On an ancient gravestone,  Clunie churchyard.  'Set thy House in order for thou shalt Die and not Live.'

Two of my favourite book illustrations

from Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows, illustrated by EH Shepard

from The Gashleycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey

Paris Review - The Admonitory Hippopotamus: or, Angelica and Sneezby, Edward Gorey

A lovely piece by Edward Gorey.  Paris Review - The Admonitory Hippopotamus: or, Angelica and Sneezby, Edward Gorey

Simone de Beauvoir Would Have Been 106 Today

From January 9th.  Simone de Beauvoir Would Have Been 106 Today



Reminds me to re-read The Woman Destroyed and She Came to Stay.  I'm currently reading Iris Murdoch's The Sandcastle - similar theme to She Came to Stay, but not nearly so 'astringent'. As I recall, at any rate.  It's been twenty years or more since I read it.  Jealousies and emotional threat and all manner of insecurities.  Middle class intellectuals do them so well.  The rest of us have to either ignore them or repress them or suppress them with medication (prescribed or otherwise) and pretend we have wonderful lives while we get on with earning a living, cleaning the toilet and doing the shopping.



Then we go berserk and kill ourselves and/or whoever else looks at us the wrong way on a dull Wednesday.



Or perhaps we only dream about that while we wait for some ghastly disease to finish us off.



Ah, happy days.

Star Trek 5: The Final Frontier (7/9) Movie CLIP - Approach to Sha Ka Re...

There will always be something magical about Star Trek (original), for me.

Link to article about Tolkein

I am a Lord of the Rings fan.  I didn't read it until I was about twelve or thirteen, and I read The Hobbit, after that.  I also love Wind in the Willows.  I can't really be bothered to explain why, so here is a link to a lengthy article (which actually I haven't quite finished reading!) in the London Review of Books by someone who, I think, feels similarly.  Germaine Greer apparently described LOTR as her 'nightmare'.  I don't think I'd get along very well with her.

People go on about the elves.  The elves are not the point.  If you don't understand that, then you won't like the book.  #thatisall 

 ‘I am in fact a hobbit,’ Tolkien wrote once,

in all but size. I like gardens, trees and unmechanised farmlands; I smoke a pipe, and like good plain food (unrefrigerated), but detest French cooking; I like, and even dare to wear in these dull days, ornamental waistcoats. I am fond of mushrooms (out of a field); have a very simple sense of humour (which even my appreciative critics find tiresome); I go to bed late and get up late (when possible). I do not travel much.'

He sounds like my kind of person.

I liked the Lord of the Rings films by the way, hugely, but I do not like the Hobbit ones, at all.

Ambitions of Age #1. The Road... is Everlong...

I was half-watching a programme on BBC4 about the A303 when the presenter mentioned a quote from Hilaire Belloc's 1923 book, The Road.  It appealed to me tremendously and I looked it up immediately.  Ah, the miracle of the internet.  Within a couple of clicks I had ordered the book from Amazon (yes,  I know...)

"There are primal things which move us. Fire has the character of a free companion that has travelled with us from the first exile; only to see a fire, whether he need it or no, comforts every man. Again, to hear two voices outside at night after a silence, even in crowded cities, transforms the mind. A Roof also, large and mothering, satisfies us here in the north much more than modern necessity can explain; so we built in the beginning: the only way to carry off our rains and to bear the weight of our winter snows. A Tower far off arrests a man’s eye always: it is more than a break in the sky-line; it is an enemy’s watch or the rallying of a defence to whose aid we are summoned. Nor are these emotions a memory or a reversion only as one crude theory might pretend; we craved these things - the camp, the refuge, the sentinels in the dark, the hearth - before we made them; they are part of our human manner, and when this civilisation has perished they will reappear.
"Of these primal things the least obvious but the most important is The Road. It does not strike the sense as do those others I have mentioned; we are slow to feel its influence. We take it so much for granted that its original meaning escapes us. Men, indeed, whose pleasure it is perpetually to explore even their own country on foot, and to whom its every phase of climate is delightful, receive, somewhat tardily, the spirit of The Road. They feel a meaning in it; it grows to suggest the towns upon it, it explains its own vagaries, and it gives a unity to all that has arisen along its way. But for the mass The Road is silent; it is the humblest and the most subtle, but, as I have said, the greatest and most original of the spells which we inherit from the earliest of our race. It was the most imperative and the first of our necessities. It is older than building and than wells; before we were quite men we knew it, for the animals still have it to-day; they seek their food and their drinking-places, and, as I believe, their assemblies, by known tracks which they have made."

One of my long-held ambitions is to follow one of the ancient pilgrims' roads.  There's something about travelling slowly, and walking.  It's good for the soul.  Perhaps travelling in a fast car or high speed train is also good for the soul.  But it's different. Obviously.  A bit like the difference between looking in a real library, or in a real bookshop, perhaps even travelling to a different town or city to find a certain book or bookshop, as I used to do when young; and finding and ordering a book within thirty seconds of hearing about it....

Graham Chapman interviewed on Grampian TV 1987

Graham Chapman comes across as really charming (I'm not being sarcastic). He's my favourite Python, along with Michael Palin.  No idea what happened to the interviewer. Style very much 'high 80s', I'm afraid.  Shudder.

Interview with Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir

Fascinating stuff.  Subtitles are pretty bad though.

Roots of Blues -- Blind Boy Fuller „Pistol Slapper Blues"

Mulligan and O'hare 1

Question of the day - the answer.

Oh - I forgot.  The answer to the previous question, viz. 'why is fruit round?' is, quite frankly - although why I'd want to be anything other than frank about fruit, and why I feel I even have to introduce an element of doubt, is a moot point - 'I don't know.'

Question of the Day - why is fruit round?

It isn't all round.  I know that,  of course I do - I'm not thick.  *Neither have I been living in a cupboard in John o' Groats since World War Two.  *Nor have I been living since birth in a hut in darkest Antarctica.  *Or on the Moon.  I wasn't raised by wolves in the wilds of Siberia.  *Or anywhere else where they don't have fruit.  I know about bananas and pears, and probably other non-round fruit that I can't quite think of at the moment,  and I am putting it out there before anyone starts.

However, the fact remains that most fruit is round.  Apples, oranges, grapefruit,  Sharon fruit, kiwi fruit (yes, oval I know, but basically that IS round), grapes (again, an elongated form of round, but still round-ish),  lemons (same), tomatoes (controversial), pomegranates, blueberries, strawberries (sort of round) - I could go on, but won't.

*I do realise - because I'm not thick, right? - that I've made mistakes slash errors with my nors ors and neithers.  But right now I have a life to live, a cup of tea to make, a biscuit to dunk, the toilet to go to, nails to file, nose hairs to pluck - and I cannot be arsed looking up the correct grammatical 'usages' or 'use', even, and so for the moment at least they must stay as they are.  Imperfect - like non-round fruit.

Tomorrow's question - linked.  Why are raspberries hollow?

Toilet Paper Soaked in Arsenic Klaxon

'OKAY OKAY OKAY WHAT'S GOING OOOOOON???'

'Nothing's going on.  It's all going OFF.'

'How d'you mean?'

'I don't know.'

'You must know.  And if you don't know,  I must find out.  I won't sleep unless I do.'

'You're such a control freak.'

'I know.'

'You know it all, don't you.'

'That didn't sound like a question.'

'It wasn't.'

'Ah.  It was a Statement of Fact.  And rightly so.'

'I HATE when you say 'ah'.  Sounds like you're sitting there with your arms folded, in your leather wing-backed chair...'

'Going aaaahhhhh.'

'Going aaaaaahhhhhh.  Counting your metaphorical chickens.'

'I don't need to count them.  They hatched last week.'

'I seriously doubt that.  Anyway.'

'Anyway.'

'Anyway.'

'Anyway what?'

'I hate it when you say ah.'

'Just as well you're not a doctor then.'

'One day I will kill you.  You should know that.'

'Why?  That is not at all the kind of thing I want to know.  Besides, you haven't the stomach for it.'

'Stomachs don't come into it.'

'That's what you think.  You're too stupid, anyway.  You've just proved it by informing me in advance of your murderous plan.'

'No I haven't.  I haven't said how I'm going to do it. Or when.  For all you know I've been planning this for months.'

'I bet you haven't.'

'Yes I have.  I've been soaking your toilet paper in a clear, odourless arsenic solution, then carefully drying it out and replacing it on the roll so's you wouldn't notice.  Each time you've gone to the lav or blown your nose, you've been absorbing arsenic via the mucous membranes of whichever orifice has been wiped.  And I've been rubbing my hands with glee - which is not a type of soap by the way.  Your body, according to my rigorous calculations, must now have reached total arsenic saturation point, or T.A.S.P..  So there.  And before you ask - I can see your mouth opening and I know just what's going to come out - I have a separate roll, so I remain quite unaffected.  You however will die a truly horrid death at some point within the next twenty six hours and fifty two minutes.'

'I won't.'

'Yes, you will.  You smug git.  There's no point arguing the toss.  It's too late.'

'No it's not.'

'It is.'

'It's not.  I swapped the rolls.'

'Oh...........'

'Oh indeed.  Or as I prefer to say, ah.  You now have twenty six hours and forty eight minutes to plan your funeral and make a few last phone-calls.'

'Jeeeeez...........'

'Quite.  Cigarette?'

'Might as well.  Nothing to lose now, have I?  Holy lavatory paper.  I didn't see that one coming.'

'Course you didn't.'

'You're not pulling my leg, by any chance? Or indeed, 'yanking my chain'?'

'No.'

Gram Parsons - Return Of The Grievous Angel

Haven't posted any Gram Parsons for AGES.  My day doesn't go well unless I listen to this.

Out of the Trees (1975), by Graham Chapman & Douglas Adams

Haven't seen this before, or at least can't remember it.  

Bill Hicks BBC Interview

I've always been a fan of this chap.  And this interview clip is one of my favourites.  I've read some unnecessarily snarky things about him recently, following the 20th anniversary of his death. 'Today, he would be in some dreadful sitcom' and so forth.  'Three hours of material'.  So what?  He died at 32.  Arses.  He never fails to make me Laugh Out Loud, he was clearly a Good Bloke, and I hate to imagine what it was like playing those dives he mentions.

The Genie, the lamp, and the triple cheeseburger scenario

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

What helps?  If I was were fortunate enough to have the lamp in my sweaty clutches (doubtless after an Indiana Jones-style chase down a mine-shaft), and if I was were busily polishing it to a hi-shine with the frayed sleeve of my favourite stripey jumper, and if the Genie-feller were was asking me to ask him a - no, make that two or maybe three - question(s), what then?  I'd ask for Money, if I'm honest.  And plenty of it.  I've not got any, at the moment, obviously - well, not enough of it to feel like it makes a lot of difference.  And to be frank, not to mention earnest, it gets kind of pressing at times.  Immortality also,  in a state of prolonged youth, beauty and robust physical and mental health.  That makes four, or if he's being picky, five.   Oh Dear.  Perhaps if I squish squash them all together into one sentence slash question, he mightn't notice.


As if.........

Those Genie-fellers are nothing, if not tricksy.

Would anyone ask for anything other than the above, if they was were offered three wishes, by the way?  World peace, maybe?  It would depend entirely on the circumstances, I think.  Unless you were extremely altruistic and strong-minded. Which, let's face it, most of us aren't.   We can't all be Nelson Mandelas, or Lindsey Hilsums.  Or even Effie McGumphys from number 57s, who's been saving up every single one of her milk bottle tops in a series of bulging Lidls carriers crammed in behind the Hoover in the cupboard under the stairs for so long that she's forgotten why*.  And she doesn't even like milk.  In fact,  she's lactose-intolerant.
Take the triple cheeseburger example.  Imagine this scenario.  You're starving, having dragged yourself out of one of those deep underground caves after being trapped, foodless, for about a fortnight.  You stumble upon a lamp, and you give it a quick rub, not really expecting anything, but hey! what's the worst that can happen? You end up with an old lamp that is shinier than it was.  Or so you naively believe. Is there a teeny, weeny little corner of your mind that doesn't believe that?  Surely. Let's hope that Nobody is THAT stupid.   Anyway, of course the Genie appears, curly-toed slippers and all, and of course he asks you what might be your heart's desire, at that very moment.  There is a snack van two hundred yards away to which you could easily manage to crawl to, only it's hidden behind a rock and you can't see it.  Only the tantalising smell of cheeseburgers wafts towards you on an otherwise undetectable zephyr of wind  .  The Genie knows about the snack bar.  In fact, he and his life-partner Jeanie have been running it for five years, and turning a nice profit.  He decides to make things complicated.  He folds his muscly arms, Genie-style, and booms, 'You have two choices.  You can have three wishes, or, you can have World Peace for all eternity.  Which will it be, o fortunate one?'
'I'll have a triple cheeseburger please, with chips, and a large cherry coke.  Then I'll have everlasting beauty and lots of money after.  I'll feel so much better after that, that I'll be able to manage the World Peace bit all by myself without your help.  Or at least I'll have tried, or meant well, or whatever.  Don't forget the ketchup. Thank you!'

Only the Genie insists that the 'triple' bit of the cheeseburger IS the three wishes, and you don't get your coke or your chips, never mind the ketchup and a half-hearted, bilious, indigestion-ridden attempt at World Peace.

What an utter, out and out b'stard.  No wonder he turns a profit.

Ummmmmmmmm............................................

*it's for a special wheelchair for a local child who was badly injured in a car accident.  The child is now fully recovered and no longer requires the chair.  Probably best not to tell Effie, in case she dies of shock.  What with her being elderly and that.

Gil Scott-Heron - 'Where Did The Night Go'

Mendelssohn: Fingal's Cave Overture (The Hebrides)

The Ship "Terra Nova" Leaving Harbour Towards the South Pole (1910) (+pl...

Trinket-flinging is the New Black

We've gone trinket-flinging crazy here.   I decided just to go for it after Geoffrey's episode of selective deafness;  Hell Mend Him I thought, and I seized every knick-knack and trinket-y style object I could lay my hands on and threw them willy-nilly into a Lidls shopper.  Holiday souvenirs,  miniature horse brasses, broken biros, porcelain clogs filled with carpet tacks, marbles, and even the battling tops out of last year's Yuletide crackers that gave us HOURS literally HOURS of fun during the long dark days of winter - they all got swept off the mantlepiece and into the bag.   Then I ran to the cliffs and emptied the lot into the sea.   "Deafness is it?" I shrieked, into the howling gale, "I'll give him deafness."
Geoffrey joined in, of course.  He can't see 'green cheese', as the rather dreadful saying goes.

Walk of the Day - Loch Clunie

The road leading down to the church and loch.

Reed beds at the western edge of the loch.

Clunie church, from the loch side

A walk round Loch Clunie to the church and Castle Hill.  It's a strange place, full of history.  When I first visited about twenty years ago I was chiefly interested in bird and wildlife watching, but I was also immediately aware of an odd atmosphere and I started doing some research.  At that time there was a sign on a stile leading from the car park to the loch stating that the site was managed by Historic Scotland, but it's long gone, and so is the stile, and I now have no idea who owns it or manages it.

I generally park just off the A923 and walk along the road that goes round the loch to the church and Castle Hill.  It's about a mile at most.  There is occasional traffic, but you get good views of the castle and island, and you often see deer, buzzards and small woodland birds, as well as a range of wildfowl on the loch.  The first building you see as you approach is the former manse,  now a family home, and then the church,  a  rather dramatic and gloomy Victorian Gothic structure which like many of similar age is on an ancient site dating back to pre-Christian times.  It has an interesting graveyard with lichen and moss-encrusted headstones dating back to the 1700s, complete with skulls, hour glasses and so forth.  'Here Lie the Dust and Bones...'  'Memento Mori', et cetera.

There is an engraving on a stone under the ivy* at the entrance gate, 'Keep thy foot when thou goest to the house of God', dated 1672**.  There is also a small, even older outbuilding by the church, possibly the remains of a medieval mausoleum. In summer it's full of swallows' nests**. 

As you head towards the loch you find on your right the terraced Castle Hill (see photo below), site of a hunting lodge which dates back to the time of Kenneth MacAlpine, the Scottish King who united the divided kingdom of the Picts and the Scots.  Edward I had a stronghold there.  The castle was taken down and the stones used for other buildings***, but some bits of it remain and can easily be observed if you climb the hill and walk across the flat top, towards the back.   I read somewhere that there is a hanging tree there, but I can't identify it, if indeed it still exists.  About half a mile from the loch and Castle Hill is another knoll marked cheerily on the O.S. map as 'Gallows Knowe', so perhaps there has been confusion with that, although I tend to think it seems unlikely.

There's an overgrown path which leads down from the car park by the church to an odd wooded area with the remains of what seems to be a folly and hints of other man-made constructions.  I believe it was once a formal garden connected to the castle/hunting lodge.  A few years ago there was a thriving colony of red squirrels.  I used to sit quietly under the beeches and watch them.  Once I saw a squirrel sitting in the bole of a holly tree, apparently sharpening its teeth on a piece of bone.  One of these occasions where you wish you had brought your camera.  However, like the swallows in the mausoleum, the squirrels seem to have vanished.  I've often seen roe and fallow deer there too, and occasionally stoats. Buzzards nest in the trees.  And there are usually mallards in a pretty inlet of water.

I wonder if the squirrels have been scared off by some of the rowdier elements, campers who light fires in the trees and dump bags of rubbish in the water.

The loch itself is known for pike, and is popular with fishermen.  It's a mesotrophic loch, and a SSSI.  Birds I've seen regularly on and around the loch include great crested grebes, goldeneye, wild swans, coots, and ospreys, as well as buzzards and the usual small birds such as finches, robins, wrens and tits.   In summer you usually surprise a pheasant or two, and there are lots and lots of damsel flies. Cormorants roost spookily on the trees around the already fairly spooky Clunie Castle, on the island, and remind one a bit of Noggin the Nog.  The best place to watch birds is from the top of Castle Hill - a wonderful place to spend a summer's afternoon, with a great chance of spotting ospreys, so long as you have the place to yourself.  All too often there are campers and fishermen, many of whom leave the place in a disgraceful state with fires, broken bottles, cans and lots of other revolting human detritus****.  On one occasion I saw a plane land on the loch, and take off again.

It's also worth wandering round the loch side to the remains of an old boathouse.  The island (which is actually a crannog) with its amazing ruined castle (or tower house) can only be reached by boat.  There are no boats on the loch now that I know of,  except those brought by fishermen and campers.   Sadly the castle, which was the former home of a medieval (pre-Reformation) bishop of Dunkeld, burnt down in fairly recent years, and only a shell remains. Apparently there was a chapel on the island at one time, St Catherine's, and human bones were found there, so I presume there is also an old graveyard.  James Crichton, 16th century polymath and the inspiration for J.M. Barrie's 1902 play the Admirable Crichton spent his childhood there.

I visit Loch Clunie often and never fail to be aware of its many ghosts, even on the sunniest days.  In winter, I think it is possibly one of the gloomiest places imaginable.

Castle Hill - site of Kenneth MacAlpine's hunting lodge, and a castle used by Edward 1st

Inscription at Clunie church gate

The island (or crannog) seen from the road - gable of ruined castle just visible

A very rainy Loch Clunie - the wooded island or crannog on right of photo

A walk along the road by the loch

UPDATES JANUARY 2018

* the ivy has been cut down recently

** I read recently that this was originally part of the medieval building.  I wonder if the gargoyles on the church finials (not the Victorian faces lower down) are also medieval.

** I haven't seen any swallows' nests in use there for two years at least

*** I now gather the stones were used to build the tower house on the island/crannog in the 1400s.

**** visitors/campers have increased dramatically during the last two summers and the resulting increase in mess and damage (to trees especially)  is at times distressing to see.  Fires are lit, broken bottles and all kinds of rubbish left. Paddleboarders and kayakers now access every corner of the loch leaving wildlife no refuge from human activity.  The loch has traditionally been a popular spot for visitors, it's easily accessible and attractive for camping, so clearly this will continue to be an issue.

Egg - Fugue in D Minor

New Short Story - the Mysterious Death of Clint Clanton

Clint Clanton

Plan of toilet

The Dumper Truck

“The Old Asylum burned to the ground last night.  So I heard on the bush telegraph.”

“Don’t tell me Stinking Maggie’s been round already.”

“Round already and had two cups of tea and a shit.  Maybe the smell woke you up.”

Granny Mack was using one hand to crack eggs into a pan of bacon as she spoke.  The other hand wasn’t a hand at all.  No.  It was a hook.  Nobody knew how she’d lost her hand; everybody knew it was an off-limits subject.  Presently, the hook was resting on the shelf to the right of the cooker, with a smouldering cigarette skewered on the end.   Granny Mack was pretty dextrous with the hook.   She said she was so used to it now she wouldn’t swap it for her old hand even if she could.

The front door of the cottage was open, and a brown hen wandered in with its feathers fluffed up, pecking at the filth on the carpet with its broken beak.  One of its feet was swollen with some sort of ghastly hen-disease.

“High time that one was in the pot,” she said, taking her cigarette and placing it between her lips.  “We’ll wring its neck tomorrow and have a nice dinner.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“Do they know who did it?”

A gust of wind blew the ram-shackle front door shut and then open again.

“People are talking,” said Granny Mack.

I took a handful of grain from the sack at the front door, and threw it on to the grass to make the hen go outside, which it did.

“People always talk,” I said, leaning against the jamb, and reaching into my trouser pocket for my tobacco.

“Don’t bother with that,” said Granny Mack,” Your dinner’s ready.”

“I said I didn’t want any.”

“I know what you said.”  She slid the bacon and eggs from the battered old frying pan on to a chipped dinner plate that had once been decorated with something akin to Willow Pattern .

I sighed and took the plate, and went outside to sit on the upturned cast iron bath by the front door.

”Knife and fork.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll take some bread and butter as well.”

“Oh now…”

“Oh now nothing.  Come on lassie.  Body and soul.”

Granny Mack sat down beside me.

We ate in silence, apart from the sound of the gulls and the rushing of the sea against the rocks, which was such a constant that we barely noticed.  In front of us the hens clucked around the coal heap and the washing poles; a yellow-eyed ginger tom patrolled the cliff edge beyond, hunting for mice and fledglings among the hummocks of grass and the foxgloves.  Far out to sea sailed the eleven o’clock ferry  to the Outer Isles.

“Do you ever think,” I said, wiping my plate with a piece of bread, “That we’re in a strange place here?”

Granny Mack belched slightly behind her hand, and wiped her mouth.  “Everywhere is strange. “

“No, but I mean where we are, on the island.  We’re between the mainland and the Outer Isles.  We’re half-way between there, and somewhere else.  It’s almost like we’re nowhere at all.  The ferry doesn’t even stop here.  No wonder they built the asylum.”

If we’d walked half a mile up the dirt track which led up behind the cottage towards the metalled road that led to the town, and turned the corner beside the burn and the stand of stunted alders,   we’d have seen the smoking, blackened ruins high on the hill at the far side of the island.

Granny Mack pressed her lips together and stared at the horizon.  Her eyes were the same blue as the rain-washed sky at that time of day.

The ginger tom had returned, and jumped on to my lap.  I rubbed his ears and scratched the scabby, hard-to-reach bits where the fleas were.  He produced an obligatory purr, staring all the while at the doomed hen.

“Now now.”

“Well…”

“Well nothing.”

“Why did they build the asylum then?”

“I’ll tell you over a smoke.   Roll us a cigarette, and I’ll put the kettle on.  And remember…”

“What?  What?”

Granny Mack winked as she got up. “Back in a minute, “she said.

 She was still remarkably spry.  I had no idea of her age.  Granny Mack.  She wasn’t my granny, or indeed closely related to me in any way.  She was just Granny Mack, who had always been.

The cat jumped off my knee, and followed her into the kitchen.

I rubbed my hands on my trousers to get rid of his fur;  then I made two good, fat cigarettes, and put them carefully on the bath beside me.

 Then I leaned back against the grubby, white-washed wall and closed my eyes.  

"You were going to tell me about the asylum." Sometimes I didn't speak aloud. Sometimes I attempted to communicate using telepathy. Sometimes it worked, such as the time when I willed Granny Mack to use a new teabag instead of the one shrivelling on top of the marmalade jar that had been used four times. Or when I willed her to kill the white hen instead of the brown one that I liked. I was just developing it really.

On this occasion I spoke aloud, because I was afraid that telepathy might work both ways, so to speak. I didn't want her finding out about the three bodies in the black hut unless she absolutely had to.

"Yes. Well I don't think I can do it sitting here. There's an awful smell coming from somewhere."

I bit my lip and pulled at a strand of rye grass in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. "Stinking Maggie must have blocked the toilet again," I ventured.

"Likely so. I told her before not to try to flush those rags. They've to be rinsed off in the burn and re-used. She tries but she's got no idea that woman. She's just not accustomed to mod cons."

I stubbed my cigarette out on the wall. "Coming inside then?"

"I'll be in in a minute. I just want to kill that hen with the diseased foot first. Get a pan of water on the boil, will you?"

As I headed indoors, I glanced across to the black hut. The hen was perched on the roof.

I decided to try telepathy after all.

"Do you ever wake up in the morning and feel like you want to fucking kill everybody?" I asked Granny Mack, in an attempt to divert her as she made her way towards the black hut.

"Och I used to feel like that every day," she replied, without turning round."But now I tend to think it's best to leave well alone, except for HENS!!"

Suddenly her right arm (the one with the hook) snapped out like a whip and before you could say, well, hook! or death! or kill! or anything appropriate with one syllable really,  the hen had been seized round the neck by the hook and was now securely but understandably rather glumly gripped under her oxter.

"That's tea sorted," she grinned, revealing her three brown and misshapen teeth.  "Now don't you think you should get rid of those four bodies?  The neighbours are going to start complaining and the nearest one's two miles away."

"FOUR bodies?  But I thought - I thought - "

"Yes four.  Did you really think I didn't know about that key in the manure heap? I added Stinking Maggie this morning.  Now fetch the dumper truck and get them shifted."

I did what I was told and went to fetch the dumper truck.  Driving back to the croft I saw a piece of torn paper with something printed on it fluttering on a fence post, so I yanked on the handbrake and skidded to a halt.  It  isn't often that you see a piece of paper with something printed on it, hereabouts.

I don't have much book-learning but I know a few letters and I always recognise a face.  I certainly knew this one, even though it was in black and white.

Clint Clanton!

That square-jawed, chisel-featured, stetson-totin',  nudie suit-a-wearin', geetar-twangin' sonofagun.  (Country and western singer, to the sane half of the population.)

I screwed up my face and stuck my tongue out as I spelled out the rest of the lettering, just the way Granny Mack taught me.  And she taught me good.

"CLINT CLANTON - MISSING.  There was a bit torn off after "missing", then REWARD £1, then another torn off bit.

I felt sure that the reward must be more than £1.  And I needed that money.  I needed it real bad.  It would help me to make a new life, away from Granny Mack and her hook and her three brown teeth and her half-witted homespun wisdom.

I revved up the engine and sped off down the track in a cloud of dust and sheep-droppings, rolling a fag on the top of the steering wheel as was my wont. 

In the distance the blackened walls of the old asylum still smouldered.  But I had no time to think about that now.

As I lurched down the dirt track I began to worry about that £1 reward.  How many noughts after the one? None, perhaps.  In which case,  why bother?  There'd have to be at LEAST one before I'd even think about considering looking beyond the end of my own boot.  For anyone - and that most especially included close family, or "clan".

I also began remembering (quite coincidentally!) what an utter shafter Clint was, according to what his drink-sodden rival Clant Clinton said in his tell-all autobiography, On the Road with an Utter Shafter...I'd found it in the skip behind the burnt down asylum some weeks previously...

I'd gone up there for a walk to get away from Granny Mack and her endless platitudes.  Oh yes, she looked the part, with the hook and the three teeth and the roll-up cigarettes and the hand-on-hip and the narrow-eyed stare, but her conversation!  God! it was like listening to an early 1960s edition of the People's Friend being read on a loop-tape.  Mind you, she HAD murdered Stinking Maggie and dumped her body in the black hut, with the others....or so she claimed...

ANYWAY - I'd found Clant Clinton's expose of the nastier side of life on the road with Clint Clanton in the skip behind the old asylum, just before it mysteriously burnt down.  It was a pretty racy read and only a shame that half the pages were missing.  I'd raked through the skip in an attempt to find them but there was only so long I could stand waist-deep in strait jackets,  used inco-pads, discarded syringes,  rubber clamps, polythene sheeting, blood-stained white coats, funnels, naso-gastric tubing, bottles marked "POISON" and these huge rectangular metal food containers that nobody ever cleaned because the food (usually liver stew) was so badly-burnt-on that they just binned them.  Anyway from the half I'd read it was pretty clear that Clint was a total shafter and Clant was a thoroughly decent bloke and the one with all the talent.

!!!!! CRASH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUMPITTY BUMP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly a half-clad body landed on the the truck  and immediately slid off leaving me with a burst windshield and a large smear of blood on the bonnet.  I hadn't even time to think as far as "What the -?" never mind slam the brakes on, and before I knew it I'd run whoever it was over.

I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw - to my amazement - a blood-stained hand raising an equally blood-stained stetson.  Was it Clint, or was it Clant?  It had to be one or the other, but who knew?  Who cared?  And in any case I'd be doing whichever it was a favour by putting them out of their immediate physical pain.  I wrenched the truck into reverse and stepped firmly on the accelerator... ...meanwhile........

The lame hen had escaped Granny Mack's clutches by fluttering on to the top of the Black Hut and hiding behind the chimney.

And Granny Mack herself was up at the smoking ruins of the Old Asylum, with a large wheelbarrow.

"Sod the dumper truck.  I'm 93 years old and I can still manage to push three dead bodies - no, make that four - up a steep hill.  In a wheelbarrow.  A large one mark you.  Now I'm going to wheel them down again, just for the hell of it.  And I'll think up some fresh homilies while I'm doing it. Might even whistle a wee tune on my comb and paper as well.  One of Clint Clanton's mebbes.  Here goes.

#OH MA GEE-TAR'S A-TWANGIN' AN' MA BACK DOOR'S A-BANGIN'

LIKE A SHIT-HOUSE DOOR INNA GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYLE!#  EEE-WWWW.......YYUKKK........"

Suddenly Granny Mack halted and wedged the wheelbarrow against a rock.  Niftily, she hefted the handles into the air and tipped the top-most body on to the turf, where it tumbled down the steep embankment on to the cliff's edge.

"Sorry Stinkin' Maggie.  I liked you, I really did, but I couldn't stand the smell a minute longer. The wind'll get up tonight, and you'll have a decent sea burial when the tide comes in."

#OH MA GEETAR'S A-TWANGIN'.....#

Granny Mack continued wending her way downhill with the remaining three corpses.

Behind her, on the cliff-edge, Stinking Maggie opened a bloodshot eye, and began to growl......

"Ah wisnae always called Stinkin' Maggie," growled Stinkin' Maggie, as she hauled herself to her feet. "An' thon Granny Mack thocht she'd feeneeshed me aff wi' her poisoned cup of tea in the cracked cheeny cup.  But she didnae. Ah'm hard as fuckin' nails me."

Stinkin' Maggie pulled a clay pipe from her apron pocket and stuffed it with shag.

"When ah wis young - an' am no' that auld noo mind - ah wis oan Page 3.  Ah wis a Page 3 tapless stunner.  Page 3 o' th' Bunfettle Enquirer, that is.  Ah wis Tapless Stunner o' the Year 1982.  We a' took pairt in a competition at Bunfettle Public Baths.  We hud tae parade roon' and roon' the swimmin' pool, tapless, prancin' along in high-heeled mules like a right bunch of erses. Weel ah say "bunch", but there wis jist the twa o' us.  Me an' Granny Mack, an' she wis weel-pastit.  But try tellin' her that!

Onyway.  Stuff this fur a game o' sodgers ah thocht.  Nae mare prancin'.  Ma bunions are killin' me.  Ah deid-legged her when naebuddy wis lookin'.  Even if they WUR lookin',  ah didnae care.  She fell intae the pool heid-first an' cracked her face aff the flare.  That's how she lost a' her teeth.  She's hated me ivvir since. 

Ah dinnae hate her back tho'!  Ocht no.  Ah feel richt SORRY for the wummin.  Ah find sympathy is much more corrosive than hate.  Altho' the two do go rather nicely thigither.

But enuff aboot me.  How are YOUSE a' daein'?"

Stinkin' Maggie drew deeply on her pipe and cocked her head to one side.    Of course there was nobody else there…

Geoffrey's Christmas present

It's Only Fairy Liquid (but I Like It)

Trees - with and without spreading propensities

I was sitting by the fire after breakfast, enjoying my favourite hobby i.e. staring glassily out of the window while stifling a poisonous outbreak of wind.  My gaze turned towards the tourist car park, and the Narks' ever-expanding yurt-collective, which they are trying vainly to mask with trees. Well, they say they're trying to mask it with trees, but knowing them I suspect it's the other way round and they are trying to mask US with trees.

'Why do some trees have a spreading propensity,  and others do not?'
'What?' Geoffrey popped his head round the kitchen door.  He was up to his armpits in bubbles, having squirted too much Fairy Liquid into the washing-up bowl.  We're accustomed to the Value label kind, which has almost no bubbles, even if you use half the bottle.  I got the Fairy Liquid for him as a Christmas present, but I knew he'd get over-excited at the prospect of using a high-end brand and sure enough he's gone too far.   The kitchen looks like the set of the Rolling Stones vid. for It's Only Rock and Roll (but I like It).
I sighed heavily.  I LOATHE repeating myself.  'Why do some trees have a SPREADING propensity, and others do NOT?'
'I don't know.  Shall I put the kettle on?'
'Yes.'
'What?'
'YES!  For pity's sake.'
'I heard that!'
'Bring the biscuits as well.'
'What?'
'BRING the BISCUITS as WELL!'
'Fling the trinkets and yell?  Is that what you said Tuppy?'
'Yes, that's right.  Trinket-flinging and yelling is my latest craze.  Fetch me my trinkets so I can fling them.'
'I'LL BRING THE BISCUITS AS WELL SHALL I?'
'Whatever.'


All five of my blog compilations are available via my AMAZON PAGE *shouts*

Stella Street - S03 - Part 4

Breakfast

Geoffrey and I were sitting together on the couch first thing, feet up on an old tea-chest, sharing the warmth of the old tartan knee rug before the dying embers of last night's fire.
'Make breakfast, will you?'
'No.  It's your turn.'
'If I lived in a city I'd be roaming the streets right now looking for a diner.'
'It'd have to be an American city then.'
'Not necessarily.'
'Where else do you find diners?  You do mean diner as in restaurant, don't you, and not diner as in diner - someone who eats?'
'Ummm....not sure....'
'What would you have to eat, anyway?'
'Bacon, pancakes with maple syrup, corn muffins and two eggs over easy.'
'Wow.  That sounds good.  I can't stand this.  What have we got in the fridge?'
'Nothing.  There's a tin of tuna, some goji berries and a packet of Val Nark's flapjacks in the cupboard though.'
'Is that it?  For pity's sake.  Have we nothing that can be fried?'
'No.'

Atlantic Walrus - Photo Gallery

Atlantic Walrus - Photo Gallery

The most amazing photographs - really worth a look.

Home for Christmas...

We're not sure if we're really home, or if we're hallucinating due to lack of food and drink.  At the moment, we don't much care.
We seem to remember being pushed shore-wards at alarming speed by the Great 'Fat' Whale of Norway.  Both of us remember that,  so it must be true, surely.   We reached land at about 5 o'clock this morning - Christmas morning - and managed to leap ashore and throw the painter round a rock to secure Fancy, before she could escape.
It wasn't easy, weak with hunger as we were, and we wouldn't have managed it but for the assistance of the forward momentum provided by the Whale.
"Thank you, Whale!"  we cried.
"Don't forget me lads!  Throw me some food as soon as you get the chance."  The Whale circled slowly in the deep water of the Bay.
Not too far behind him, circled the other coracle - the Big One.   When we got back to the Outcrop, I found my most powerful spyglass and had a look at it from the livingroom window while Geoffrey set to in the kitchen, lighting the fire and getting some breakfast on the go.
"Sausages, egg, bacon, fried bread, tattie scones, beans....yes, that should do.  Brown sauce.  Mustn't forget that.  Toast and marmalade for afters, and a large pot of tea," I heard him murmur, amidst the clattering of pans, and the spattering of hot fat.  Comforting, homely sounds.
"That coracle's carrying a ragged black flag at half-mast,"  I said. "What do you make of that,  Geoffrey?"
The kettle whistled.
"Same as you,  I imagine,  Tuppy.  She's a Death ship, come to claim her own during the Dark Days of Winter.  Let's chuck a sausage sandwich down to the Whale and then light the signal fire.  We'd better warn the others."
"What others?"
"You know.  Our neighbours.  The Fulmars.  Stormy Petrel. The Narks.   Doctor Wilson."
"Wilson?  The Narks?  You must be kidding."
"Well, the Tupfinder-Generals then. Although, I'm quite certain he'll already be aware."
"Oh I can't be bothered Geoffrey.  At least, not until I've had my breakfast and a serious nap.  Surely nothing bad will happen today.  After all, it's Christmas.  Goodwill to all.  A time of joy and starlight and happy faces crowded round a homely fire over glasses of hot punch.  Everyone will be busy with their Christmas dinners and stockings and presents and stuff."
"Not everybody,  Tuppy.  Think of that poor Whale, circling round and round all alone in the cold and the dark.  All he has to eat is what we throw down to him."
"But that's his natural environment Geoffrey.  He's a Whale.  He can't manage on land, just as we can't manage in water."
"I can.  I'm a gull.  I can manage water, land and air."
"Don't be smug!   You know what I mean.  Not everyone can enjoy Christmas like we can,  but there's nothing we can do about it so we're just going to have to blot out the guilt with insane amounts of food and drink,  and hopefully every other nasty memory.  Is that breakfast ready yet?"
"Oh dear Tuppy.  That's not the way to approach things, at all."
"Well I can't help it,"  I snapped," I'm tired and I can't manage moral dilemmas and guilt on an empty stomach.  I hope you've made plenty tattie scones."
"I have,  Tuppy.  I have."
"Black pudding?  Don't say a word.  I can tell by the look on your face that you forgot."
"Well to be honest Tuppy - and I know this is very poor timing - I think we need to give up black pudding."
"Oh?"
Geoffrey swallowed anxiously.  "I want to go macrobiotic Tuppy.  There, I've said it."
" I'll have your full-cooked then."
"I didn't mean right now!  It's something for the New Year. You know the kind of thing."
"I do."
Phew!  I thought.  Macrobiotics?  It'd be yoga next,  if I couldn't nip this in the bud, and giving up smoking and opium.  And then where would we be?  Life wouldn't be worth a candle.  I'd need to keep a close eye on Geoffrey.

We sat by the fire and ate in silence, and then dozed pleasantly in the warmth as we waited for the sun to creep above the horizon.

And we tried not to think about the lonely Whale, swimming round and round in the cold dark water, or the coracle of Death, as it drifted ever closer....

Yuletide Ramblings

"You know, it looks like we're going to be celebrating Yule whilst tossing around in..."

"Do you mind!" interrupted Fancy, doing one of her twirls.

".... in the middle of the Atlantic," I continued, ignoring her.

"With nothing to eat or drink bar our own finger and toenails," added Geoffrey.

"Make that just 'toe', Geoffrey," I said,glancing at my fingers, which were bitten down to stumps.

"I mean come off it Fancy. It is Yule after all,  Season of good will and so forth. Can't you see your way clear to coming out of your towering huff and sailing us back home again?"

Silence.

"I might be able to help," ventured the Whale. "I could push you landwards, till the water gets too shallow for me.  It would be my pleasure.  What with it being Yule and that,"  it added, glancing darkly at Fancy.

"Whales don't celebrate Yule," sneered Fancy.

"We do so too," replied the genial Leviathon*. "Only this morning I felt the joy of Christmas leaping in my breast, and I wanted to scream "Happy Christmas!"  at the top of my lungs."

"Screaming doesn't sound very festive," said Fancy," Are you sure you didn't have a case of heartburn?"

"Quite sure," replied the Whale,"Given that I haven't actually eaten anything for ages.  Besides, Yule means different things to different people.  For some, it's a time to gaze at the stars, and ponder the coming of the Christ child.  For others, it's a time to contemplate murdering your own family, as you stare at them over the skeletal remains of an Aldi three bird roast and the last of Aunt Bessie's frozen roasters.  For others,  it's a time to enjoy the sight of brown land lying fallow before the resurgence of Spring.  For others, it's a time to sit down beside a roaring fire, at a table laden with food and drink.  Turkey,  stuffing, ham, bread sauce, gravy, fine wines..."

"O stop, stop," cried Geoffrey,"You're torturing us.  Stop talking and start pushing.  We want to get home!"

So home we went, despite Fancy's sulky efforts to the contrary.    In hot pursuit, however, was the other coracle - the Big One.....

*apologies for using the term 'genial leviathon' again

Please remember that all five of my blog-related e-books are available for FREE for five days, as from Christmas Eve.  Here is the link.  to one of them, on Amazon.

more later

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