If There Is Something

From Roxy Music's first album.   It's always been one of my favourites.  I don't want to like Roxy Music but I actually do.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Nature Boy

Love this.  Another in my age bracket.  I keep looking at people intently to see how they're managing it.

 I was interested to watch The Cure (previous post).  I'm the same age as Robert Smith.  Getting old is strange and I'm curious to know what others are making of it. Are they, like me, trying to find their way across unknown and potentially difficult terrain with dodgy knees?  On the one hand you are thankful to have made it this far, and in reasonable state.  A few aches and pains,  nothing too drastic.  One mustn't grumble when others are falling off the shelf or clinging on by their fingernails.   Could do with a bit more money ('she failed to plan sufficiently for her retirement'), it's been a tough year,  but that's not everything, far from it.  On the other hand you find it difficult.  Odd.  Mind-blowingly so.  Or, a 'challenge', to use a more positive word.   Death lurks round the corner - but then it always does, no matter your age.  You find yourself looking back at former friendships, temporary alliances, such-like, and seeing them afresh, through eyes that have seen and learned a bit more since then.  It doesn't help that I've a tendency to 'over think'.  Or perhaps it does!  Maybe the thing is just to immerse yourself in a vat of brandy or something and just numb it out.  One of these days it'll all be over anyhow.   But I spent far too many years numbing stuff out when I was young and in any case one would like to have managed to figure a few things out before then - a clear head is required. 

I know of people who spend their time going out for lunches and suppers and taking fancy holidays.  I can't do that,  I can't afford to, and also, even if I could I'm not terribly interested in that kind of thing.  I can still read, listen to music and watch films.  Being out of doors is also vital - keeping in contact with the natural world.  None of these things cost anything, thank goodness. 

There's also the tiresome side issue (as far as I'm concerned) of the different approach of many to the ageing female as opposed to the ageing male.  But I'll just park that rusty Vauxhall in a muddy layby for now.

Keep reasonably active, stay interested, don't look too far ahead, keep an open mind.   The lid of the coffin hasn't quite slammed shut, there's still a sliver of light...

Who knows, who knows.  I hope to have a few more adventures yet.  Donald Trump is 78 and he's president of the USA...Joe Biden is 82 and he's - well, perhaps best not pursue that line of thought, it's too weird.  How old is Vladimir Putin again?  Never let it be said that I lack ambition.

My thoughts turning inwards as November grows darker and stormier.  

THE CURE :: SONGS OF A LOST WORLD :: FULL LIVE STREAM

 Hard to know what to write at the moment because the world seems so strange and dangerous.  I don't know where to start.  I'm not sure if it's the way the world really is or just how it appears to be via the internet.

Still thinking...

It's nearly autumn so...

 I'm going in.  I've had this copy since 1980 and it's never left my side except in 1983, when I worked abroad and travelled light.   Others will understand why, I'm sure. 

Love Minus Zero/No Limit - Bob Dylan (With On-Screen Lyrics)

Turkish Teeth

 

Apologies for the total dearth of posts at the moment.  I had a complete blank writing-wise for a few weeks - experience tells me not to force it, it only comes out even worse than the usual un-forced stuff - and then a nasty bout of covid.   If only Dave Nark had been around with his covid marshal cattle prod, hazmat suit and hi viz jacket.   

But he wasn't.  He was elsewhere.  And by elsewhere,  I mean he was testing out one of Val's new-fangled 'death pods'.  Yes, she finally cracked it.  Guests can now say their final goodbyes to the Earthly plane in an eco-friendly green energy-style camping-cum-death pod,  comforted by a hand-made nettle fibre welcome basket filled with last minute artisan-style comestibles and self care items like deadly nightshade tea and gravel flapjax, hemlock toothpaste, arsenic body butter and strychnine shampoo.

'I really can't go these gravel flapjax,' Dave muttered.  'Not even if I dunk them in the deadly nightshade tea.  Val knows full well that I killed the nerves in my teeth playing the jawharp when I was busking my way across Europe back in the day and they all turned black.  I can manage a digestive if I have to but that's it. Oh well.  Someone else will have to test the death pod and its comestibles.  I'm off for a walk.'

NEXT TIME Dave reads a news article about 'Turkish teeth' and thinks he might busk his way across Europe again to get some.

Death Pods

'Death pods' churned out on a 3D printer.   What could possibly go wrong...

 https://www.msn.com/en-gb/news/world/tesla-of-euthanasia-death-capsule-that-kills-occupant-in-seconds-to-be-used-for-first-time/ar-BB1ptFCA?ocid=socialshare&pc=DCTS&cvid=bfbae116b85d4ff29b48208b9791e7f6&ei=27

 

Dave's Third Eye Pops Out

 Turns out that Dave's third eye couldn't handle the thorny moral dilemma of whether or not Dave should murder his insane wife, and simply popped out.  It fell on to the floor with a plopping sound and rolled into a gap in the skirting, where it shrivelled up and turned into a walnut-soaked-in-vinegar-like thing.  One day in the future a child will find it, and that child will probably grow up wondering why it has an adam's apple-style lump in its forehead which can read everybody's minds.

'Have you tried offering her a nice cup of tea Dave?' Geoffrey suggested.  'With a white chocolate digestive or two maybe.'

'What a good idea.  I'll do that right now.  Val!  Nice cup of tea and a digestive for you! ' Dave rolled his eyes.

'A well-meaning but, dare I say it, a stupid suggestion Geoffrey,' I said.  'Especially when we have heavy duty drugs in our medical chest.  Laudanum,  opium tabloids, curare.  Paraldehyde.   Fetch the glass syringe and the blow-pipe Geoffrey.  Let's get to work.'

The Smiths - How Soon Is Now? (Official Music Video)

 Safe to say the world has pretty much lost its shit at the moment.   

Everything feels out of control.  Bonkers people in charge everywhere.  Bonkers people protesting about stuff that makes me wonder if we're inhabiting the same universe. 

Is it time to find a suitable cave in which to sit the whole thing out?   Do I dig a bunker in the garden - or under the house - fill it with books and tins of this and that, tap into a water main and turn survivalist? 

 

Dave's Third Eye has a serious word with Dave

*Dave's third eye is speaking*   Dave - you must face reality.  Val has clearly gone completely insane.  Not only that - she's homicidal.  To use a possibly off-putting but descriptive technical term, Dave, your wife is a homicidal maniac.   This is a highly dangerous situation. You must deal with it.   I'm sorry to have to say this but this whole thing is so stressful I'll be throbbing painfully until you do, I might even get to the glowing, spontaneous combustion stage and that won't be pleasant for either of us.  

*Dave is speaking*   I wonder if I should contact Dr Wilson to get her a psychiatric referral and/or some kind of psychotropic industrial strength tranks.  Val's more of a St John's Wort type of person but I think we're probably past that stage.  Even if I added in some Evening Primrose...I mean I'm raving myself now.  Let's be honest she needs either high grade meds or locking up in a secure facility.  Probably both.  I wonder if it's menopause-related.  Goes without saying that I daren't mention that in front of Val.  

*Dave's third eye is speaking*  yes that's women's talk Dave and we never go there.  No, you have to think of the public safety aspects now.  She's concocting lethal potions in order to bump people off, and telling everyone it's a good thing.  She's saying it's over 55s only, and that it's voluntary, but she isn't going to stop there is she.  She's a seasoned killer now Dave, she's got a taste for it and she's asked you to join in.  Two words Dave.  Premeditated murder. Another two -  Saughton prison.   Need I say more?

*Dave is speaking* no, you needn't.   However,  you might give me some pointers as to what to actually do about it.   Do I call the police, psychiatric services or what?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* I'm afraid it's 'or what' Dave. 

*Dave is speaking* what do you mean?

*Dave's third eye is speaking* well, how did Val put it. Let me think...wield the cushion over the vital area, or something...

Next time- Dave fetches a cushion to wield over Val's vital area...then realises that he's about to do the very thing to Val that she asked him to do to the victims sorry guests, and which he refused to do through an excess (some might say) of principle or squeamishness...his third eye starts to throb violently and threatens to spontaneously combust due to the stress of it all...

Blog we Daily, On we Go

 Checking the old link in my bio that supposedly clicks through to Northwords Now and find it no longer takes you to the relevant page as they have updated their system.  I'm not surprised given it's 13 years old. They now save back issues as PDFs so here is a link to that.  17.pdf (northwordsnow.co.uk)  I've been living off that review/mention by Tony Ross for 13 years, you might think it's time to move on but some of us haven't got much else to move on to, frankly.

I've a story I've been working on for ten years.  I have bursts of activity on it when I think I've got a clue how it should end - or how it should be - and then I get scared and run away from it.  

Val's Lethal Income Generation Scheme becomes compulsory

 'Dave and Val have got a new income generation scheme.   I'm telling you two because you're in the zone age-wise and you might be interested.'  Tuppence emptied the last crumbs of a bag of pickled onion Monster Munch into his mouth and belched loudly. 'Meaning that you're both old.'

'That's not funny Tuppence.  As if we hadn't already heard about the holistic wellness self euthanasia care yurt.  We won't be getting involved with that, thank you.'

'I'm not surprised.  As well as being old you're fat unhealthy and selfish into the bargain.  You're breathing air and taking up space a young person could be using.  You're eating food of a very unhealthy stripe and not taking any responsibility for yourselves.  Your social attitudes are prehistoric and your time on the planet is up. You need to acknowledge that before she comes and gets you.'

'Comes and gets us?  I thought it was voluntary?'

'It WAS.... but now Val's got a pair of running shoes, a crossbow, tranquilliser darts and a van with blacked out windows.  Government issue. She doesn't need victims sorry guests to pay her because she's getting commission for each over 55 she manages to euthanase, with or without their permission.'

'How absolutely ghastly.  Geoffrey, fetch the shotgun.  We may need to defend ourselves.'

Next time....Dave's third eye starts to throb and he has a crisis of conscience....

The Killing Yurt

 'Dave we've got our first guest in the holistic voluntary self euthanasia care space and I've just realised we've got two big problems.  Man up please.'

'You mean the killing yurt.'  murmured Dave, who had his back to Val as he replaced the battery in his trail cam.

'Number one - they've got a needle phobia and they don't like tea, you're going to have to inject them Dave because I won't have time,  I'm all booked up with hot stoning clients this morning.'

'WHAT?  No I'm sorry Val.  There's another word for euthanasia, and it's murder.  I'm not doing it and neither should you.'

'But they've signed the disclaimer Dave.  It's totally fine.'

'What does the disclaimer actually say Val?'

'It says they're over 55, they want to end their earthly journey now, and if anything should go wrong, e.g. coma, paralysis and/or mental incapacity or whatever, they're sane at the point of signing therefore they accept that they're 100% responsible for anything that happens and they won't sue.  Plus, I've extended my professional liability insurance that I use for my hot stoning to cover wellness self-euthanasing.  We're totally covered Dave.  Now get on with it, we don't want a negative review on Trip Advisor.  Not that they'll be around to write one but...'

'What's the second problem?'

'Well, you know how I said they paid half up front half on completion?'

'Yes...'

'I just realised that if there is a 'completion', then they'll have ended their earthly journey and won't be able to pay the remainder.'

'How terrible.  Well, maybe you should just scrap the whole thing Val and stick to the hot stoning and the ear candling.'

'Perhaps Dave but what do we do with the guest that's already here?  They're ready to depart this world and eager for us to assist.'

'Just give them their deposit back Val, and offer them one of my wildlife safaris.  I've repaired the holes in the kayak and I can take them round the loch, there's a pair of grebes nesting in the reed beds.  We might even see an otter. That's sure to bring back the will to live. OW!

Dave winced as Val smacked him in the third eye with a hot stone.

The Holistic Voluntary Wellness Self Euthanasia Care Space

 'I wonder if I can somehow remove my third eye', thought Dave.  'I don't think I can cope with being in a permanent state of enlightenment.  I feel I need some Valium or something.  Something to bring me down...'

'Dave!  What are you doing out there!  Get those logs chopped right now,  the mobile sauna needs topping up, my hot stones are going cold and I've run out of kindling.   And haven't you dug out the composting toilet yet, it smells disgusting.  Guests are complaining.'  

'OK Val.'  Forget about the Valium, thought Dave, pulling on his Wellingtons.  And as for the composting toilet - the clue is in the name.  It's a composting toilet, therefore, it smells disgusting.  You wanted the bloody thing.  I tried to warn you but would you listen?  No.  Because you never listen. There was no point in trying to explain this to Val.  There was no point in trying to explain anything to Val.  

Later...in Dave and Val's cottage, over some goji berry tea...

'Dave I've got an idea I need to discuss with you.  Nettle flapjack?'  Val proffered a handwoven willow basket filled with lumpy brown-ish rectangles. 'They're three months old but they're totally fine if you dunk them.'

'No thanks Val.  I'm still full after the roadkill soup you made for lunch,'  said Dave warily.  He only got offered flapjacks if Val wanted him to do something.  And it was always something bad.

'That's OK, they were left over from a guest's welcome pack. Why do people never eat them? So ungrateful.  They probably expect Twixes or something.  Anyway,  what I wanted to tell you, I mean ask you...I mean tell you....or discuss or whatever...I'm converting one of the yurts into our own mini Switzerland Dave!  I'm getting a grant from the Scottish government, as long as I rewild the back field, fit solar panels and an air-sourced heat pump and ante up three grand.   It's going to be a holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space.  Where people who fulfil certain important criteria can either indulge themselves by self-euthanasing via an injection of a holistic cocktail of lethal wellness drugs I carefully distill from locally eco-foraged fungi and toxic plants, or ingest it in the form of a pleasant herbal-style tea.  Which obviously would take longer to take effect but would be ideal for anyone with a needle phobia.  I might even throw in a Toblerone.'   

'What are the criteria?'

'Oh, they'd have to be over a certain age.  Let's say, 55?  Just plucking that out of the air but it sounds about right.  And, they'd have to pay a fee, obviously.  Half up front,  half on completion.  I'd take Paypal, cash, debit and credit cards but not Klarna.'

'You've clearly thought this through Val.  Leaving the legality of it aside for a minute - how would you - or we - dispose of the - how shall I put it - remains?'

'Bury them in the back field, Dave.  The one that I'm rewilding and planting up with yellow rattle and stuff.  Where they would compost down into the soil and become a useful part of the ecosystem instead of taking up space on an already overcrowded planet.  That's where you come in.  You've got a pick and a couple of decent shovels, haven't you?'

'And what if - heaven forbid - someone attempts but fails to 'complete'?'

'No worries at all, they have two options which they pre-select on the disclaimer form prior to arrival.  They're either left in a permanent coma-style vegetative state - mentally alert, yet physically completely paralysed, or vice versa, depending on the proportion of specially foraged herbs to fungi used in the solution - or, for an additional fee, finished off, let me put it that way.'

'Finished off?  How?'

'Dave you're fully capable of wielding one of my home made crocheted nettle fibre cushions over the vital area.'

'The vital area.  You mean the face don't you.  Good grief Val.  When we got married I knew you were a strong-minded woman but I didn't expect this.'

Next time - Val discloses that her mother is coming to stay for an indefinite period.  Dave perks up as he wonders if she might be the first candidate for the holistic voluntary wellness self euthanasia care space...

Bob Dylan - Like a Rolling Stone (Official Audio)

Happy 83rd birthday to a genius whose wonderful songs have been friends to me for as long as I can remember.  

Geriatric Refuseniks

'How are we going to find the treasure if we can't get Dave to lend us his third eye?'

'Oh who knows.  Can we be bothered even looking - even if he does lend us it?  Frankly,  I'm not sure. We've got through life this far without having treasure and we're doing OK.  Bit of victimless thievery, bit of starvation now and then, threadbare clothes, no holidays and no fancy cars but hey.  We get by. The simple life is grand.  Let's say that if we haven't found it by the time winter comes - say,  mid-November, depending on weather - we should call it a day and just accept we had our chance and we blew it, we're old and we should stay home with our pipes and our slippers and just accept we did our bests in our lives and that's the fun part over, we've had a fair kick of the ball, no treasure for us and maybe we should book a trip to Switzerland and be done with it.'

'Bit negative Tuppy.'

'Mark my words.  Pretty soon once we reach a certain age - say, 60, perhaps 70 if we're very lucky - we're going to be offered an injection, which won't be compulsory, but, if we don't take it we won't be allowed nice things.  We'll probably have to live in an old person's compound, with all the other geriatric refuseniks, soiling ourselves and being given porridge and soup.'

'Let's just hope that Dave does lend us the eye then and that we do find the treasure by November...and if you can't be arsed, then I'll find it myself.' 

Dave considers monetising his third eye

 'I'm not deploying my third eye for shit!' snapped Dave. 'How dare you even ask me that.  It's for metaphysical purposes ONLY, plus seeing in the dark.  Which is great because I'll never need to use night vision goggles again.  It'll be much easier when I'm out setting the wildlife cam looking for pine martens and owls and stuff.'

'Burglars.  Rats.  Cockroaches.  You could start renting it out to paranoid property owners Dave.  It could be a side hustle,'  sniggered Geoffrey.

'Pervs,' suggested Tuppence.  'Doggers.  Not that I'd know anything about it but a third eye that can see in the dark would be fairly handy in those circumstances.  You could rent it out by the hour. Heh heh.'

Dave shook his head and strode off.  I'm not even going to bother explaining to these moronic twits that my third eye cannot be removed, therefore it cannot be rented out, he thought.  My services as the possessor of a third eye however are a different matter, and I suppose I could put an ad on Gumtree regarding charging a small fee for doing night security patrols round people's property.  Mind you, that would be pretty boring, and a bit of a waste of the eye, and besides don't paranoid property owners have dogs already?  A crazed XL bully would surely be a better bet.  And in any case, money's not everything and I'd far rather be by the river scouting for otters than giving people who don't appreciate the profundity of it, the benefit of my third eye in exchange for a few quid.  I'll think it over.  Oh and I definitely won't mention it to Val, because she'll one hundred per cent want me to do it.  Her nettle jams aren't selling well, what a surprise, and she's had some bad reviews on Tripadvisor about the cleanliness of the yurts so she's freaking out about losing business and maintaining income generation.  By which she means me getting a regular job, instead of just punting my otter vids on Youtube.  Luckily she doesn't even know about the eye yet.  Hopefully it'll stay that way.

No,  I think I already know, within myself, that commercialising the eye would be wrong.  I received it as a gift from the glittering eye in the sweat cottage, as a means of, or tool for, elevating my psyche if you like and developing my relationship with my higher, better, self.  I can't just rent it out for cash.  I feel that something bad would definitely happen if I did that.

Next time - Dave uses his third eye to try to resolve some stuff that's been buzzing around his brain...

Why are human beings so far apart, even if they're in the same room?  Can't we all get along?  Why does my heart hurt, and will it always be that way?  Why do I have to earn munny in order to live - why isn't everything free?  Why did humans invent munny anyway? Are globalists going to abolish it and make us all slaves?  Why on earth did I marry Val, and am I stuck with her forever...I'm hungry, I wish I had some sausages...even a Twix...

Summer projects

 I have two summer projects underway.   One is to explore the Sidlaw hills as much as I can,  probably working from west to east-ish.  

I'm using David Dorward's 2004 book and Landranger Ordnance Survey map 53 for this.  My inclination is to avoid the busy areas and certainly to avoid weekends, holidays and hot weather.  When I factor in my own time commitments I realise I may have made a mistake in making this a summer project, but here we are, I'm doing my best!

The other project is to use my new DSLR camera a bit more.  I need to buy a tripod and a zoom lens for it, I don't want to spend much but I can't do what I want to do without them.  So I'm looking for second hand/used.  I won't generally be taking it into the Sidlaws unless for a short, low level walk, as it's too heavy and I find my phone and an old Canon superzoom much more convenient. Especially if I'm carrying binoculars as well.  I've already been on a short course to learn the basics, I just need to practice now.

I'm going to probably write up my walks on 'Pages' rather than blog posts - to keep them separate from the fictional (or is it??!) posts.  And I'll post photos as I go.   I'll post links to the pages.  Pages can also be found under the header picture at the top of the blog, just click.

Astral Alan Watts

 'So Dave's got a third eye.  I wonder if it's an Xray one and if he can use it to find the treasure.' 

'Kind of like a metal detector.'  I pushed eight sizzling rashers of back bacon round the frying pan.

'Yes.  Without the kit and having to get permission from the landowner.'

'Quite.  Brown sauce or red on your sandwich Geoffrey?  Or perhaps throw caution to the winds and have both?'

'Ooh red I think.  I'd go for both only we mustn't cross the streams.  Put plenty butter on as well.  And black pepper.'

'Okey doke.  Mind you Dave says he's not into material gain these days, he's gone all metaphysical after his stay in the sweat cottage.  He says he met Alan Watts on an astral plane and the current was too strong for the wire and all the fuses blew, he couldn't even make a cup of tea.  Apparently he was wearing a kaftan and smoking a spliff.'

'Dave?'

'No.  Astral Alan.'

'Blimey.'

'Quite.  Nevertheless I think it would be worth asking Dave to deploy the third eye, or at least give it a go, otherwise we'll be digging and dowsing to an extent I can't be arsed with. 

Frog in the whole

Literally a toad in a hole

 'It's because it would be too sickly without it,' explained Dave.

'Yes but it seems so jarring,' said Tuppence.

'That's the whole point,' said Dave, patiently. 'You need the contrast. The flowing melodic bits and then the jarring bits.   The counterpoint if you like.  It's like happiness and sadness, the darkness and the light.  Sweet and sour or whatever.  You can't appreciate the one without the other.  You have to bear in mind, as well, Tuppence, that it was the 1960s and most of these people were out of their minds on a cocktail of drugs. They weren't rational.   That accounts for a lot.  Mind you, being rational isn't everything.  Far from it actually.  When I was in the sweat cottage I...'

Tuppence got up to his feet hurriedly.

'Well I think my tea's probably ready.  I'd better be off Dave, it's toad in the hole, my fave.  Thanks for the chat about Thunderclap Newman's greatest hit.'

Dave stroked his beard thoughtfully, leaned back in his rocking chair and closed his eyes.  'Let the...for argument's sake... toad...as it were...see the...hole?  But why a 'toad'?  Why limit yourself to one amphibian?  Is it in fact, as it were...a frog, or perhaps a newt, even a great crested one?  or another type of amphibian altogether?  But let us say, to prevent us totally busting our brains, 'frog'.  In the 'whole'?  But in the 'whole' what?  Or 'hole'?  But what type of 'hole'?  A black hole, perchance?  And why?  But we never ever do know why, do we.  That's one thing I know for certain. I'll need to give this some serious thought.'

The Glittering Eyes

 Returning to the point at which Dave arrived at a cottage and a pair of glittering eyes were peering at him through the letterbox.

Dave spent some time in that cottage.  The glittering eyes fired a tranquilliser dart through the letterbox, paralysing Dave then dragging him inside where he lay on a threadbare settee for who knows how long.

Visions came and went.  Feverish dreams of times gone by, times yet to come, past errors of judgment made, future betrayals small and large.  Val's face quickly faded from memory.  This felt like a relief, but he struggled with guilt.  After all, she was his wife, for better and for worse...what kind of man would he be, if he didn't honour his marriage vows?  Not to mention, remember what his wife actually looked like.  And yet...didn't he have a higher duty - to himself?  To fulfil his God-given destiny - which, if he was honest, he might well prefer to involve only nice cups of tea, perhaps some carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, a new pair of bins, and lots of otters and not to include Val's domineering and stultifying presence.  Dave thrashed around on the settee, sweating in the stuffy, hot cottage as the glittering eyes piled yet more coal on the fire.

'Fossil fuels!  Val would have a fit...but then, who cares...what Val..thinks....aaarggh.  I'm not coping.  What kind of man am I,  if I can't cope?   Oh really who cares.'

He was given food and drink and generally looked after by the glittering eyes as his mental agonies continued. Why, he never knew, but he sensed this had happened before, to other lost travellers on the moor.

When he eventually 'came to', he found a bowl of peppermint-scented cool fresh water and a clean(-ish) cloth on a small table next to the settee.  He dabbed his face and took a couple of deep breaths.  The door behind him was open wide and he could feel the bracing air of the moor.  It was time to leave.

He stood up and caught his reflection in the oak mirror above the fireplace - which was now cold, and filled with daffodils - 'WHAT THE...?'  

'I'm sure I usually only have two eyes.  Now I seem to have three!'  he patted his forehead carefully, and felt nothing.  But a third eye was clearly visible, between and just above his usual two, when he looked at his reflection.  Could there be a warp in the glass?  he thought of course not - surely not one that looked exactly like a human eye.  

'Well, perhaps I'm seeing things.  With a spare eye that wouldn't be surprising lol.  If it's really there and I'm not hallucinating again who knows, it might come in useful.  I'll set off and see what happens.  Expect the worst and hope for the best.  That's what dad always used to say, and look where that got him.  COPD and crippled with arthritis at 65 after a lifetime of working in heavy industry and 55 years of Capstan full strength.  He was lucky to make it that far I suppose.  At least he never had to worry about having an extra eye lol.'

Dave inhaled deeply as he stood in the cottage doorway and looked at the thin path that wound over the moor towards the sea, where he knew for sure there would be otters.   He was ready to move on...

Next time - Dave wonders if his entire life has been a hallucination as his third eye comes into its own -  but he doesn't have time to think about that as he finds that there is a considerable demand for its services, back at the Rocky Outcrop.

Tupfinder Towers opens to the public

 

We had forgotten entirely that the T-G intended opening Tupfinder Towers to the public.  And fortunately for us,  he opened it - charging sixpence, to include a nice cup of tea, one of Mrs T-G's black sausage rolls, a pickled worm and entry to the castle and grounds - the day after we leapt into the oubliette in a hail of buckshot.

The first visitor was our friend Dave, fresh from his sojourn on the moors and a period of reflection in the sweat cottage - more of which later.  And were we glad to see him, when he peered over the edge of the oubliette.  He even had a 'pamper package' with Val's 'fun size' nettle hand cream, hogweed facemask and deadly nightshade shower gel, all done up in a basket woven from nettle fibres.   (The T-G had a small gift shop set out in the old stable block alongside the tearoom, stocked with Val's own-made health products and Mrs T-G's own-made range of pickles.  Dave felt obliged to purchase, given he didn't want to risk angering Val if she found out he hadn't.  Regular readers will know why.)  

The tide was rushing in through the hole in the wall and we were freezing.  We knew it was high springs and we had to get out of there before we perished from pneumonia.  Dave thought on his feet and rapidly unwove the nettle fibre basket and threw it down to us, with the bottle of deadly nightshade shower gel tied to the end as ballast.   The rope was flimsy but nettle fibres are tough and we were sure it would hold - it had to.  We managed to fashion it into a makeshift abseiling device and up we went as fast as we could manage.

Soon we were all sitting on the edge of the oubliette, soaking wet and freezing, with grazed knuckles from bumping against the medieval stonework, but alive. 

'Gosh thanks Dave.  I can't wait to get home for a mug of hot Madeira and a bacon sandwich.  Now all we have to do was escape from Tupfinder Towers without the T-G shooting us.'

Too late.

'AND HERE WE HAVE THE DUNGEON,' boomed a familiar voice, 'I'M SURE YOU'LL AGREE IT'S A FASCINATING IF GRUESOME FEATURE, AND THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE - .'  The T-G stopped at the 16th century oak door and stared at us.  Behind him peered half a dozen goggle-eyed schoolchildren and a bemused teacher.

Next time - does the T-G have the nerve to mow us down in front of paying visitors? moreover does he really want to do this, given we were all best friends till we stole - or borrowed, depending on your point of view - the map?

The T-G has a Meltdown

'You've been my friends for years,' said the T-G, cocking his shotgun. 'How could you do this?  Stealing from me.  It's an absolute disgrace.  You only had to ask and I'd have let you turn the rug over to see the map, if indeed that's what it is.  But it's too late for that now.   Just get in the oubliette before I open fire.'

We were teetering on the rim of a forty foot deep 'oubliette' - a bottle-necked dungeon from which there was no escape other than Death itself.

We could hear the tide rushing against the rocks far below.

'Oh it's not enough that it's bottle-necked and forty feet deep - it's got to be tidal as well!' wailed Tuppence. 

'Yes!  And don't start getting your hopes up thinking you can sail out with the tide.  You can't because the hole it comes in is much too small.  And you won't have a quick death through drowning because the tide doesn't come up far enough.  Eventually you'll die of starvation or foot-rot, which ever comes first.  Your only luxury is the tide will wash away your faecal matter.' gloated the T-G.  'Not that there will be much of that after the first terror-induced spasms, because you won't be getting any food.  Heh heh heh.'

And he let fly a hail of buckshot.  

We all leapt into the dungeon hoping for the best.  Well, it's all you can do sometimes.

Next time - Dave arrives with a care package from Val...full of pampering products made from nettles.  What a shame he didn't bring a rope - oh wait...

Plague Island - or is it?

 

Thankfully, the T-G hadn't bothered to lock up and it was fairly easy to gain access by sliding a stout piece of card between the two casements.   Tuppence and I rolled up the Aubusson, tied it with rope, and shoved it out of the window.  There was a lot of rustling as it slid down the ivy and the Moon was shining brightly upon the castle walls leaving us quite exposed to anyone who happened to be having a midnight ramble.  However we had to take the chance because unless we tried to cram it through the waste hole of the 'garderobe' we had no other way of getting it out.

Back at the Outcrop we unrolled the rug.  The map was clearly visible on the woven underside, rather than on the stained and worn 'pile'. 

But what was it a map OF?  Or indeed, where?  We had to bear in mind that we were looking at a reverse image.

There were symbols for water, and a distinct outline of a tiny island.  On the island was the symbol for a church, or at least some sort of religious structure.  

And next to it, a skull and crossbones.

'What does that signify?' asked Geoffrey. 'Pirates?'

'Death,' said Tuppence. 'Poison.  Disease.  It's a plague island.  Of all the rotten luck.'

'So we've wasted our time then,' said Geoffrey. 'The whole point of nicking the map was to find buried treasure.  Gold coins, doubloons, pieces of eight and caskets of jewels.  Because where there's a secret map there's always buried treasure.  Not that we need munny or anything, it's just nice to have the satisfaction of finding it.  Oh well, I suppose we'd better take the rug back before they notice it's missing.'   He reached for the grappling hook.

'Hold up, Geoffrey,' I said.  'Could it be that the skull and crossbones IS a pirate symbol, rather than death or poison, and that there's smuggled treasure hidden there?' 

'Or, perhaps whoever made the map wanted people to think it was a plague island to put them off and there is really a hoard of gold and jewels hidden in a crypt or something,'  said Geoffrey.

'There's only one way to find out.  We have to figure out which island this is and get over there quickstyle,' said Tuppence, twirling a pistol.  'Fetch the coracle Uncle Tuppy, while I fire up the iPhone and do a reverse reverse image search.'

next time - we find the island, only to discover it's already heavily featured as a fun destination on Instagrot and a million people and their kids have already trampled over it, paddle-boarding and barbecuing and defecating everywhere and destroying any potential clues...but the Old Tup was a canny character and nobody's fool.  There were secrets yet to be discovered...and we were the ones to find them - with the additional help of Dave, his trailcam and his newly-developed, super-sensitive 'third eye'.  More on that next time.

We Set off to Retrieve the Map

A Map - but not THE Map

Last night Tuppence came round for his tea.  

'It's your favourite.  Mince and tatties!'  I waved the potato masher as he climbed through the hole in the wall.  

'Oh no.  That's much too bland.'

'What?  But you've always liked mince.'

'That was then.  This is now and I only like mince when it tastes of something.'

'I'm putting plenty Bisto in it, and there's brown sauce as well.  What more do you want?'

'Cajun seasoning and tortilla chips.  Refried beans.  Maybe some hot salsa, sour cream and guacamole on the side.'

'Guaca what?'

'Mole,' repeated Tuppence.  'And I need to know that the mince was grass fed.  If it's not I won't eat it,  I want plant-based.'

We had plain old mince and tatties and he managed two helpings.   With four slices of fruit loaf and raspberry jam for afters.

After tea, we discussed The Map.  Upshot being that we decided to make a midnight raid on Tupfinder Towers that very evening.  The T-G had made vague plans to install burglar alarms and motion sensitive floodlights and although we were prepared to bet that he would never get round to it we thought we'd better get a shift on just in case.  We briefly talked about asking the T-G if we could take or even borrow the Map, but we decided that if he said no, which was fairly likely, we'd be the obvious suspects if it then got nicked. 

I retrieved our full face balaclavas, night vision goggles and our black polo-necks.  With a grappling hook, the remains of the fruit loaf, a flask of hot Madeira, glass cutters and a rope ladder we were all set.

Soon Tuppence and I were shinning up the rope ladder.  A waxing Moon shone on the ivy-clad facade of Tupfinder Towers and the vast mullioned window that led into the upper drawing room and the Aubusson.  Geoffrey had flown on ahead and was already up on the window ledge securing the grappling hook.  

Could we get access to the room without breaking the window?  Was it locked?  Would we need to employ the glass cutter?  That was our main concern as we rustled upwards, disturbing vast numbers of moths and spiders.

Next time - we gain access to the room - but how?

And  Dave reveals that he encountered a vision of Alan Watts in the sweat cottage.  Alan advised him that the current was much too strong for the wire.  At which point the sweat cottage went on fire after all the fuses blew and Dave was fortunate to escape with his life.

Plain old mince and tatties

Today's quote - from 'The Unspeakable World' - Alan Watts (Music By Adi Goldstein)- 'Too strong a current for the wire'

I can relate to this, and the more I'm thinking about it, the more it makes sense to me in all kinds of ways, as a person who has become very ungrounded at times.   As I understand it, you have to have a framework, nothing rigid, but for the purposes of sanity you have to be grounded in the familiarity of a certain routine, certain domestic rituals such as the pipe and slippers perhaps, if you like, or familial or societal totems or markers - otherwise, as he says, the current becomes too strong for the wire.  You can travel away from a framework, in fact sometimes you have to, you can make quite a journey, epic distances, mentally, spiritually and physically, but you need to know that you have somewhere to return to.  A returning, however, is not always to the place you expect.  

And of course you have to have somewhere to leave, in order to travel.  We're talking about frameworks here,  not prisons.  When a framework feels like a prison, it's time to think about why, and if you can't figure it out, maybe move on.

'The road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began...'  (JRR Tolkein)

Tolkein expressed this perfectly in The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings.  Epic journeys grounded in friendships and homeliness.  Another of my favourites albeit on a much smaller scale is Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows.  Mole ventures out on a Spring morning, and has all kinds of epic adventures before returning to his much-loved home a wiser mole, and with a new friend.  These are 'children's books' apparently, but the theme of epic travel, struggle, friendship and homeliness resonates with all ages I think.   The classic Antarctic journeys of Scott and Shackleton have similar qualities that will always inspire the imagination and the spirit.

To quote Tolkein again,

'Not all those who wander are lost.'

Plans for a Hate Crime Dobbing in Centre and Two for One Brazilian Butt Lifts

 

 'We're going to drive new traffic to our yurt business by making it a dobbing in centre for hate crimes.  So Val says.  She says anyone promoting hate deserves everything they get and she's prepared to catch them herself,  lock them into her therapy yurt and chain them to the massage table till the coppers arrive.  She's even bought a hi-viz jacket and a cattle prod.  But I don't feel right about it,' said Dave. 'I don't want to grass anyone up.  When I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Indeed,' said the T-G,  'It has the potential to be catastrophic in terms of local community cohesion.  Neighbour pitted against neighbour and so forth.'

'Val says it's great publicity for our business.  It'll make us seem current.  She says we need to move with the times and diversify.  She's making a sign for it right now from locally-foraged shells and sea glass with 'HATE CRIME REPORTING CENTRE' on it in seaweed fronds.  And she's made nettle scones with H A T E on the top.  People can buy a set of four and have HATE nestled right there in an eco-cellophaned nettle-fibre refillable basket. They can then literally consume HATE and expel it via the customary orifice, thereby destroying it.  She's also going to throw in two for one Brazilian butt lifts for anyone reporting a hate crime cos she's just completed an online course in how to do the liquid injection ones.  I get what she means but I just don't feel comfortable.'  Dave fiddled anxiously with a fingerless glove. 'Especially with an open-ended concept-style thing like hate.  It's not a word I even like to say to be honest.  It's kind of strong.  You know when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'What is a hate crime?'  I interrupted.

'Not sure,' said Dave. 'But when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'It sounds like something best not to get involved with,' said the T-G loudly, poking at a pot hole with his sword stick. We were out for a walk by the tourist car park, assessing the local infrastructure in view of his plans to open Tupfinder Towers to the public.  'In my experience as the local magistrate-style person-in-charge type thing,  evidence, proof, impartiality and a sound knowledge of how the law applies are crucial when administering justice.  This rubbish sounds like it was made up on the back of a fag packet.'

'I couldn't agree more,' I said, my voice fading and echoing as I fell into a super-deep pothole.

'As I was saying,  when I was in the sweat cottage recently I...'

'Da-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ve....He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-lp me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-eeeeeeeeeeee.'

next time - Dave finally manages to tell us what exactly occurred in the sweat cottage, and Val remains determined to forge ahead with her plans.  

** for readers outwith Scotland, who may be puzzled by the above -  we have a new Hate Crime law here.  Hate crimes can now be reported at specially designated hate crime reporting centres, including a mushroom farm and a sex shop.  I'm not making this up.

Dodgy Brazilian butt lifts have also been in the news.  

What a strange world we live in...

Life's soundtrack. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds - Wild God (Official Audio)

Love this.  The older I get the more I appreciate Nick Cave, who is even older than me by the way and still out there.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are touring https://x.com/nickcave/status/1768562959574339655?s=20 later this year.

Glancing blows, a blood-stained map, and a Potential High-end Tourist Destination

A gloomy lochan with an island in the middle 

A map.  Or is it?

 

'You're WHAT?'  I gasped, dropping my pipe (unlit, but stuffed with baccy) on to the threadbare Aubusson fireside rug.  I knew it was an Aubusson because there was a faded yellowing note pinned to the wall beneath the fireside bell pull saying 'mind the Aubusson' in spidery handwriting with a downwards-pointing arrow.   It was Saturday afternoon and we were 'taking tea' with the T-G and his good lady wife at Tupfinder Towers.  Or not so good, depending on your point of view.  But the least said about that, the better.

For now, at any rate.

'We're Opening to the Public,' repeated the T-G, glancing at me.  'What's wrong with that?  Tupfinder Towers is a historic building, with Scottish history crammed into its every nook and its every dusty cranny.   Each spider's web tells a story.  We've every potential to become a high-end tourist destination.'

'You've been talking to Val Nark, haven't you.'  I glanced back at him.  And that wasn't a question.  Val was on a mission to transform our homely neglected backwater into a money-spinner using the powers of Instagram, Facebook and her own-made nettle jam.  Regardless of potholes, hairpin bends and a general lack of appropriate infrastructure.  

I glanced at the Aubusson as I spread my third scone with a thick layer of butter and an even thicker layer of Val's jam, which, despite its resemblance to mud was perfectly edible once you got used to the stinginess.  Several mysterious brownish stains marred the rug's original faded, threadbare pattern.  

'What's the pattern on your rug, T-G? Looks like a map of some sort.  Beneath the brown stains.'

'Yes,  I believe it is a map. Or it might be just a brown stain under more brown stains.  Who knows. I can't remember.  The Old Tup might've...' he glanced up at the large gloomy oil painting depicting a red-faced, tartan-bedecked gent sporting a periwig and posing beside a gloomy lochan with an island in the middle of it that hung beside the fireplace.   'They're not blood or anything like that.  Well, they might be.  Anyway it's too fragile to clean, even if one were inclined...'

The T-G stared at Mrs T-G momentarily, then sighed and poked the ashes of the fire with his swordstick. 

'I can't do everything!' snapped Mrs T-G. 

'No no no Mildred.  Of course not.  And nobody's asking you to.  You have logs to chop,  gutters to clear, ditches to dig, laundry to mangle, toilets to muck out, pheasants to pluck and rabbits to skin.  Not to mention keeping your moustache under control and crafting your delicious black sausage rolls and pickled worms. You can't be beating the carpets as well.  At least, not every day.  More tea, anyone?'

I glanced at the oak mantlepiece,  where a shaft of sunlight illuminated the dull brasswork of an ancient sextant.  I glanced again at the 'map'.  The more I looked at it the more I was sure I'd seen it somewhere before.  I glanced at Geoffrey, who was glancing at me and then at the map in a significant manner.  He shook his head, and glanced away.

'If you're opening to the public,  then - and I hate to say this - you're probably going to have to get some staff in.   You might even have to pay them T-G.'

The swordstick clattered to the oak floorboards. 'S-s-staff?  P-p-pay them?  Oh well I hardly think...'

'Times have changed T-G.  You're going to have to change with them and employ folk and pay them Real Cash Munny - I know it sounds dreadful but it seems that nobody works for free these days.  We hear all the news from Tuppence when he comes round for his tea.'

More later.

next time...the T-G forges ahead with his plan - or is it Val's - to open Tupfinder Towers to the public. Geoffrey and I discuss the 'map'.   Tuppence comes round for his tea, and we hear more horrifying tales of modern life...

 I'm having a pause at the moment, before writing again.  Life's taken a dark-ish turn,  or so it seems, I must get through it before doing anything else.

March is always a difficult month for me. 

Life's soundtrack. Keith Richards - I'm Waiting For The Man (Lou Reed Cover) (Official Video)

Interesting cover.  I like it.  The original has been part of my life's soundtrack, along with the rest of the 'yellow banana' album.  

Val's internal interminable monologue as she no bakes no bake gravel flapjacks

 So before the Cancer Research UK 29 day yoga challenge started, we left Dave pondering - well, pondering all kinds of things out on the moors.

I expect he was having a mid-life crisis-style-event.  Or not.  Because I don't believe in mid-life crises, myself.  Staring old age in the face as I am I've gone through enough 'crises' to know they don't just occur in 'mid-life'.  There's nothing special about mid-life, that requires a crisis of its own.  They happen all the time, depending on circumstances.  Twenty five or sixty.  Age makes little difference.  Sure, you learn a bit as you go through life. Menopause?  Nah, bollocks to that.  Likewise the andropause.  But you forget a lot also.  Although, if I understand Hegelian dialectic correctly (laughter) nothing is ever really 'forgotten'.  It's merely subsumed into the whole, creating the being we are forever in the process of becoming.  Hegel would lose the 'forever'.   

But I digress.

Back at the yurts,  Val was not baking her specialty -  'no bake' hardcore smashed gravel flapjacks.  Her fifth batch that day.  She was breathing heavily and muttering to herself as she smashed gravel with a large mallet and mixed it with golden syrup and rolled oats before pressing the mixture into a tray lined with clingfilm and refrigerating it overnight (full recipe not available, sorry).

'I know Dave's testosterone levels have plummeted.  Plummeted from, let's be honest, a very low base, to the infinitesimal.  He's not the man I thought I married.  Or is he.  Perhaps I was just stupid.  Blinded by his facility with a trailcam and his knowledge of all things otter.  I wonder if I should DIVORCE him!'  Val smashed the mallet extra hard as she said 'DIVORCE'.  A fragment of gravel flew ceiling-wards and clattered into the uplighter.  'Or perhaps he's experiencing the andropause.  Maybe I should cut him some slack.  Or perhaps NOT!'  Val's mallet hit the dwindling pile of gravel again and the hand-crafted kitchen table - hand-crafted by Dave, from local sustainable sources - i.e. the small stand of coppiced oak behind the yurts - shuddered.  Val paused, as she remembered Dave diligently sanding planks of oak and whittling the table legs out in the shed on cold winter evenings with only a small brazier and his fingerless gloves to keep him warm.

'Perhaps Dave's not so bad.  Perhaps it is the andropause and he just needs some more hot stoning, and an ear candling session to rev him up a bit. And a double strength boiling goji berry oil colonic irrigation is always a good answer no matter the question.  Mind you,  Dave's been going through the andropause ever since I met him thirty years ago.  Never mind.   If he ever returns from the moors I'll make a new man of him.'  

Val threw her mallet into the air and caught it deftly, before pressing the final flap jack mixture into its tin tray and popping it into the refrigerator.

more later - when Dave returns from the moors in a spiritually enlightened state, loses his bobble hat and gets a surprising job offer...

My Book Seapenguin

 

I published a paperback in 2017 - it's got almost all the original blog posts in it.

https://youtube.com/shorts/YdNHC7NbbtA?si=KRYs-reVcmWGKwPq

Above is a link to a Youtube short regarding the book.

And here is the link to my Amazon author page. https://www.amazon.com/author/katesmart

 I'm taking a pause here because I have something else going on writing-wise and I'm unsure whether to place it here or whether to start another, temporary blog.   I'm having a quick think.

Meanwhile, apologies for the truncated Dave post.  He is currently Hereabouts in a yurt-cum-sweat lodge - Val found him on the moors, ending his brief burst of freedom and accusing him of having 'mental health' that required immediate intervention with hot stones, a goji berry enema and three weeks in the sweat yurt.

More on all of this later.  

Dave's Hurting Soul

'Dave.  You need to spend some time alone mate.  You need to reconnect with yourself.'

Dave thought back to when he was a teenager.  Endless hours spent listening to Nick Drake on dull winter afternoons, smoking endless cigarettes and thinking endlessly dark thoughts.  It was always late autumn or winter back then, or so it seemed.  Everything grey and brown and muddy.  Mirroring how he felt inside.

He remembered longing for a cleansing frost.  And a homely house in the countryside with a welcoming fire, books, and a patchwork bedspread.  Instead of the damp featureless first floor apartment in the brutalist concrete housing estate where he was brought up.  

Was he connecting with himself, back then?  It was hard to say.  It was just the way he was, back then.  Friendless.  Introverted.  Relying entirely on his own company.  Escaping on his bike to bits of scrubby ancient woodland still hanging on amidst the concrete and rubble of new roads and shopping centres on the outskirts of town and finding solace for his hurting soul in a bit of birding.  

I haven't changed a bit, he thought.   I live in the countryside and I'm married to Val now, so I'm not on my own.  

But my soul still hurts.

Dave takes a Leap

' I'm free, to do what I want, any old ti-ime', Dave sang softly to himself as he strode across the moors. ' I can manage on my own', he thought, 'Of course I can.  I managed before I met Val - although that seems so long ago I can barely remember how.'

Dave paused briefly on the edge of a peat bog before his long rangy legs propelled him over in a single bound.

'If only I could manage to find the elixir of life', he mused, landing neatly on a patch of reeds,  'The secret to happiness.  I don't mean eternal happiness - I just mean a general sense of contentment with the day to day and perhaps an occasional spike into bliss rather than the current mindless trudge through the mire.  Is that a lot to ask?  Perhaps it is.  Perhaps I'm overstepping the parameters of the acceptable.  But then again - why shouldn't I?  Perhaps it's time I had a long hard look at my life.  Perhaps it's time to make some changes.   Am I really happy with Val?  Did I choose the correct life partner?  Well, I know the answer to that one, don't I.  And in any case, she chose me.  I didn't have much say in the matter now I come to think properly about it.  Which is not a comfortable thing to do.  In fact I'm going to stop thinking about it right now,  it's making me feel rather unwell.'

He wiped his nose on the back of a fingerless glove as he reached the brow of the hill, and looked eastwards to a descending grassy slope, studded with clumps of spaghnum moss.  At the bottom was a low building with a thin vertical stream of pale grey smoke emanating from a hole in the top.

'People say they have no regrets.  Well,  they must be lucky because I have plenty.  Mainly about stuff I didn't do, rather than stuff I did.  Now isn't that strange?  Or perhaps it isn't.  How would I know.  I've never spoken to anyone else about it.  Perhaps everyone feels the same.  But I kind of hope not because that would be a bit dull. '  Dave leapt downhill springing from clump to clump of soft spongy moss,'  I wonder who stays here.  Perhaps they might offer me a hot drink and a sandwich.  Perhaps it's time for me to step out of my comfort zone.  Perhaps I need to start saying YES to the universe, instead of anxiously hiding in the shadows with my trail cam.'

He walked round to the front of the building and knocked firmly on a bright green door.

'Is there anybody there?'

The brass letterbox swung open, pushed by an unseen hand.  Dave bent down and met a pair of beady eyes glittering in the darkness ...

Next time - Dave makes some new friends...and some new discoveries...

The Youngbloods - Get Together - 1967 - 5 .1 Surround (Stereo in)

Dave Nark has an existential crisis

'Does Santa wear a full wig, or is it a ring of white hair attached to his hat to make it look like a wig? What does he do for the rest of the year, what does he think about?  Does he garden at all?'  Dave Nark muttered as he paced back and forth in front of the row of composting toilets behind the yurts as the snow began to fall.  He was wearing khaki-coloured fingerless gloves and biting his nails. 

'I can't go on like this,' he thought. 'What am I doing with my life?  I'm 59 years old and the world has passed me by.  Or is it the other way round?  Am I really happy with Val?  Or am I just making do - settling, as they say.  I think I know the answer to that one.  Oh dear.  But it's not just that.  The wildlife vids are just not cutting it.  I'm losing my touch.  Everyone's tik tokking now.  My vids are old hat.  Nobody's interested in otters.  They want killer whales and breaching humpbacks.  I have to up my game or move on.  Basically that's it, isn't it.  Up my game or move on.  Move on into the fucking grave.'

'DAVE!'  screeched Val from inside the healing yurt.  'Don't forget that you've kindling to chop, logs to bring in and the woodburner to clean when you've done digging out the toilets.  And you can make me a cup of goji berry tea while you're at it.  Properly mind!  I want the water freshly boiled not flat and under-oxygenated like the last time.   I'm worn out hot-stoning.'

Dave stopped pacing for a moment.   He rubbed his long nose in a thoughtful manner and removed a drop of moisture with the back of his fingerless glove. 

'DAVE!'

'DAVE ARE YOU LISTENING!'

'DAVE!'

And then he started pacing again, only in a different direction.  Rather than pacing back and forth in front of the toilets (which he hadn't dug out by the way), he narrowed his eyes, adjusted his bobble hat and headed behind them - towards the moors...

next time - Dave has an odd encounter in a sweat lodge

Beginning the year with TS Eliot