The blades flashed in…

the weak winter sun.

Doris stood by the tree line at the side of the lake.

She watched, knowing, seeing and fearing for her only child.

Her cry whipped away on the wind, lost in the murmur of leaves

that tenaciously clung to the trees that gave them life.

It's late in the year for so many trees to be in leaf she thought as

she whirled across the thin ice.

Sadness accompanied her as she twirled faster,

ever closer to the black hole under the ice that to her, 

on this cold day seemed so warm and inviting.

Doris saw the pain, that only a mother can.

With every fibre of her being she willed her

strong daughter to beat her demons.

The melt water seemed strangely beguiling,

 as it slowly, silently crept ever closer.

'I know you're there, I feel your presence, 

I talk to you in the car.

It's alright Mum, I'm not mad,

just sad!'

Another facet of my rich and varied life.

I wouldn't mind but I can't even skate…
well the only time I did, I had bruise on each cheek…
Argentina meet Buenos Aires.

Well did you ever…

In case you can't read it…

'Elegance is an attitude'

Kate Winslet…

which unashamedly grows on you, when you pick up

a fat cheque…

Oh and a free watch.

I'm back!

Watch this space for my thoughts on

'Am I too old to…'

Correct me if I'm...

wrong...

but do the words...

National Theatre Live mean to you that

you are paying £17.50 per ticket

to see a live performance beamed to a

cinema near you...

actually live...

as in... happening now?

On Thursday evening a fellow lover

(not literally, naturally!)

of Alan Bennett and I took ourselves

off to 

'The Habit of Art'

Two large large ladies of mature years,

her of ninety summers and me not far behind,

deposited our ample girths into the

embrace of the pneumatic armchairs that pass themselves off

as today's answer to the 3/9d's.

With huge glasses of wine to hand we settled comfortably 

in for the long haul.

We did pass on the giant tubs of popcorn for two reasons

a)  they didn't sell it

b)  and even if they did... 

we would have been hard-pressed to balance it on our tums.

Settling back for a night of being part of the audience

of the National Theatre made my heart sing.

Alright the fact that the National is a good 20 miles away

as the Albatross flies is a mere bagatelle.

This was live theatre...

and one of the countries finest to boot.

Hold tight...

roll of drums at this point please maestro.

Now I am fully aware that I'm not the sharpest

tool in the box, however it didn't take me long to

realise that is was anything but live...

Why?

You might well ask!

W H Auden was played by Richard Griffiths

who sadly died this year.

The mark of a truly great actor is one who
will come back from the dead in order that
 the show must go on.

The play was another Alan Bennett masterpiece
about the imagined meeting after twenty-five years of
W H Auden and his friend and collaborator 
Benjamin Britten.
The queens of creativity of yesteryear had
had a fall out about who knows what, and this was them
getting back in touch.

Rent boys, peeing in sinks and other unsavoury
aspects of old artisticals in decline 
were the order of the play.
And very good it was too...
but wait...
I did have a few uneasy moments 
not for me you understand...
but for my 90 year chum,
when W H Auden described what 
he wanted to do to the rent boy!

If it's showing in your local flea-pit and you have £17.50
to spare I can highly recommend it...
although take it form me...
it ain't live...
one of its cast is most definitely dead.

Richard Griffiths
1947 - 2013

The sad tale of the fat lass...

the Fly boots and 

the throbbing thumb.

Picture the scene...

all is dust settlingly quiet in

Rapunzel Towers.

Ted is away for the day,

leaving me, his able assistant

to take our Saturday night's ill-gotten gains

to the Air Ambulance base.

Imagine if you can my spiff-chick, splendid

Smart car, stuffed to the parson's nose and 

beyond with coins of the realm.

In order to look the part of an honest upright

citizen I decide to dress up and don some

normal gear.  The all forgiving palazzo pants are 

thrown with a flourish onto the floor.

Proper linen trousers are the order of the day

according to my perusal of Berk's Pearage.

The ensemble is topped off with a lawn blouse,

jaunty red silk paisley scarf.  In the half light of early

morn, you could be forgiven for thinking me normal.

Bum in the air, I locate by means of apparel sat-nav,

my Fly boots cowering in the back of the cupboard.

'Your time has come...

let's hit the road running!'

I cry.

With stocking feet I dust

the aforementioned footwear, as I descend the storeys.
No time for boot black!

I'll just pop them on, then the job's a goodun.

Wrong!

I strained, I huffed, I puffed,

I even lowered the zip of my trousers

in order for a rent not to fill the air.

Linen fatigue...

 a well known event around these parts!

I did try to use my right hand...

the pain!

I honestly thought it would come loose and fall off. 

Fast forward to 4 p.m. and Ted arriving home 
to the sight of the latest

Damien Hirst art work...

'Severed Thumb on Parquet Floor

with Blood and Gore'

circa 2013.

It took me a full 15 minutes...

leg in air

leg over the arm of the sofa

to get the flaming things on.

I was so exhausted I had to get my breath back,

feet up sort of thing!

At this juncture, tired and crotchety, in need of a break,
I thought I'll pitch up

to the Virgin desk at Gatwick,

empty the pails of loot and say...

'Where will this lot get me?' 

as I tip the eleven overflowing buckets

onto their Late Booking counter.

Knowing my luck it'll get me to the

Maldives where...

'No News, No Shoes'

 is the order of the day...

And I won't be able to get the frigging boots off.

✈✈✈

Linda's law of activity...

1.  Don't!

2.  As a Garden Guide trodge around the garden 

at speed, in order visitors can't catch you and

ask you a question you haven't the foggiest

idea of the answer.

3.  The rule of thumb...

Never forget you can't use it!

e.g. hanging washing out

 the squeezing of pegs is sooo

painful as is...

peeling vegetables

cutting out

hand sewing

writing...

folk used to say

'You've got such lovely, unusual hand writing,

can't understand it mind!'

I now know why old ladies writing gets spidery...

it's their thumbs.

Pulling up drawers is also problematical...

the very reason I gave up thongs...

the twang as I lose grip positively

makes all sensation from my nethers

sing... I wouldn't mind, but not in the way

a girl would want them to.

I now have to wear lisle stockings

industrial strength because I have to use

my whole hand to pull them on.

You just won't believe the sheerest Wolford

stockings and tights I've holed in one before I've even

 got out of the clubhouse.  

I wouldn't mind but I don't even play golf.

What's a girl to do when the size of the latest

Booker prize winner - over 800 pages,
means she's not going to 

be able to literally, not literary, get to grips with it!

Download it to you Kindle...
 I hear you cry...

err, I gave it away.

Why?

Because I got it in my head that

all the books were

precised like Readers Digest Condensed Finest.

And no amount of people telling me they're not, will

persuade me otherwise.

Intransigence rules most definitely OK!

Last night saw super sofa slug out of her lair.

Biker boots, beret and scarves a plenty,

she was out shaking her booty with bucket in hand.

Thumb forgotten, she was on a mission.

Now we are a furry family member missing
i.e. Lettice,

we can go out together... a novel experience!

Tunbridge Wells firework display.

Ted orchestrated his troops

to collect for the

Kent, Surrey & Sussex Air Ambulance.

Me being a shrinking violet, decided I would 

raid the Christmas lights and bedeck myself

with same.

Beret... sporting twenty six poppies, (last week

we were abroad collecting... so perks of the job...

 you can snaffle a handful!)

lit up like a Christmas tree, I waylaid all,

as you might imagine.

An old chap I got chatting to, started saying some very complementary

things, what's a girl to do?  Especially with an eye to money

of the folding kind!

As he was pulled away by his friends,

I said 

'Don't worry I'll catch you on the way out!'

I'm not proud...

it was for a good cause after all.

'You can catch me any time!'

his words echoed through the gloom, as his friends

lead him away.

Senility can strike when you least expect it! 

Rapunzel is revolting...

From henceforth...

things are changing...

I'm letting my hair down.

From this day forth...

I'm no longer plucking,

a fruitless exercise if ever there was one.

My chin will bristle,

my tash will tassel.

I'm never going to

kiss anyone on

both cheeks, ever again.

When did we decide we

had to do it anyway?

We're not frigging French...

we're British, stiff upper lip

and all that...

okay from now on my upper lip

will be extra stiff with a hemp

fringe, but no worries.

I'm certainly never ever going to say...

'Moi?'

Instead I will cry...

'Wot me mate?'

I'm revolting in all quarters

and not one of them French.

My strops will become more astropalyptic,

my pontificating more pointed,

my thoughts on all and sundry more honest.

Never having had a horse, I'm taking up

horse riding, with the sole purpose of

riding rough shod over all who need

it telling... like it is...

Well in my candid opinion, that is!

Look out world...

I want to get back on! 

I can't do this anymore...

When you write a blog...

I think the criteria you must meet is...

1.  Be informative

2.  Be fun and full of fizz

3.  Say and do outrageous things

4.  Be entertaining

5.  Make folk chuckle

6.  Swear... if appropriate...

7.  Without fear of folk pulling the plug

on being a follower, which take it from me they will

8.  Be political

 9.  Not have a care

10.  And the most important in my book...

be true to yourself and your beliefs

So for the time being...

I'm signing off...

Alright I am fully aware I might be 

blogging's answer to Frank Sinatra

and will have more come backs than
is good for a girl...

but hey-ho...

Toodle-Pip!

   

I'm in deep mourning...

no, not this time for Lettice.

For the integrity of our politicians.

This government I liken to Jimmy Savile...

They are raping our country for their own evil ends.

By turning a blind eye, we the public could be likened 
to the police and the many others 
that were in the pay of that ghastly paedophile...

Why are we doing it?

God knows?

For example...

once the law is passed to get the Chinese

to 'kindly' sort out our

 wonderful nuclear energy programme

for us...

can the next party elected, reverse the it?

Of course they can't!

The reason in my view is that as 

George Osborne says

'Otherwise the taxpayer will have to pay!'

His real meaning is, his party  doesn't want to lose votes by

raising taxes.   This is despite the fact that we would then keep

 the energy provisions that haven't 
already been flogged off, under our own control.

Smog and pollution of the past...
here we come!
The Chinese will then have...
 make no mistake about it...
our tacit agreement by us sitting by 
doing bugger all
and letting it happen.
They've screwed their own country
now it's our turn.

As we sat across the...

Friday night table we got to

reminiscing about past experiences.

Sadness overlaid our evening meal.

I make no excuse about us grieving for a dog...

a very special dog for all that.

Those that don't get it...

look away now...

in fact,  not to put too fine a point on it,

best you... be gone.

Alright I know where you might be coming from and

I can understand...

with all the evil in the world...

why pine the loss of a

dog?

Hold tight is it dog on dog?

Or man on man?

The world's problems are coming from

the 'higher' species...

mankind.

Dad always said...

'Don't kiss the dog!'

Me being a spoilt brat always replied

'Okay!'

And of course over the years carried on

doing just that.

Planting a kiss on the top

of their heads, where is the harm?

Last thing every night, I would knee

down to Lettice kiss her and say

'If kisses were pounds you'd

be a millonaire!'

Ted always waited patiently, while

I  settled her and said all the stupid things;

 the fact she couldn't hear me was 

neither here nor there.

On Lettice's last afternoon, I kept myself busy,

 sorting and tidying, all in her sight line.

She slept and sometimes woke 

to watch me, all was very calm. 

My greatest concern was that I would lose it, 

and convey my fear to her.

How I managed to keep calm, 

I don't know, but I did.

I cleaned my teeth, and washed my hands in the 

Pears soap, that would every night in her world 

have been the last smell she would have of me.

The vet came and asked if I'd experienced

this before, she then gently explained

what would happen.

Lettice saw their arrival and didn't seem 

at all phased by it.

She was ready, I could see that.

Ted said his farewells.

I sat at her head, kissed her and said

'Night, night!'

Very gently they shaved her paw,

 the first injection went in,

the next I didn't see, as

I was kissing her good bye.

Lettice was dead. 

In happier times

A Proud Dog...

Lettice

14.2.1998  -  7.10.2013

Lettice... the latest...

After much discussion we came to the decision

that this week we would get our lovely

vet to come to put Lettice to sleep.

The weekend had been a roller-coaster 

ride of emotions.

On Saturday evening, we were

planning to be out for a couple of hours.

Ted was singing in a choir at the next village,

the plan was for us to go separately in order

 for me to pop home and check that she was  alright.

The show was a sell-out...

Am-drams at its best..

Shepherds pie too!

My ticket was bought... the show must go on!

Lettice was sick and decidedly unhappy,

standing by me with head bowed.

'Take my ticket and hopefully someone

can enjoy the show, free!'

Cosy in her bed with one of my scarves

as a comfort blanket; I sat on the floor beside her

 telling her, that she was free to go.

Wishing in my heart that 

she would heed my words.

She settled and when Ted got back, we sat

talking through what we had always said,

that we would do the right thing

earlier rather than later.

At 3 a.m. when Ted went down to let her out

she was okay.

I got up at 6 a.m. and sitting quietly reading, 

all seemed normal.

What wasn't normal was the great lump of

pain in my chest, which sat 

like a physical presence.

All yesterday she seemed bright,

the small meals, little and often, she kept down.

Yesterday was a good day.

Which then of course begged the question...

'Were we doing it too early?'

We talked, we rationalised, we convinced

ourselves that the decision was sound.

This morning, she was sat in her bed looking bright and alert,

which only turned the screw even tighter.

I phoned the vets to ask if our vet

 would call me back to discuss the

way forward.

He was on holiday and wouldn't be back until next Monday!

'It was meant to be!'

A week's respite.

The trouble was, not long after the call,

she once again was sick and looking mis.

She is now sat quite content in her bed after

a soupçon of chicken.

She, as far as we can tell isn't in

any pain, if she was then naturally 

we would act.

Obviously if she does go downhill, we will

 get another vet to come. 

And so it goes on.

The vipers nest of...

cables, by the law of Sod

we threw away last Sunday.

The scrap metal man was only 

too pleased to take them.

What do we need today?

The cable that connects the Canon wireless printer

to my new laptop.

Wireless?  I hear you cry...

you don't need a cable.

By our own admission, we aren't

computer whizz kids,

nor would I want to be.

The trouble is, the printer will scan

things to the computer,

but not print bumpf from the computer.

We have followed all directions,

stuck the disc in to start over 

 and still the same.

We discover looking at the instruction book,

us old folks think a hard copy

is preferable to on-line help;

reason being, the computer lobs the odd

mumbo-jumbo computer speak at you...

we need the lead in order to reset it.

Can you cotton-picking believe it?

It is so frustrating that we haven't got that innate

computer understanding that

 most people many years our junior seem to have.

The biggest puzzle to me,

 is the fact it works one way

and not the other.

Addendum... Nay, a sodding great humongous... Addendum...

I've only gone and blown the doors oft!  By trial and error, I've sorted out the problem...

How, heaven only knows?  The only trouble now is... has common sense come and bitten me on the bum... 

I bloody hope not... as I've made my name by being ditsy with tact having no place in my life.

Crimplene and bobble slippers here we come............  Hold tight!

After a lifetime of always...

looking on the bright side,

and in the main succeeding,

I've hit a sodding great rock face.

My face is flattened, my head is pounding;

not unlike Jerry in the Tom and Jerry

cartoons where he falls back...

flat, squashed, squished.

The reason is...

Lettice.

She is coming to the end of her days;

thin, eating, but sometimes bringing it

all back up again.

This morning taking her out for her little stroll,

we were slower than usual. 

She has taken to sitting out in the utility room,

where as the weather changes, you have to ask yourself...

'Is this a good idea?'

This old dog that everyone looks at with

pity when out walking, doesn't seem so bad

when back at home.

Last night I looked up attaxia, and the right time

to euthanise your elderly dog.

With head in hands and tears ready to fall, 

the expression that jumped out of the page was

'It is better to be a week early, than a day late!'

I've always said I would do the right thing by her

and I will.  But how blooming hard that is to

implement.

People say she will tell you.

I just don't want to leave it until she cries

out trying to tell me.