Sunday, 11 March 2018

Thora Beryl Evans, My Mother

Thora Beryl Evans
30/06/1934 - 05/03/2018

My Mum is always with me.

As flour falls from my sieve, it's her hands on the handle.
I spread Marmite on toast, she's caring when I'm ill

Turning a hem, she slip stitches for me
Blood welling from my finger, her voice swearing

I mutter, "Effing cat!", it's her voice I hear

My fingers in warm compost, we share the smell
Pruning roses, she's telling me how

Sat in a sunbeam, she's next to me, mug in hand.
She's in every garden, and in every chore

I miss her, yet don't, as she never left.

Monday, 29 January 2018

Jazz Club

Genial, Gimlet'd Gallants,
All Cosmopolitan Confidence,
Wishing Daiquiri Dalliances
And Moonlit Manhattens
Call Sidecars for
Socialite Scandal

Friday, 26 January 2018

Boycott Burns Night

Oh dear, that's not a Haggis! It's the highly secretive Haggis Hound. It's a bit of a misnomer as it's actually part of the rodent family and not a hound at all though. They spend their days roaming the heather uplands of Scotland, looking for food and wisps of wool with which to line their dens. 

This species exhibit an unusual adaptation to their environment. The limbs on one side of their body are longer than on the other. This makes ascending and, indeed, descending the rocky crags in a spiral path easier. It is also thought to be implicated in their declining numbers as mating is only successful if the pair comprises one clockwise hound and one anticlockwise one. It is for this reason, the Highlanders have instigated a breeding program. It's location is a highly guarded secret as some in the Whisky trade consider the Haggis Hound to be a pest due to their competing for the more exotic botanicals used to flavour the best single malts. 

Most Scots would be deeply saddened to see the loss of these wee beasties however, and enjoy the sound of its voice echoing around the glens. It's territorial calls are said to sound like the hissing of the peat fires in traditional stone crofting cottages.

Saturday, 23 December 2017

Keeping the Kids in Bed

Want a lie-in on Christmas morning, parents?
As a result of my post on 1970s home decorating in Facebook, I've remembered why we kids didn't get up at dawn and disturb our parents. The lack of bedroom heating and relatively colder winters meant ice on the inside of the window glass.
Not that you could get up if you were stopping with Granny Greyhips (my Dad's Mum) in Townhill, Dunfermline. The beds had flannelette sheets, two (at least) good wool blankets, a candlewick bedspread, and a matching Eiderdown of truly epic weight. Basically, you had to be at least twelve before you had the strength to get out of bed unassisted!

Thursday, 21 December 2017

Moist Toilet Paper

I've just noticed that Andrex Washlets have detailed instructions on how to clean your arse printed on them. I can't help feel this marks a new low for society.

Wednesday, 13 December 2017

Farewell my Lovely Girl.

Nutmeg (Jenanca Shu Lan) was assisted to die about 1am on 04/12/1017, aged 19 after a short few months of renal failure. 

She went peacefully after being in a lot of pain for a day. The out of hours lady vet was so kind and soft with us both. 

RIP and run with with Maximus my darling. You were so difficult to read but also a loving companion. I miss you so much, my Pink Minx.


Friday, 17 November 2017

Talkative Cats

I have Korat and Thai cats ruling my life. These natural felines from Thailand are noted for being talkers. Some quiet, some scream, some sing the songs of their ancestors. And then there are some who are really skilled at dialogue. My Thai Bluepoint boy, Sam is one such.

Sam doesn't talk a lot but when he does, it's clearly in distinct sentences. Even my home hair dresser commented on it. I just knew he was asking about what she was doing to me. I explained human hair grows a lot longer than Korats' does so we have it cut to stop it getting a tangled mess and to make it easier to look after. He gave me his acknowledgement short meow and took himself off, curiosity satisfied.

Normally Sam has a wee chat then shuts up. After his stay at the vet's last year, he didn't stop talking for three days after he got back the second time, I got chapter, verse, and Cliff notes! The vet did say as we were leaving "He's quite talkative. I suppose it's the breed?". I'd answered, "They do talk a little". In hindsight, the vet must've thought I was a lunatic if Sam had been chatting like he did those three days! He was certainly a hit; he stank of numerous perfumes and aftershaves.

He finally shut up when I picked up the crate to put it away. He ran round in circles talking at ninety miles an hour. I stood there, crate in one hand, the other on my hip. When he finally took a breath, I said "I know you're really, properly well now and don't need to go back to the vet a third time. I was just going to put it away.". He plonked his butt down and replied "Oh!".