloe gin is steeping so that it will be ready for Christmas; the mornings and evenings getting darker; Halloween goods appearing in the shops; going to a cafe and fancying hot chocolate instead of iced tea; getting a flu jab and buying some Lem-sip just in case; people firing up their central heating and lighting their log burners and the general drop in temperature should all have given me a clue. For me though the definite sign that summer is over is that I bought a pair of sandals.
The rest of the northern hemisphere is probably buying boots at this time of year but like the fashion magazines I always plan for a couple of seasons ahead. It's not that I am organised but rather that I am a cheapskate. I wait to buy my summer sandals for the following year till right at the end of the sale so that I know that the price isn't going to be reduced any further and that way bag myself a bargain. So ok this does mean that I occasionally have to jam my feet into shoes that are too small if they've sold out of my size and yes I am always wearing last years styles in some unusual colours but as I am not exactly a fashionista I don't care. So for me Spring starts when I buy next winters boots, summer begins when I get the following Easters pastel Mary-Janes and Autumn begins with the purchase of flip flops and sandals.
I've been thinking a bit about time passing and the cyclical nature of history recently. Not just because of my bargain sandals but because of the new job that I've just started. You see I've got a job back in the secondary school I attended when I was a teenager. It seems really strange to be back there, its familiar in many ways but also so different from how I remember. The basic structure of the building is the same and familiar, there have been some new additions and some of the rooms have moved around, but most of it is as I remember.
It's the people who have all changed. I walk around the corner of a corridor and expect to see my friends waiting to meet me after lessons, but there are strange young people there, kids waiting for their own mates. Teens wearing blazers and ties who look way smarter than we ever did. When we attended the school the uniform was much more lax and as long as you wore something vaguely blue you passed inspection. They also now seem so much more confident and assured than I ever felt, maybe this is down to bravado but I hope not. These pupils are noisy, enthusiastic and so full of potential and looking back I think that I was probably like that at their age too, what happened to that energy and passion I wonder. I remember sneaking into the 6th form common room after lessons one day to put up CND and anti Reagan and Thatcher posters, convinced and passionate about my political beliefs. This year in contrast I had trouble deciding who to vote for in the General Election. So maybe it isn't the school that has changed, maybe it's me.
So Autumn is here, a time to reflect and take stock. A time to make soup and stews and buy t-shirts and sandals, a time to remember being young and to try and resurrect some of the passions I felt then, a time to put on wellies and walk through the woods kicking up leaves.
I started this post with a quote from the Bible and I'd like end it with another quote, not the Bible this time, but Elton John via The Lion King.
" From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
In the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round".
Autumn is here but I have sandals ready for next summer, thus the circle of life goes on.
This is one of my favourite Bible quotes and always seems appropriate at this rather melancholy time of the year as we start to move towards winter. Autumn is finally, definately here. I know that officially it started a few weeks ago but for me it has now undeniably arrived.
You might be wondering what has brought me to this realisation. What were the telltale signs that drew me to this conclusion? Maybe I should have realised sooner: the leaves changing colour and drifting to the ground like golden confetti; The Great British Bake Off ending (go Nadia!) and Strictly Come Dancing re-starting; the sloe gin is steeping so that it will be ready for Christmas; the mornings and evenings getting darker; Halloween goods appearing in the shops; going to a cafe and fancying hot chocolate instead of iced tea; getting a flu jab and buying some Lem-sip just in case; people firing up their central heating and lighting their log burners and the general drop in temperature should all have given me a clue. For me though the definite sign that summer is over is that I bought a pair of sandals.
The rest of the northern hemisphere is probably buying boots at this time of year but like the fashion magazines I always plan for a couple of seasons ahead. It's not that I am organised but rather that I am a cheapskate. I wait to buy my summer sandals for the following year till right at the end of the sale so that I know that the price isn't going to be reduced any further and that way bag myself a bargain. So ok this does mean that I occasionally have to jam my feet into shoes that are too small if they've sold out of my size and yes I am always wearing last years styles in some unusual colours but as I am not exactly a fashionista I don't care. So for me Spring starts when I buy next winters boots, summer begins when I get the following Easters pastel Mary-Janes and Autumn begins with the purchase of flip flops and sandals.
I've been thinking a bit about time passing and the cyclical nature of history recently. Not just because of my bargain sandals but because of the new job that I've just started. You see I've got a job back in the secondary school I attended when I was a teenager. It seems really strange to be back there, its familiar in many ways but also so different from how I remember. The basic structure of the building is the same and familiar, there have been some new additions and some of the rooms have moved around, but most of it is as I remember.
It's the people who have all changed. I walk around the corner of a corridor and expect to see my friends waiting to meet me after lessons, but there are strange young people there, kids waiting for their own mates. Teens wearing blazers and ties who look way smarter than we ever did. When we attended the school the uniform was much more lax and as long as you wore something vaguely blue you passed inspection. They also now seem so much more confident and assured than I ever felt, maybe this is down to bravado but I hope not. These pupils are noisy, enthusiastic and so full of potential and looking back I think that I was probably like that at their age too, what happened to that energy and passion I wonder. I remember sneaking into the 6th form common room after lessons one day to put up CND and anti Reagan and Thatcher posters, convinced and passionate about my political beliefs. This year in contrast I had trouble deciding who to vote for in the General Election. So maybe it isn't the school that has changed, maybe it's me.
So Autumn is here, a time to reflect and take stock. A time to make soup and stews and buy t-shirts and sandals, a time to remember being young and to try and resurrect some of the passions I felt then, a time to put on wellies and walk through the woods kicking up leaves.
I started this post with a quote from the Bible and I'd like end it with another quote, not the Bible this time, but Elton John via The Lion King.
" From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun
There's more to see than can ever be seen
More to do than can ever be done
There's far too much to take in here
More to find than can ever be found
But the sun rolling high
In the sapphire sky
Keeps great and small on the endless round".
Autumn is here but I have sandals ready for next summer, thus the circle of life goes on.
Wednesday, 7 October 2015
St Francis of Assisi, kilts and optimism
Another new month, that means another new job, how time flies. This week I was going to write about the changing of the seasons and the passage of time but events on Sunday have put paid to that. Maybe I'll write about Autumn next week.
I stayed at my Mums house on Saturday night, she lives about 20 minutes away from me. Sunday morning Mum and I met bleary eyed in the kitchen, at the kettle, both having been woken up by the desperate need for a cup of tea. Ah, the first cup of tea of the day, there can be no finer drink. The first sip, maybe still just a tad too hot, but delicious and reviving none the less. So we stood at the kitchen counter, mouths drooling in anticipation, as we waited for the tea leaves to perform their magic, and Billy dog sat expectantly on the back door mat, drooling too as he waited for his breakfast, when Mum remembered that the church she attends were holding a pet service that morning. She wondered if Billy and I would like to attend.
I have not attended church for many years now except to go to weddings and funerals and I'm ashamed to admit that Billy has never been, but Mum attends religiously each week (pun intended). I suggested that Mum take Billy herself, but she wasn't keen on this idea, so with some trepidation I agreed to go with her. We both looked at Billy and realised that he wasn't looking his best, he was less West Highland White and rather more West Highland Beige, I wondered if we could pretend he was a Cairn terrier but decided that he would need to be spruced up a bit before he could make his premiere appearance in church. This meant the dreaded bath!
Billy loves water, he will happily splash around in muddy puddles, paddle in streams and loves to lie and cool his belly in the sea, but warm water when combined with shampoo is, in Billys mind, a particularly cruel forms of torture. Over the years of trial and error I have come up with a routine at bathtime, its not a good routine but it's the best I've been able to find. First I get undressed, normally I'll take my trousers off and just keep a T-shirt on, then I put Billy in the shower cubicle, close the screen doors slightly and the kneel in the door opening with the dog towel over my lap. This way I don't get too wet, although I am often wetter than Billy, and my body blocks him from escaping. Then its simply a matter of trying to get some water and shampoo onto him as he writhes, wriggles and piteously cries. Once rinsed and towel dried he runs around the house, growling and moaning whilst rubbing himself on accessible furniture and carpets. The final part of the ordeal is to dry him with a hairdryer, although he minds this less as he gets lots of treats during it. I didn't have time to dry him completely on Sunday as we were running late, but he certainly looked a lot cleaner.
Off to Church we went, desperately hoping that Mum hadn't got the date wrong. As we approached the Churchyard I could tell that this indeed was the right Sunday for the pet service as people with animals were all making their way towards the Church, the bells pealing out a welcome and adding to the cacophany as dogs barked, chickens clucked and children laughed and shrieked. I saw a tortoise in a cardboard box being taken in, Guinea pigs wrapped in towels and held in children's arms like babies, there were rabbits, rats and lots and lots of dogs. One little lad who I don't think had any pets brought an armful of soft toys.
Once inside the Church we found that preparations had been made and that at the base of the font were plenty of poo bags and baskets containing disinfectants and cleaning products. A sensible precaution I thought. The service started, the dogs joining in with singing the hymns and generally making their presence known through out the sermon and prayers, but overall the animals behaved very well. A couple of dogs went walk about during the service, no doubt keen brass rubbers or stained glass window fans, a few dogs sat up on the pews next to their owners probably so that they could get a better view of the flower arrangements, but Billy sat well behaved and quietly at my feet through out.
As we sat in the pew listening to the story of St Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals, whose Saints day it was, I was suddenly transported back to my school days. No we didn't have any animals at our school but my memory was stirred because of a particular smell, the girls at my primary school wore red and white gingham dresses in the summer and red kilts in the winter. Sitting in Church on Sunday as the aromour of wet dog rose up from Billy to meet me, it smelt exactly like wet kilts drying after a rainy break time. I can clearly remember the classroom after a wet playtime being filled with the fug of our kilts drying and it smelling rather more like an Australian sheep shearers convention than a primary school. Funny how such a horrid smell can bring back such a warm memory. Yes Billy was clean but he definitely wasn't dry and the smell of his wet fur would have out-ponged any incense, if it had been an incense burning type of Church.
Part way through the service, everyone who had brought an animal was invited to take their pet up to the altar rail for the animal to receive a blessing. What a motley procession we looked, all shape and size of dogs queueing alongside Guinea pigs, chickens, rats and rabbits. I had to keep Billy away from a certain Chihuaha, who I knew from previous encounters really hated Billy, and from the other Westie present who was beautifully groomed and would have shown Billy up, but other than that it all passed off without incident. Billy sat reverently at the altar rail, looking as innocent as any choir boy, and no one was to know that he wasn't actually showing respect as he was in gods house, but was actually hoping for one of the treats I had in my pocket. Put a dog collar on him (again pun intended) and I think he could look like he was a candidate for a papal election.
On the way out of the Church the dogs were given a dog biscuit, Billy did embarrass me a bit by insisting on sitting on the coir mat inside the door to eat his and then triple checking the mat and surrounding area to make sure he hadn't missed any crumbs. The trouble is now, I suspect, Billy won't want to walk past the Church as he will expect to go in and have a biscuit.
I'm not a very religious person, but you've got to admire the church for being such optimists to lay on such a service. It could have gone very differently, there could have been fights, wee and poo everywhere, animals escaping and a real hullabaloo. I do think that if you expect things to turn out well, they probably will do though. So maybe it was the churchs' optimism that made the service a success, maybe it was us all having well behaved pets, maybe it was because there were no c, a, t, s present and maybe there was intervention from a higher level. Billy doesn't care, he had a biscuit even if he did have to suffer the ignominy of a bath to earn his treat.
I stayed at my Mums house on Saturday night, she lives about 20 minutes away from me. Sunday morning Mum and I met bleary eyed in the kitchen, at the kettle, both having been woken up by the desperate need for a cup of tea. Ah, the first cup of tea of the day, there can be no finer drink. The first sip, maybe still just a tad too hot, but delicious and reviving none the less. So we stood at the kitchen counter, mouths drooling in anticipation, as we waited for the tea leaves to perform their magic, and Billy dog sat expectantly on the back door mat, drooling too as he waited for his breakfast, when Mum remembered that the church she attends were holding a pet service that morning. She wondered if Billy and I would like to attend.
I have not attended church for many years now except to go to weddings and funerals and I'm ashamed to admit that Billy has never been, but Mum attends religiously each week (pun intended). I suggested that Mum take Billy herself, but she wasn't keen on this idea, so with some trepidation I agreed to go with her. We both looked at Billy and realised that he wasn't looking his best, he was less West Highland White and rather more West Highland Beige, I wondered if we could pretend he was a Cairn terrier but decided that he would need to be spruced up a bit before he could make his premiere appearance in church. This meant the dreaded bath!
Billy loves water, he will happily splash around in muddy puddles, paddle in streams and loves to lie and cool his belly in the sea, but warm water when combined with shampoo is, in Billys mind, a particularly cruel forms of torture. Over the years of trial and error I have come up with a routine at bathtime, its not a good routine but it's the best I've been able to find. First I get undressed, normally I'll take my trousers off and just keep a T-shirt on, then I put Billy in the shower cubicle, close the screen doors slightly and the kneel in the door opening with the dog towel over my lap. This way I don't get too wet, although I am often wetter than Billy, and my body blocks him from escaping. Then its simply a matter of trying to get some water and shampoo onto him as he writhes, wriggles and piteously cries. Once rinsed and towel dried he runs around the house, growling and moaning whilst rubbing himself on accessible furniture and carpets. The final part of the ordeal is to dry him with a hairdryer, although he minds this less as he gets lots of treats during it. I didn't have time to dry him completely on Sunday as we were running late, but he certainly looked a lot cleaner.
Off to Church we went, desperately hoping that Mum hadn't got the date wrong. As we approached the Churchyard I could tell that this indeed was the right Sunday for the pet service as people with animals were all making their way towards the Church, the bells pealing out a welcome and adding to the cacophany as dogs barked, chickens clucked and children laughed and shrieked. I saw a tortoise in a cardboard box being taken in, Guinea pigs wrapped in towels and held in children's arms like babies, there were rabbits, rats and lots and lots of dogs. One little lad who I don't think had any pets brought an armful of soft toys.
Once inside the Church we found that preparations had been made and that at the base of the font were plenty of poo bags and baskets containing disinfectants and cleaning products. A sensible precaution I thought. The service started, the dogs joining in with singing the hymns and generally making their presence known through out the sermon and prayers, but overall the animals behaved very well. A couple of dogs went walk about during the service, no doubt keen brass rubbers or stained glass window fans, a few dogs sat up on the pews next to their owners probably so that they could get a better view of the flower arrangements, but Billy sat well behaved and quietly at my feet through out.
As we sat in the pew listening to the story of St Francis of Assisi, patron saint of animals, whose Saints day it was, I was suddenly transported back to my school days. No we didn't have any animals at our school but my memory was stirred because of a particular smell, the girls at my primary school wore red and white gingham dresses in the summer and red kilts in the winter. Sitting in Church on Sunday as the aromour of wet dog rose up from Billy to meet me, it smelt exactly like wet kilts drying after a rainy break time. I can clearly remember the classroom after a wet playtime being filled with the fug of our kilts drying and it smelling rather more like an Australian sheep shearers convention than a primary school. Funny how such a horrid smell can bring back such a warm memory. Yes Billy was clean but he definitely wasn't dry and the smell of his wet fur would have out-ponged any incense, if it had been an incense burning type of Church.
Part way through the service, everyone who had brought an animal was invited to take their pet up to the altar rail for the animal to receive a blessing. What a motley procession we looked, all shape and size of dogs queueing alongside Guinea pigs, chickens, rats and rabbits. I had to keep Billy away from a certain Chihuaha, who I knew from previous encounters really hated Billy, and from the other Westie present who was beautifully groomed and would have shown Billy up, but other than that it all passed off without incident. Billy sat reverently at the altar rail, looking as innocent as any choir boy, and no one was to know that he wasn't actually showing respect as he was in gods house, but was actually hoping for one of the treats I had in my pocket. Put a dog collar on him (again pun intended) and I think he could look like he was a candidate for a papal election.
On the way out of the Church the dogs were given a dog biscuit, Billy did embarrass me a bit by insisting on sitting on the coir mat inside the door to eat his and then triple checking the mat and surrounding area to make sure he hadn't missed any crumbs. The trouble is now, I suspect, Billy won't want to walk past the Church as he will expect to go in and have a biscuit.
I'm not a very religious person, but you've got to admire the church for being such optimists to lay on such a service. It could have gone very differently, there could have been fights, wee and poo everywhere, animals escaping and a real hullabaloo. I do think that if you expect things to turn out well, they probably will do though. So maybe it was the churchs' optimism that made the service a success, maybe it was us all having well behaved pets, maybe it was because there were no c, a, t, s present and maybe there was intervention from a higher level. Billy doesn't care, he had a biscuit even if he did have to suffer the ignominy of a bath to earn his treat.
Wednesday, 30 September 2015
Caravans, birthdays and Lilliputians.
I went away this weekend with family as it was Mums birthday and also a belated celebration for my nephews birthday. I'm not sure that they would want me to say how old they are, so let's just say that my nephew is in his early twenties and Mum in the late squillions (a squillion and eight to be precise). We were five adults and two dogs staying in a small caravan in the Blackdown Hills. As I've mentioned in previous blogs I love a caravan holiday and we had a really good time. The caravan was comfortable, modern and clean, if somewhat compact, but had a few strange design foibles.
The first is the fact that the living room led into a narrow corridor with one bedroom on the left, the other bedroom at the end and the bathroom on the right. The issue was that the hall was so narrow that only one person could walk along it at any one time and also all the doors opened into it. This meant that if someone was coming out of the bathroom you couldn't open the bedroom doors and if anyone was in the hall they were liable to get a black eye when a door opened unexpectedly into their face. This meant that everyone getting up, toileted and showered in the mornings was a bit of a logistical nightmare and likewise at bedtime. Not to mention the added complication of two excited dogs getting under feet.
The second quirk was in the dining area. Like many caravans the table was a rough triangle shape with bench seats on two sides and a stool on the other. The strange thing about this caravan was that the bench seats were too low for the table so that when seated your plate was rather nearer your chin than etiquette traditionally demanded. I guess the bonus of this was that there was less chance of spilling food down your front but it did feel like we were Lilliputians eating at a giants table.
Another slightly weird design feature was that the fridge was to the right of the kitchen, near the back door. Nothing too unusual about this, as like I said the caravan was small so we're not talking about it being a long walk from the kettle to the fridge when making a cup of tea, but for some strange reason the fridge door opened on the right hand side. This meant that there were two options to get the milk out of the fridge: option 1 (my preferred method) was to stand on the left hand side of the fridge, open its door and then lean over the door to reach inside and head butting the microwave oven in the process, option 2 was to open the back door, go down the 3 steps outside, turn around, open the fridge door and gain access to the milk that way. It would have been much simpler to hang the fridge door the other way, but that would have made it a bit boring and predictable I suppose.
Another slightly weird design feature was that the fridge was to the right of the kitchen, near the back door. Nothing too unusual about this, as like I said the caravan was small so we're not talking about it being a long walk from the kettle to the fridge when making a cup of tea, but for some strange reason the fridge door opened on the right hand side. This meant that there were two options to get the milk out of the fridge: option 1 (my preferred method) was to stand on the left hand side of the fridge, open its door and then lean over the door to reach inside and head butting the microwave oven in the process, option 2 was to open the back door, go down the 3 steps outside, turn around, open the fridge door and gain access to the milk that way. It would have been much simpler to hang the fridge door the other way, but that would have made it a bit boring and predictable I suppose.
The other oddity in this compact caravan was in the double bedroom, which my sister and brother-in-law shared. There was a large walk-in wardrobe, in fact it was such a spacious closet, it was almost a dressing room. When space was such a premium, so much so that there was not enough room for a dog to wag its tail without it hitting both sides of the walls in the hallway, let alone being enough space to swing the proverbial cat, why have such a large walk-in wardrobe? Why not instead use the space in the twin room which was so small only one person could stand up in there at a time, and the beds were so narrow it was impossible to turn over without knocking your elbows and knees on the wall. My sisters dog slept in the dressing room area and she probably had more room than the rest of us.
Luckily we all get on well so our snug accommodation did not put a damper on our weekend and we had a good time. Despite the fact that we got charged by a mad cow whilst on a walk, my nephew sunk up to his knees in a bog whilst wearing his new walking boots, the site swimming pool being so shallow that everyone scraped their knees whilst swimming and I even grazed my belly on the pool floor, my brother-in-law having a cough and cold and Billy dog being head butt by a sheep. Sometimes though being together is more important than little luxuries, like being able to see what's on your dinner plate, remembering to open the microwave before opening the fridge to avoid concussion or having to wait your turn to get up in the morning.
Tuesday, 22 September 2015
Envy, The Amazon and Linford Christie
I'm not a catholic so can't seek absolution for my sins in the confession box but I do feel the need to own up to one serious flaw, in the hope that you, my fellow blog readers, will forgive me.
You see I am guilty of one of the seven deadly sins, the sin of envy. I am not a generally envious person, I don't envy those who are richer, prettier or more successful than me. I don't envy those with better cars, bigger houses or the latest Apple products, but I do suffer from a very specific form of envy. Lunch box envy.
I'm not referring to the Linford Christie type lunchbox (get your minds out of the gutter please) rather the plastic container that fellow colleagues bring to work to sustain themselves through out the day. I suppose that it would be more accurate to say that I am envious of the contents of their lunch boxes rather than the tubs themselves, however I am still impressed by people who carry pretty insulated bags and pots to better display their goodies.
To save money I am making a concerted effort to always take a packed lunch in to work and most days I succeed. However I generally leave it too late to make anything interesting, and even if I have the time to make a nice lunch the contents of my fridge rarely cooperates. So I have to resort to slapping something uninspiring between a couple of slices of slightly dry bread. Last week to ring the changes I bought some tortilla wraps but forgot to get anything tasty to put in them, so ended up with having a rolled up wrap smeared in peanut butter then shoved in a sandwich bag along with a handful of wrinkly grapes.
Compare this then to the people who bring their matching picnic sets filled with meticulously chopped and diced salads, as lush looking as the amazon rainforest and containing tasty morsels, such as perfectly ripe avocado and crispy bacon, maybe feta, vine ripened tomatoes and black olives or grilled chicken and croutons. They then get their separate little container out and pour over the freshly prepared dressing, which always seems to perfectly match the salad, they have balsamic for the avocado, a vinaigrette for the feta salad and Caesar to dress the chicken. Next follows a premium brand yoghurt (in date) then a fruit salad which they eat with a fork. My boring lunch has gone before they have even poured the dressing over their mixed leaves and so I have to sit and enviously watch them tuck into their feast.
If I were to attempt to bring a salad one day it would probably contain rather sad, limp lettuce, some tomatoes (probably cherry tomatoes that would burst and squirt me with juice when I try to eat them), chopped pepper if I'm really lucky, mushy peas (it's all I had, the dish was too empty and I panicked) and tinned tuna. I don't have a little pot to put dressing in, so would add oil and vinegar in the morning which, by the time I ate my lunch, would have made the veg even slimmier and the whole lot would look and smell like the contents of a rock pool. I ask you, who is going to envy that?
Don't even get me started on people who bring leftovers for their lunch. People who smuggly heat up last night's lasagne, stew or curry, filling the office with a cacophony of savoury aromas that has me salivating onto my keyboard. Yes I cook extra in the evening, planning for there to be leftovers for lunch the next day, but invariably I've eaten it all before I've gone to bed.
In my present job you're not allowed to eat at your desk so everyone has their lunch in a little dining area and there is no escape from watching others eat their lunches and in turn feel eaten up by envy. Therefore when I was approached and offered another job last week, one of the reasons I accepted was in the hope that I won't feel quite so envious of my new colleagues lunch boxes. Yes you read correctly, I have once again handed in my notice and will start my third new job in the space of 4 months. Nearly 16 years in one job and now 3 jobs in 4 months, and all because of lunchbox envy (well maybe not all because of envy, but possibly a little iddy, biddy bit). Now I've got to go as I know that I have to scrape the mould off the cheese before I can make my cheese and tinned tomato sandwich, I wonder if I've got any bread?
You see I am guilty of one of the seven deadly sins, the sin of envy. I am not a generally envious person, I don't envy those who are richer, prettier or more successful than me. I don't envy those with better cars, bigger houses or the latest Apple products, but I do suffer from a very specific form of envy. Lunch box envy.
I'm not referring to the Linford Christie type lunchbox (get your minds out of the gutter please) rather the plastic container that fellow colleagues bring to work to sustain themselves through out the day. I suppose that it would be more accurate to say that I am envious of the contents of their lunch boxes rather than the tubs themselves, however I am still impressed by people who carry pretty insulated bags and pots to better display their goodies.
To save money I am making a concerted effort to always take a packed lunch in to work and most days I succeed. However I generally leave it too late to make anything interesting, and even if I have the time to make a nice lunch the contents of my fridge rarely cooperates. So I have to resort to slapping something uninspiring between a couple of slices of slightly dry bread. Last week to ring the changes I bought some tortilla wraps but forgot to get anything tasty to put in them, so ended up with having a rolled up wrap smeared in peanut butter then shoved in a sandwich bag along with a handful of wrinkly grapes.
Compare this then to the people who bring their matching picnic sets filled with meticulously chopped and diced salads, as lush looking as the amazon rainforest and containing tasty morsels, such as perfectly ripe avocado and crispy bacon, maybe feta, vine ripened tomatoes and black olives or grilled chicken and croutons. They then get their separate little container out and pour over the freshly prepared dressing, which always seems to perfectly match the salad, they have balsamic for the avocado, a vinaigrette for the feta salad and Caesar to dress the chicken. Next follows a premium brand yoghurt (in date) then a fruit salad which they eat with a fork. My boring lunch has gone before they have even poured the dressing over their mixed leaves and so I have to sit and enviously watch them tuck into their feast.
If I were to attempt to bring a salad one day it would probably contain rather sad, limp lettuce, some tomatoes (probably cherry tomatoes that would burst and squirt me with juice when I try to eat them), chopped pepper if I'm really lucky, mushy peas (it's all I had, the dish was too empty and I panicked) and tinned tuna. I don't have a little pot to put dressing in, so would add oil and vinegar in the morning which, by the time I ate my lunch, would have made the veg even slimmier and the whole lot would look and smell like the contents of a rock pool. I ask you, who is going to envy that?
Don't even get me started on people who bring leftovers for their lunch. People who smuggly heat up last night's lasagne, stew or curry, filling the office with a cacophony of savoury aromas that has me salivating onto my keyboard. Yes I cook extra in the evening, planning for there to be leftovers for lunch the next day, but invariably I've eaten it all before I've gone to bed.
In my present job you're not allowed to eat at your desk so everyone has their lunch in a little dining area and there is no escape from watching others eat their lunches and in turn feel eaten up by envy. Therefore when I was approached and offered another job last week, one of the reasons I accepted was in the hope that I won't feel quite so envious of my new colleagues lunch boxes. Yes you read correctly, I have once again handed in my notice and will start my third new job in the space of 4 months. Nearly 16 years in one job and now 3 jobs in 4 months, and all because of lunchbox envy (well maybe not all because of envy, but possibly a little iddy, biddy bit). Now I've got to go as I know that I have to scrape the mould off the cheese before I can make my cheese and tinned tomato sandwich, I wonder if I've got any bread?
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