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 A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| Jinx Jinx was our first family cat. Not only was she the first of our cats, she was also family in that she didn’t belong to anyone. I was very young when we acquired her and I don’t think I ever knew who had introduced her to the household. But I’m certain she came before the first of our dogs. She never chose one of us as her special person. Essentially aloof in character, she would accept petting from any of us but only for short periods. Mostly, she kept to herself. In a way, she was the most catlike of our cats in this acceptance of our usefulness to her but rejection of too much interaction. As a Manx, she had no tail but, once you were used to this, it became obvious that she was quite pretty. She was an attractive mix of white and grey in stripes, almost like an albino tiger. This gave her a smokey, misty look that is quite rare in cats. I have no idea where the name Jinx came from. She showed no tendency to bring bad luck and proved tough enough to outlast many of our dogs. They accepted her as the prior occupant of the household but kept her on her toes with frequent rough and tumble games. She put up with these in spite of her obvious dislike of her dignity being ruffled so often and the dogs never did any physical harm to her. You could say that she had the last laugh, spending her last few years in a brief interlude when we had no dogs. She lived about sixteen years. In the end, she went in a way that was typical of her ghostlike quality, disappearing quietly one day and never being seen again. Writing about her has made me realise just how important her colouring was to the whole concept of Jinx. Being the colour of mist, she lived a life slightly apart from us, always present but barely noticeable, a faint impression of a wraithlike shadow at the edge of the family. It’s almost as if she didn’t live with us - she haunted us. And that was Jinx. Word count: 364 |
| Cats I am very picky when it comes to dogs. I’ve known many breeds owned by others and quite a few that my father had when I was a child. That was when he was experimenting, however, and he eventually came to the same conclusion that I had reached at a very early age. It has to be a Staffordshire Bull Terrier. Preferably brindle although a red will do. And, if you really want the very best, go for a bitch. They are very slightly less trouble than males. Strangely enough, the story is completely different when it comes to cats. My life has been lived with many cats and I never took much notice of what breed they were. It didn’t seem to matter, apart from how fluffy they were. Not really into fluffiness in either cats or dogs. I like to see the true shape of the animal and that you’ll only get with the shorthairs. So I’ve known and owned a fair variety of cats, beginning with a Manx. But it’s the last one that has made me take notice. She’s from Florida, a stray picked up by the Girl and brought to us on return from her vacation. An unwanted addition to the family that has turned out to be a bountiful gift. But more of that in some later post. It occurs to me that I should write about the various cats I have known. This is more possible for me than the dogs because each of those is worth a book and I just haven’t the time these days. The cats could be dealt with in a blog post each, however. So I’m not promising anything but the intent right now is to write about those cats, a post for each. The first was a Manx, as I mentioned, and her name was Jinx. We’ll see how long I can keep the series going. Word count: 319 |
| Sleep I read somewhere that Churchill hardly slept at all at night. Instead, he made up for it by snatching ten minute catnaps during the day. At moments when the pressure was off, presumably. Apparently, Maggie Thatcher did the same thing. In fact, it may be that many of the high-powered folk who run the corridors of power, influence, and money have similar habits. It’s a lifestyle that most of us ordinary folk find hard to understand or even believe. We can’t imagine doing without a good night’s sleep to recover from the rigours of our days. So we put it down as an urban legend and wonder how these stories begin. And then we get old. I’ve heard it said that old people don’t sleep as much as they used to because “they don’t need it as much.” But now I’m in a position to disagree. We sleep just as much as we always did but not in one great big lump. Our nights are divided into a few hours of sleep separated by frequent visits to the bathroom. It’s the decreased capacity of the bladder that decides these things and when a man has to pee, he’s gotta pee. During the day, of course, we catch up by short naps in front of the television or sitting in a chair with the book we were reading slipping out of our hands. It all adds up and I can say that, putting everything together, we most likely get the same amount of sleep as the younger ones around us. Admittedly, my test sample is very small. In fact, it consists of one person only - me. But, as Andrea says, “Everyone does it.” So nod off, gentle geriatric friends, you’re just catching up! Word count: 292 |
| Inheritance It’s true that we all become our parents as we get older. In my seventy-seventh year I have ample evidence to prove the theory. So many of the things I say with regularity are echoes of my father’s outdated and sometimes mysterious sayings. An example is, “Nobody here but us chickens.” The reason for that one came out when I was watching a Laurel and Hardy movie on the television. There’s a scene in which they hide from the sheriff in a chicken hutch. When the sheriff arrives and calls out, “Anybody here?” one of the guys answers, “Nobody here but us chickens.” It’s not only my father that shapes my old age. I realised very early on that I’d inherited one of my mother’s most irritating features. She would listen to whatever explanation (usually long and complicated) I was giving her and then gradually her eyes would glaze over. I could tell she’d stopped listening. This happened so often that we’d accept it without comment, finish whatever we were saying and rush off without bothering to hear any reply she might invent. I have the same tendency. I’m not sure how noticeable it is but I’m often just thinking of other things when someone is droning on about something or other. It’s rude, I know, but I can’t help it. The old brain just refuses to hear any more and wanders off into its own pursuits. So, if I get that glazed look in my eyes when I’m supposed to be hearing your latest theory, I’m sorry but it’s all my mom’s fault. Hey, are you still reading this? Word count: 270 |
| Getting It Said I actually caught up to the Promptly Poetry Challenge today. A poem intended to be read as a chant, meter all-important, meaning merely incidental and vague. I write more chants as time goes on. Anyway, when I’d finished, I read through the new poem and several of the ones I’d written to catch up. And realised that they were all about the same thing, in spite of the different prompts. I was reminded of Claude Monet, who spent his last few years painting endless pictures of the waterlilies on his pond. I’ve never understood how people can get stuck on one subject (or job) like that but I think I get it now. Old age has a lot to do with it. In the end, we write or paint what we’re thinking about. Word count: 133 |
| Wishful Thinking Here we are near the end of October and it seems only a few days since it was barely begun. This acceleration of time with gathering age becomes ridiculous. Were I able to run as fast as the years speed by, I’d arrive before I set out. True conservation of energy! |
| Rupert QOTD asked recently about our favourite comics. This morning I realised that I’d not answered with complete honesty. In my haste, I’d selected two comics that were both American. The full truth is that this ignores the impact of European cartoons on my development. Although it’s true that, as an adult, I love Peanuts and Calvin & Hobbes, more influential on my childhood was a bear known as Rupert. I knew him as a white bear (probably polar as a result) but he was originally brown. More importantly, he was set apart from his fellow bears by his clothing - red sweater, chequered scarf and trousers, white shoes. Rupert was the creation of a husband and wife team, Herbert Tourtel (story) and Mary Tourtel (illustration). He was born in 1920, which makes him older than the other famous British bears, Winnie the Pooh and Paddington (yes, I know Paddington was supposed to be from Peru but he behaved as a Brit). That makes Rupert 105 years old and his longevity is caused by a list of successor writer/illustrators over the years. He began as a regular item in the newspaper, the Daily Express, and has continued thus right up to the present. I never had access to the paper series but was given several copies of the hardback annual of his adventures that was published each year. These had four ways to read the story. At the top of the page, would be a title for the events of that page. Then there would be the illustrations, four to the page. Under that would be two lines of verse describing what happened in the picture. And, finally, there was a block of text at the bottom with a full account given. It was this that made Rupert so special. The title gave you a quick summary of the latest development in the story, the pictures showed it happening (ideal for those unable yet to read), the verses expanded the story in nursery style rhyme and meter (perfect for reading aloud), and the text gave the literate child all the details that complete the story. The illustrations were so very English in style and content. They are completely realistic, not obsessively and exquisitely detailed, like Hergé’s Tintin stories, and without the verve of Uderzo’s work in Asterix, but evidence of a love for the British countryside. The verses were impressively true to their nature as being for the very young, but the stories were delightfully strange and inventive. There was none of that strict attendance to reality as in Tintin - Rupert’s adventures took place in a world of magic and imagination. Yet always with that English country background. So Rupert deserves mention if we’re talking about cartoons. I was always on the lookout for any annuals that I lacked in those days and seized upon them when found. Even today I wish that I still had those annuals I collected and I happily read every word of any new Rupert story discovered. He’s like that other more recent phenomenon, Wallace and Gromit - a British institution. Word count: 513  |
| A Pill for Depression It’s hard getting any sympathy in this household. Just the other day I was feeling sorry for myself, deep in the throes of P.O.M.S (Poor Old Man Syndrome), when I said to Andrea, “What are you going to do when I go doolally one of these days?” ”What d’you mean, ‘Go doolally?’” she says. “You know, lose my marbles, say hello to Mr Alzheimer, whatever.” She looks at me. “What d’you want me to do? Hide your socks or something?” Word count: 83 |
| Procrastination I don’t know about you but I am endlessly unkind to my future self. Whenever a task proves too irritating or annoying, my tendency is to consign it to the future. The expectation is that tomorrow I will feel differently and somehow the task will be more doable. Sometimes, this is even true, but more usually I just find myself in a developing groundhog day of putting things off until the next tomorrow. Strangely, this behaviour is successful in an unexpected way. After being trapped in a procrastination series, I often face the inevitable and admit that I will never manage the task. It can then be given up without remorse or further reflection. It’s an outcome of sorts, after all. Ideally, it would be best to develop one’s ability to assess a task before accepting it, so that only those well within possible range be accepted. That would be worth working on. Word count: 153 |
| Wishes Re Whispering Ghost of C.St.Ann  's post yesterday regarding favourite genres, what genre would you love to be able to write but you don't seem to be capable of?Mine would be detective stories - I haven't the devious mind that comes up with that sort of plot. |
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