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

 

Keep Going until you Can't

 

'Keep going until you can't,' said the T-G, pausing by the open flap door of Val Nark's Holistic Vaxing Yurt to pack some Black Bogey into his Meerschaum pipe (with its bowl fashioned into the shape of the Transantarctic Mountains).  'That's my motto these days, Santa.  For what it's worth.  Which is probably quite a bit, coming from me.  Why do yourself down - that's another of my mottos.'   And he gave a wink and a thumbs up as he moved on.

Santa was 'proning' on Val Nark's portable massage table with five 'hot stones' on his back.  His red jacket and hat lay folded on a yoga mat on the floor beside him.   Val's ear candling kit sat tidily on a low stool, ready for use.  A sixth 'hot stone' - a large chunk of granite, salvaged from a ruined croft up on the moors - sat sizzling on top of the log burner in the centre of the yurt.

'Thanks,' he replied stoically. 'Unfortunately I think I've reached the 'can't' part.'

'How are we getting on Santa?' Val bustled in. 'Ready for your ear candling?  Oh - I think you could manage another hot stone on that dodgy 13th lumbar vertebra.  Here you go!'

Val reached over to the log burner and picked up the stone with a large pair of iron tongs.  'It's been on there all day -  must be super hot.'  She dropped it quickly on Santa's lower back.  'Which is the whole point and I'm sure it'll do you a power of good.  Take the pain and always be positive!  That's my motto!'

'OWYA BANDIT!' Santa bellowed, as the burning stone made contact.  The massage table buckled in the middle at its vulnerable folding point, depositing Santa in a red and white heap on the floor on top of six hot stones and the ear candling kit.  

He pulled a Sharpie out from behind his ear and wrote on the back of his hand 

KEEP GOING UNTIL YOU CAN'T

WHY DO YOURSELF DOWN

TAKE THE PAIN AND ALWAYS BE POSITIVE

Next time - Santa returns to the North Pole/Greenland/somewhere cold and nurses himself back to health, ready for next Christmas

Christmas Eve

 

Christmas Eve was a doozy.

Santa fell down the chimney in a cloud of soot, landing arse-first in our customary blazing pile of driftwood.

As he lurched out of the fireplace we could clearly see that he was rather drunk.   And -  as his red white-bobbled hat slipped to one side - completely, as it happened, bald.  

Tuppence winked at Alexa, murmuring 'See?'

'Ho ho ho everybody!'  slurred Santa, gesturing grandly with a bottle of Jack Daniels then throwing himself down on the couch.  'God I'm depressed.  I feel so OLD.  I'm definitely past heaving sacks down chimneys, that's for sure - my back's totally gone.  I can't even FIT down a chimney these days - not that it was ever easy.  I'm barrelling along in my sleigh towards a bungalow smelling of piss and biscuits like John Cooper Clarke.'

'Don't be depressed Santa,' said Tuppence (for it was he who had brought Santa to our home and rammed him down the chimney, against all basic common sense), ' Keith Richards says he's not getting old, he's evolving, and he's ANCIENT.  Even you can't be THAT old.'

'I am,' sobbed Santa, 'I'm a myth older than time itself.'

'No you're not,' said Alexa,' You're a Victorian.'

'Am I?  Am I not the embodied spirit of St Nicholas ? Forget Prince Albert, the Coca Cola advert and the threadbare supermarket versions.  I'm the real deal, and that makes me Very Old Indeed.'

'Never mind all that,' I said,' What about our presents?  Haven't you got anything for us?'

'Oh - of course,' said Santa, groping in his pocket,  'Here you are.'

And he handed me three lumps of coal.

'One for each of you.'

'Charming,' I said, throwing them on the fire.  

'Well it's always want want want with everyone isn't it.  You can't have it all your own way.  You three have been pretty nasty this year, and you know how this works.'

'What about me and Dave?' asked Alexa. 'Do we get coal too?'

'I don't want coal,' said Dave,' Val would have a fit if I started burning fossil fuels.'

Next time - Dave and Alexa open their presents, and Santa heads back to Greenland after a rejuvenating spa treatment from Val Nark.

 

Normal service will resume shortly.  Merry Christmas to all.

Jethro Tull - Ring Out Solstice bells BBC Promo Video 1976

I wheel this one out every year.

Existential Solstice Gloom

 

'How do we survive this darkness,' said Dave. 'This bleakness.  This cold thorny wilderness. How do we get through?'

'This vale of tears called life,' murmured the T-G, leafing through last week's Bugle. 'We're all weak-eyed bats,  no sun should tempt out of our four walls.  Or something along those lines.  Blindly groping our way in the dark.  There's no easy way through. But whatever you do - avoid Facebook and Whatsapp.'

'Strong drink,' I offered, swirling my hot vodka and Bovril.  'Barbiturates.  Opiates perhaps.  It all helps to take the edge off.  Especially in the dead of winter.'

'I find loud music really helps,' said Tuppence. 'When I play my Moog at volume 11 with my headphones on it blasts everything else out of my head.  Also shooting things.'

'I can't communicate,' said Dave.  He stood up and started to pace.  'I'm trying to explain myself to people and everything but it seems to just not get through.  It's like there's a massive wall between me and the rest of humanity.  It's so PAINFUL.  Everyone else looks like they're all sorted and having the time of their lives.  I try to join in but it's like I'm behind a glass screen and they can't hear me.'

'Maybe they're just ignorant bastards,' I said.  'Maybe it's them, not you.  Maybe you're better off without everyone else.  Whoever everyone else is.  It certainly can't be US because here we are giving you full support Dave.'

'Only connect,' murmured the T-G, skewering a pickled worm with a cocktail stick.  'If only it were that simple.'

'Val's raving on about the Solstice and the psychic conflict between the waxing Moon and the waning year.  She says it's that. Plus her mother coming to stay for the Festive.  And my IBS and my dodgy prostate doesn't help - I haven't mentioned that before because it's embarrassing but I'm sharing so,' Dave shrugged,' I mean that's all terrible but it can't be JUST that because I feel like this most of the time.  She says it'll be better when the Spring comes and I can get out and about wildlife vidding a bit more but it's not that.  It's not that at all.  There's something deeper I need to face.'

Next time - Dave faces something deeper and Santa comes to call.. but which one??

Bald Santa

 'How do you know which one's the real Santa?' asked Geoffrey.

We were all - all being me,  Geoffrey, Alexa, Dave Nark, and the T-G - in Speedispend car park.  Right next to a flashing sign in the shape of a large finger indicating Santa's Grotto was THIS WAY, an empty trolley bay, a rusting coin-operated kiddies' Postman Pat ride and the disabled parking spaces.  Someone in an elf hat and a hi-viz jacket leaned against the wall at the far end of the building in a sickly cloud of cranberry-scented vape smoke.  Customers pushed past us whey-faced with half-empty trolleys and dead eyes.  Crumpled receipts and shopping lists blew around the car park in the mud.  It was neither sharply, healthily cold nor pleasantly mild, merely nasty.

The Grotto consisted of a fenced-off area indoors next to the customer service area and the photo booth.  Two Santas stood forlornly by a chair wrapped in white cloth and a strand of threadbare tinsel.  A third Santa pushed past us, hatless, revealing a shiny bald head with a tattoo of Mel Gibson in 'Braveheart' at the back.  'Jesus Christ,' he snarled,  ripping off his red jacket and throwing it into the back of a 2009 red Citroen Berlingo parked in the disabled bay.  'Thank fuck that's over.  And aye -  UM ARE disabled by the way.   No all disabilities are visible, so fuck aff or ah'll get yeez done for a hate crime.'

'That can't be the real one,' said Alexa. 'Santa isn't bald.  I don't think he's from Scotland.  And I think he's probably nicer than that.'

'How do you know?' I asked.  

'What does UM ARE mean?' asked Dave.

'I think we should just go home,' said Geoffrey. 'I don't like the Real World.'

'No no.  Hang fire,  Geoffrey.  Hang fire.  Excuse me Sir,' asked the T-G, approaching the bald Santa, who was waiting for the Berlingo 'heat rods' to warm up sufficiently for the engine to start.  'Might I enquire as to whether you are in fact, the real Santa Claus?'

Bald Santa glared at him as the engine finally coughed into life.   He raised his middle finger, wrenched the Berlingo into reverse and roared off in a cloud of diesel fumes.

'Oh dear.  Our search continues,' murmured the T-G.  

Later - we discuss our nasty day over warming mugs of Bovril and vodka by a roaring driftwood fire - upshot being that we pretty much needn't have bothered.  And Tuppence arrives with a mysterious visitor...

'

Putting the Grot into Grotto

'Shall we get Dave a Christmas stocking?' asked Alexa.

'Oh why not get him two,' sneered Tuppence, who was not 'on board' with the whole giving-Dave-his-best-Christmas-ever deal.  'Might as well get him a pair.  And while you're at it, has he written his letter to Santa yet?'

'There's no need for that attitude,' snapped Geoffrey.  'We intend to embody the whole Christmas spirit this year.  We want to do it right and we've no time for cheap sarcasm from the likes of you Tuppence.'

'When did you find out that Santa wasn't real Tuppence?' asked Alexa wistfully. 'I remember being very upset and feeling sort of betrayed by my parents.  Like they'd been lying to me and I wasn't sure I could trust them any more.  But I got over it I suppose.'

'The Santa myth is the first betrayal,' intoned the Tupfinder General, tapping his swordstick briskly on the fender and sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. 'The first of many, for some.  Or the first of some, for many.  In any event, it isn't good.'

The T-G had stopped by to hand in some black sausage rolls and a jar of pickled worms, an early Yuletide gift from his wife.

'Santa has got nothing to do with Christmas,' said Tuppence. 'That's if you mean Christmas in the Christian or even pre-Christian sense, as we all should.  He's a coca cola guzzling, materialistic, obese, subjectively judgmental old man with an awful taste in clothes.  He's probably a pre-vert as well.'

'You're talking as if you really believe that Santa exists Tuppence.  As if there's only one of them.  Whereas you can find Santas all over the shop.  Literally.  Unemployed people dressed up.  Just look at the grotto in Speedispend.  They have about five Santas, all working shifts.'  said Geoffrey.

'For minimum wage,' said Alexa, 'and zero hour contracts.  If not enough kids turn up the Santas get sent home.'  

'I don't mean them,' growled Tuppence.  'I mean the REAL Santa.  Of course he exists.  I've met him, and he's even worse than I said.  If you're interested,  I can arrange for you to meet him as well.  Though you might regret it...'

Next time - Tuppence arranges a 'meet' with Santa, and everyone regrets it...