Solstice approaches.


That is all..................

"Biscuits," I said. "If only!  We ran out of food AGES ago and now we're going insane with hunger.  I was just thinking about eating my best friend, until you came along, taunting us with talk of biscuits and weight gain."

"It's remarkable how long one can manage without food," said the Whale, "For example, when I was Overthere... "

"Yes," interrupted Geoffrey, "Food's not important.   It's water that's essential to life.  At least at first.  And we're running out of that.  There are only three teeny weeny drops left in the flask.  Ooops!  I dropped it and it broke!  I'm sorry Tuppy.  I've let you down again, haven't I?  Please don't be too angry.  I feel bad enough as it is."

"Right.  That's it.  We've no food, and no water, and our boat refuses to behave as it should," I began furiously, thumping the foc's'l with my front hoof.  I had to take control - I simply had to.  But how could I, when the boat had a mind of its own, and we were in the middle of some sort of trackless ocean-style thing?

"Coracle!" shouted Geoffrey.

"Yes, I know it's a coracle.  I was using the generic term.  We're being dragged to wherever Fancy takes us, and it's about as much fun as having your fingers trapped in a door."

"No - CORACLE!  There's another one, and it's heading our way.  It's far bigger than this one, and it appears to be steam-powered.  Oo-er.  Fancy - you have a rival."

more later

The Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway Shares His Feelings about This and That

"I don't know much about This,  but I can tell you an awful lot about THAT," began the Whale.*

Then it began to cough.

"Jings,"  I said.

"Crivvins," said Geoffrey.

"Help ma boab**," said Fancy, spinning round and round in her excitement.

"STOP THAT FANCY!" I shouted, "You'll knock us all sick."

"Yes please do stop," said the Whale,"I can't address a spinning audience.  It reminds terribly me of the terrible time when I had a terrible inner ear infection, and I got terrible vertigo.  I got terribly ill and it took me a terrible length of time to recover.  And even then, when I was supposedly better, I felt terrible."

"Doctors eh," said Geoffrey.

"Never trust 'em,"  I added darkly.  (We were both thinking of Drs Wilson and Kwak, mentioned in earlier Tales, and in the first four e-books)

"That was how the weight gain started," continued the Whale, warming to its tale. "There I was, housebound, with only a reclining chair, a biscuit barrel, a deep fat fryer and a wall-mounted TV for company."

Geoffrey and I glanced at each other.  "Where were you?  A sheltered housing complex?"  I asked. "Did you have a walk-in bath, as well?"

"No Tuppy.  You're quite wrong.  They couldn't possibly allow deep fat fryers in sheltered housing, due to health and safety issues," said Geoffrey in his best 'job'sworth' tone.  Not that he's ever had a job.

"Yes!" said the Whale,"Well, kind of. It was a theme park for elderly whales.  Well they said it was a theme park, but really it was a knacker's yard, for old whales who couldn't jump and do tricks any more. Before they made us into scampi bites and fish-style fingers.  They wanted us to fatten up.  Pile on the beef, so to speak.  You know - Overthere.  Right by the Speedispend Hypermarket and Compulsory Screening Centre.  I managed to escape," it added proudly.

"How?  How did you manage to escape?"  we cried.

"Give me a biscuit and I'll tell you.  I've not had sight or sound of so much as a Rich Tea for three long months."

more later



*apologies to the late Chic Murray

**apologies to The Broons

An Encounter with the Great 'Fat' Whale. Of Norway.

No,  of course I didn't eat Geoffrey.  He would probably be perfectly edible served up with a couple of rashers of bacon on his back and some sage and onion stuffing, or even, at a push, roasted with a Knorr stock cube crumbled and massaged into his skin 'to bring out the flavour', and an unwaxed lemon up his nethers a la Marco Pierre White,  or even simmered vilely in Coca Cola a la Nigella,  but sadly there are no cooking facilities on the coracle and I just couldn't face him 'au nature' or whatever.
I certainly couldn't manage to pluck him, with my hooves.  I'd have to singe his feathers off.  Maybe with my Zippo.  But it would take AGES.......

"Tuppy!  How c-can you even think of such things!"  gasped Geoffrey.  I'd forgotten about his mind-reading facility.

Oh dear.   Oh well.....

"I'm STARVING Geoffrey!  Have a heart.  Call yourself a friend?  The least you can do is...."

WHOOOOOOSSSHHHHHHHHHHH     BBLLOOWWWWWWWWWWW

A large whale appeared off our starboard bow.  Well, it would have been our starboard bow, if we had one. The coracle doesn't have bows,  being circular.  So,  I suppose all bows are at the same time either and or equally starboard and or port depending on how the mood - or indeed "Fancy", to make another nauseating and laboured allusion* - takes you.

"My.  You're awfully big.  Even for a whale.  What kind are you?" asked Geoffrey politely.

"I'm the Great 'Fat' Whale.  Of Norway," replied the creature.

"Really?  How interesting.  Do tell me how you came by your name, especially the 'Fat' bit. I'm sure it will be an absolutely fascinating tale, and I'm longing to hear it," enthused Geoffrey.

I put my feet up on the bowsprit and prepared myself for a nap.

"Fire the kettle on and crack open your best biscuits, friend," replied the genial Leviathon**, "Chocolate ones.  And maybe some cake as well.  And I wouldn't say no to a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam, if you have it.  And plenty full fat milk and six sugars in my tea.  And after that I'll tell you how I got my name and other tales that will make your feathers fall out."

I opened an eye.  "Ummmmm....."

*the name of our coracle is Fancy.  Feel free to split your sides.

**apologies for using the term 'genial Leviathon'

Hamster Droppings

We're still on the boat.  IN the boat, rather, what with it being a coracle.  And all.

It's still in a mood.  It skirted the Corryfreckle whirlpool, lacking the courage, thankfully, to plunge right in, and took us instead round the Paps of Jura and out into the wild Atlantic.  Where we remain.  Waving forlornly to passing trawlers and such-like.

Not to mention whales.  More of those later.

Two rather pressing issues.  One, we forgot to bring the Travel Scrabble (always a godsend on a long trip).
Two, we're STARVING!!!!!!

Goji berry flapjacks, UHT almond milk smoothies and all that other vegan food is no substitute for flesh.  To make matters worse, Geoffrey informs me that the flapjacks that we so blithely consumed, were made from the sweepings from Val Nark's horrible child's horrible hamster's cage.

"Those chewy bits weren't goji berries Tuppy.  They were hamster droppings."

"Hamster droppings?"

"Yes.  From the Nark child's hamster's cage."

"I didn't know that there was a Nark child."

"Oh yes.  I think it's a boy child,  called Bucket or something.  Something that's not a proper name, anyway.  I can't remember.  Oh Tuppy!  I'm too hungry to think!  What are we going to do?"

"I haven't the foggiest.  Only I'm thinking, you DO look rather like chicken Geoffrey.  Quite appetising,  if you were trussed up with a couple of rashers of bacon on your back and half a dozen chipolatas sizzling on the side. I might even manage a sprout or two, if they were going begging.  Just for the aesthetic appeal."

"Charming!  I thought that sheep were herbivores!"

"Not in a tight spot, Geoffrey."  I edged towards him, hands outstretched.  Was I really going to eat my best friend?

more later

Aldous Huxley

I'm posting a link to this essay in the LA Times.  http://lareviewofbooks.org/essay/aldous-huxley-in-los-angeles/#.Uo_K-Q07yRE.twitter

It's about Aldous Huxley.  I did not know that he died on the same day as JFK, nor that he was injected (at his own written request) with LSD just prior to death.

I don't think I've read much, if any, Aldous Huxley.  I can hardly believe that I'm saying that, given that his name was bandied around by many of the writers and musicians of my youth.  Surely I must have had a crack at The Doors of Perception and Brave New World?   I like the sound of Crome Yellow.  That's next on my reading list.

A trip to the library would be on the cards, if I thought there might be the slightest chance that they'd have any of his books among their rapidly-dwindling stock.  As it is a trawl through the 1p. listings on Amazon will have to do.  I know it's wrong but needs must.

Update  I just learned via this article here that CS Lewis also died on that day!  And someone has recommended a couple of books - Laura Huxley's biography of her husband, and Michael Holroyd's biography of Lytton Strachey, which apparently has a lot of related information.  So I will have a look for those two.

Crome Yellow first though.

Dream of the Week

I had a dream that I borrowed my friend's mobile phone so that I could go on tour with the Rolling Stones.  Keith Richards was fixing mirror tiles to a bathroom in Newtyle and carrying a bag of tools, between gigs.  I stuck my head round Mick's hotel room door and said 'I'm just popping out for half an hour, in case anyone's looking for me.'  He was listening to 'Sway' on a teak stereo, along with a couple of very geeky, studenty-looking blokes.
I was kind of a teenager, yet not a teenager.  I tried to text my friend, to tell her about it all, but couldn't work out how to use the mobile.  I was out on a moor somewhere, and the sky was white.....
That's dreams for you.

Breakfast of the Week - Co-op own brand Fruit and Nut Muesli

You say moozly,  I say mewzly.  This is quite surprisingly good, choc-full (you say choc-ful, and I say choc-full - or perhaps I just stay silent) as they say, of fruit and nuts, and not the Utter bag of Total sawdust I'd expected for £1.79.

However - word of warning.  This might just have been a good batch.

The Nose-dirt Extraction Device (pictured)

I forgot to mention that while we've been on this journey back from Frockall with a trailer-load of orange sheep with false yellow wooden teeth, Geoffrey has been working on a new invention.
"Look Tuppy!  It's a nose-dirt extraction device!  I'm going to patent it when we get back and I'll be rich as Croesus!"
"It's a turkey baster," I stated flatly.  "In fact, it's OUR turkey baster.  And I don't want it sticking up people's noses extracting dirt willy nilly and without so much as a by your leave."
"I'd wash it afterwards.  Naturally.  A good rinse under the tap and a wipe on the old sleeve.  It's an object with multiple functionality."  He was sounding less convinced by the second.  A bit like a wind-up gramophone winding down.
"Yes Geoffrey.  I think you'd better take one of your special pills and have a nice lie down under the tartan knee-rug.  There's a good chap."

My Amazon page  https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

The Self-Destructing Coracle

Well here we are, still stuck on this sodding boat.  Yes I know that's a horrible way to describe our beloved coracle 'Fancy', which has served us so well etc. etc. and been our friend yawn yawn through many dangers - enough already.
If YOU had been crammed into a coracle, especially ours, which is spherical, and has a mind of its own in terms of whether the 'fancy' takes it to actually go where we want it to,  i.e. in terms of NAVIGATION, which is kind of an essential aspect of a 'craft', you'd be calling it a 'sodding boat' too, or perhaps a lot worse.
Besides, it leaks.
It doesn't have to leak.  It just does, because it's in that kind of mood.
A leaky mood.  You could say it was crying I suppose, if you were feeling sympathetic.
Nobody here felt sympathetic.
And nobody was talking to it.
No.  We were all talking ABOUT it.
"It's all an act.  It's all put on.  Ignore it, that's the best way.  Anyone got any fags left?  I'm gasping."
"I'll sink myself!" shrieked Fancy. "I'll self-destruct!  I'll remove my bungs!  Don't think I won't!"
"Why though?" Geoffrey was using his most soothing tone.  I've no idea if it was deliberate. "Why self-destruct?"
"Well, I'm not sure.  But I just feel in that kind of mood.  I know what.  I'm not going to remove my bungs.  I'm going to circumvent the co-ordinates you put in and I'm going to head straight for the Corryfreckle whirlpool INSTEAD, where Death surely awaits.  Put that in your pipes and smoke it."
"If only we could,"  I murmured.

Next time - Cannibalism - the pros and cons when in a tight spot.

Scottish Islands Explorer: Where Shadows Dance

Scottish Islands Explorer: Where Shadows Dance: If you like the photograph (above) of Northton Sands , South Harris, by Ruth Fairbrother , you will certainly enjoy the exhibition (below)...

We rented a cottage near this beach many years ago, and I remember we walked across it towards the sea the evening we arrived.  The beach is so vast it can be used as an airstrip, and the tide was out.  We walked and walked and the sea never seemed to get any closer.  It was like an illusion.  We closed our eyes and walked, knowing that all there was in front of us was yard upon yard of flat sand. I don't remember that we ever did reach the sea.

Nowadays I'd be worried about quicksand, or a tidal race.

Rex Ingram's The Magician

Here's the clip I mentioned.  Rex Ingram's adaptation of Maugham's The Magician.  And I'm intrigued to note that Michael Powell was assistant director.  Serendipity.  I've always loved Powell and Pressburger films.  I don't want to sound unduly fey but nobody can deny that there is definitely something of the weird about them.  In this internet age of one-click connections we've lost the mystery and magic of a bookshop or record-shop find that suddenly shines a light through the gloom and leads you a bit further along the path. We've lost the sixth sense, the part of the subconscious that enables us to close our eyes and trust while we feel our way through the dark and home in on what it is that we need to find.
Or have we?

Does Chewing One's Own Toenails Mean You're a Cannibal?

"Of course you can't turn cannibal, Tuppy," scolded Geoffrey. "It would be absolutely appalling."

He was reading my mind again.  Where was the Mind-Reading-Prevention-Device when I needed it? (as mentioned back in 2011 or 12 or thereabouts, and possibly in an e-book only don't ask me which one)
Back at the Outcrop, somewhere in the cupboard under the stairs, probably.  Or down the back of the settee, possibly.  Or propping up the end of the sideboard where the woodworm had eaten through.  At any rate, it was somewhere well out of reach.  I made a mental note to always carry it with me, in future. It's an unattractive but impressively functional device, with an effect similar to throwing a blanket over a garrulous budgie's cage.  Only in reverse, as it's me that has to wear it.

"What do you mean, cannibal?" snapped the sheep with the greenest, most piercing and most disturbingly gyroscopic eyes.  He was definitely the leader.  Far too full of the big 'I am' for my liking.

"You're feeling threatened by him, aren't you Tuppy?  I'm sure there's no need." Geoffrey again.  How tiresome, not to mention intrusive, this mind-reading is!  Mind you - when he manages to read minds other than mine, it can prove quite interesting AND useful.  Depending on whose, of course.

"I'm quite sure there will be a need, if he turns cannibal," said the sheep leader, folding his front legs in a truculent manner.  All the other sheep huddled behind him, bleating their support in a rather half-hearted fashion.

"Is it cannibalism when you chew your own toenails?" asked Geoffrey.  "I've always wondered. Same with nose dirt consumption."

"Nose dirt consumption is definitely not cannibalism, because nose dirt is an exudate - a bodily excretion.  It isn't part of the fleshy corporeum, or whatever," said the sheep leader.  "Toenails are a moot point.  Especially if they're someone else's."

"You're awfully sure of yourself, aren't you?" I said.  "What's your name, anyway?"

"It's Wool I Am," sniggered Geoffrey.

"Don't be stupid Geoffrey," I snapped.  It annoys me when he pretends to be "current".

And he knows it.

"No really it is,"  he protested.  "Ouch!  Don't pinch me.  It is, isn't it,  Wool?"

"Yes," muttered Wool,  blushing. "But how did you know?"

"Geoffrey can read minds,"  I said proudly.  "And he's my best friend in all the world."

Geoffrey beamed with pleasure.

more later

"I'm hungry, "  said Geoffrey.

"That's a good sign.  So am I.  We must be returning to normal."

We had just spent a week spinning round in the Corryfreckle whirlpool-cum-tidal race, and it had knocked us quite sick.

Now it was High Springs, and we were Out.

"We're hungry also," bleated the trailer-load of orange-fleeced, wooden-toothed sheep. "Does that mean we're returning to normal also?"

"Of course!" I lied.

"Whatever 'normal' is," added Geoffrey.  Then "THEY'll never be normal!" he hissed out of the side of his mouth,"Stop giving them false hope!"

"Oh do shut up Geoffrey, and have a goji berry flapjack.  Fling a couple back to the sheep while you're at it."

"All right," he agreed meekly.

Things were definitely returning to normal, I thought smugly.  Geoffrey being meek was a Very Good Sign.

Mind you, one of Val Nark's goji berry and raw oat flapjacks wasn't going to hit the spot. I needed sausages, and I needed them fast.  I glanced behind me at the trailer-load of sheep....could I turn on my own kind, in a tight spot?  Could I turn...cannibal?