Ramblings

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Pass the Pins

My dad used to go to the pub a lot. I think it would be fair to say he liked a drink. As a child, I didn’t necessarily know where he was going, if I asked he’d only say he was going to ‘meet a man about a dog’.  I have no idea where that saying came from, all I know is that I spent many hours excitedly anticipating the arrival of a new puppy that never came.

On Sundays, he used to go to the pub while my mum and nan cooked a huge roast dinner.  We’d always have to wait for him to come back before we ate, but nevertheless we were always pleased that he went because the fish stall used to park outside the pub on Sunday’s, and dad would always come back weighed down with bags of shellfish for us to have for tea.

After the obligatory Sunday afternoon watching a weepy on TV from the floor while Dad snored on the sofa, I’d go and help mum and nan prepare the salad.  No fancy salad bowls brimming with multi-coloured mixed leaves and chopped vegetables for us. Oh no…our salad’s constituted:

a pile of lettuce leaves in a bowl

a pile of tomatoes in a bowl

Some very thin slices of cucumber in a bowl

Some cress in a bowl

Some full length sticks of celery standing up in a glass (how posh)

And a bottle of salad cream

These bowls would be distributed about our gingham-cloth covered table leaving space in the middle for the stars of the show, the shellfish.

Oh how I loved the messiness of the shellfish tea.  Getting pink prawn husks and eggs stuck to our fingers, shelling the scampi (fresh ones the like of which I’ve not seen since), using dressmaking pins to lift the grey ‘lids’ off the winkles and wheedle the curled fleshy bit out, and the peculiar yellow cockles, that looked like the result of a violent sneeze, yet with a shake of salt and splash of vinegar tasted like the finest gourmet food.

I loved to see my fastidious old nan digging in and getting just as mucky as the rest of us, even licking the fishy juice from her fingers like I did.  .

Afterwards, the bin would be full of the smelly shells, and mum would have to take the table-cloth out to the back garden and give it a vigorous shake to get rid of the stuck on bits of prawn antenna and legs, and winkle lids.

There was always salad left over, and more often than not the next day, all I’d find in my lunchbox was a cucumber, lettuce and tomato sandwich, with a stick of celery nestling alongside it.

Those days are long gone, and it seems that, these days, we have become over-sensitised to eating anything that looks a bit strange, or having to do anything as weird as wheedling out a winkle to get our food.  But I remember those family teas as a bonding time. It was the one time of the week, when we sat down and ate together, little was said, and we all got on.

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A stroke of the hand

I guess I was busy trying to look elegant lying on the sunbed at an awkward angle so as to keep my limbs in the shade, as I don’t remember seeing him approach.  Or maybe my husband had hissed to me

‘keep your head down, hawker approaching…’ and I’d shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep behind my sunglasses.

Either way, initially, I felt his shadow rather than saw him, so jumped when he touched my hand.

We were chilling on the private beach of a swanky hotel, feeling posher and much, much, more glamourous than we actually are.  We knew he must be a regular, because the security guard had let him on to the hotel’s patch of white sand where the fancy thatched sun shades stood in a uniform row.

‘Hello!’ he grinned, revealing his sparse, though pearly white, teeth. ‘Where you come from?’

Propping myself up I could see he was one of the locals.  A blue check dhoti was coiled around his hips, exposing his skinny knock-kneed legs.  On his top half he wore what had once been a smart short-sleeved white shirt with a grey business like stripe.

He took my pale small hand in his rough dark one and shook it vigorously, but then, strangely didn’t let go, just held it loosely in his, stroking it from time to time with his other hand, while he addressed my husband, asking him about England, and how long we were staying in India, our names, and that sort of thing.

During our holiday, Ali became a regular visitor to our sunbeds. He was a fisherman, who went out in his tiny boat early in the morning, and joined what seemed like a thousand others for night fishing.  We could see the lights of their boats bobbing on the waves, looking like stars that had fallen from the sky. It wasn’t lost on us that they were out making a hard earned living, and catching their next meals, while we ate enormous and elaborate dishes in the fancy restaurant.

P1020027During the day, Ali wandered the shore talking to tourists, and occasionally throwing a line out from the rocks to catch the odd fish. He showed us how to dig in the sand to find crabs, no bigger than the nail on my little finger, to use as bait. Amazed us with the dexterity of his big fingers tying the poor things on to the fishing line, and amazed us more by catching a fish within a couple of minutes of slinging the line out. He was chuffed at our reaction and was more than happy to pose proudly for a photograph.

He had surprisingly good English, but his sentences tended to be shaped in a back to front yoda-like way.

‘go on a trip, you want to?

Yes, he was of course, trying to make a few rupees out of us, which we didn’t mind at all, it was understandable.  To the locals (and probably other guests) we must have pots of money to be able to stay in such a place. They didn’t know that we’d saved for a couple of years for our special treat, and were still on a very tight budget. Nonetheless, we were certainly better off than Ali, so we booked the trip through him knowing he’d get a cut of the, what in hindsight, must’ve been meagre profits.  He assured us we wouldn’t be disappointed, and we truly weren’t.  We were treated like royalty and had a wonderful time.

Each time we bumped in to Ali he held my hand and stroked it. I found it a little disconcerting at the time, yet I can still feel his gentleness, and the warmth of character that his touch conveyed.  Though he asked us to bring some old clothes for him and his family ‘next time’ I doubt we’ll return again soon, but thinking back to our couple of weeks in the sun, I’ll always think of that cheery chap, who brightened our days with his smile.

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The letter – writing 101 challenge

Today’s writing 101 challenge was for a bit of brief fiction based around finding a letter.  Here is my attempt.  Hope it makes some sort of sense:-

It lay there, half submersed in a puddle. Dropped in shock from a shaky hand perhaps?

‘further investigation…  An appointment has been booked….. please bring….’

The time and date is in the coming week. An urgent thing then.

Whoever this was addressed to will need it, but the water has seeped across the page blurring words and making the letters weep inky tears.

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Three favourite songs – freewrite for writing 101

Apologies for lack of punctuation, paragraphs, any sense.  The challenge was a freewrite, so I tried to stick to that!  It feels a bit against nature to post this nonsense, but anyhoo.. here it is:

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Ah, music, one of my favourite subjects. Oh yes, I can rattle on about this for 15 minutes no worries.. I think, but this is a freewrite so we’ll go where my mind takes me I guess (hold tight, could be anywhere).   First song I thought about was My Girl, actually I always change it to My Girls, cos I’ve got twin girls and they do bring me sunshine every single time I think of them and I think of them a lot. They’re grown up now, doctors indeed ..I am very proud mum and throw that into the conversation as often as possible though when you are proudly boasting that your daughter is at medical school you don’t necessarily remember the risks this poses. One of them told me last week that she has to be fitted for special suit in case an ebola case comes into the hospital, it will be on her ward.  The other one had to deal with someone who had suspected leprosy.  Death and bodily functions are day to day for them. I’ve never seen a dead body, not in my entire umpteen very long years. Weird to think they have more life and death experience than me. Shouldn’t be that way round really.  Time of your life by Greenday is another song relating to my girls. I remember playing it for them when they went off to medical school at different ends of the country all their goods and chattels packed into plastic bags. I cried. Course I cried. I still get weepy that they are all grown up and independent. Well sort of independent.  They still need me occasionally.. We all need our mums occasionally, sadly though as they get older sometimes it’s us who have to take over the mumsy duties for them.  Making sure our loved ones are safe and well is darn tricky when it’s done from a distance like I have to do. it can get a bit depressing some times which happily brings me to my other favourite song ‘start wearing purple’ by Gogol Bordello. If you’ve never come across them, they are a Gypsy Punk group.  Their music is loud and bawdy, and makes me dance and smile every time I hear it.  It’s my go-to cheer me up song and we all need one of those occasionally.  Oh dear, I forgot to time myself.  Have I done fifteen minutes?  Don’t know, possibly not, but I have covered my favourite songs and I’ve been typing in a frenzy to do it my fingers automatically finding the keys as a direct extension of my thoughts.  Like playing the piano, though I can’t do that. Pretty hopeless at all musical instruments really, though I did play the Cello at school. I remember carting it home for practicing it was almost bigger than me, and then my mum and dad moaned because it was more of a screech than a tune.  No, I’ll happily listen to all sorts of other music (Jazz being the exception…I can’t stand all those notes being played in the wrong order..) but think I’ll leave it to other people to play. Gonna stop now fifteen minutes or no!’

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A loo with a view

I must’ve been in many, many, rooms over the course of my life, so when I was presented with this challenge, for writing 101, I thought ‘easy peasy’.  Problem is, my mind just went straight back to rooms which held bitter memories; the gaudy hotel room where I argued horribly with my daughter on the last day, blighting forever the memories of an otherwise perfect holiday. My nan’s cosy bedsitting room, the room where she had a devastating stroke which she ultimately died from. The living room where I sat, fingers in ears, to block out the noise from our horrendous neighbours. It gets worse, but I won’t bore you.

So I consciously turned my mind to happier times and places. I could write about our newly decorated sitting room, whose huge French windows look out across our, currently, lush green garden.  This year, the summer has been perfect – lots of sun, and lots of rain, so the flowers are plentiful, the vegetables are abundant, and the grass is green (though to be honest, it’s probably more moss and weeds than actual grass). The birds flit from tree to tree settling on the bird table in between, and I can see the red and blue striped hammock, strung between the apple and the pear tree, rocking gently in the breeze.

That seemed a bit of a cop out though. It’s just what I can see right now. No, to properly meet the demands of the challenge, I need to use the colours of my memory.

Now, I know I keep harping on about toilets.  So I suppose I shouldn’t go there, but yep, that’s where I’m going.

I think you’ll agree that toilets don’t usually have views.  It’s not the first thing you think about when you think about a loo.  They’re often windowless, or if they do have windows, they’re mercifully glazed in opaque glass.

The one I’m thinking of had a window alright.  A huge picture window.  It wasn’t glazed either.  Nope, just open to the elements.

It was in Goa, on a spice plantation.  It was a very hot, humid day in a very jungly plantation.  We’d had the tour, seen lots of things growing on trees, bushes, under trees etc.  We’d seen a man climbing barefoot up a towering palm tree to collect coconuts. And we’d been shown how to eat our yummy lunch, properly, with our fingers out of a banana leaf.  It had been a lovely, and interesting morning, but sooner or later the inevitable happened.  I needed a wee.

I think it’s fair to say that some of the public toilets in India can be a bit dodgy. Very dodgy. I’m pretty blasé about it these days and go if I have to.

‘hmm… you gonna risk it?’ asked my husband as we were pointed in the direction of a small thatched building up a flight of rickety looking steps.

‘you go first mum, see what it’s like’ said my slightly less adventurous daughters.

‘Ok, bursting!’ I said. I was getting a bit knee knockingly desperate.

The little building turned out to house just one toilet, surprisingly a ‘western’ one, which was situated in the middle of the left hand wall as you entered.  On the right hand wall was a hole in the dirt floor besides which there was a pail of water with a coconut shell complete with handle that you could use as a scoop, so that you could flush the loo and wash your hands.

The back wall was non-existent.

This took me by surprise a tad, as, underneath my shorts and tee shirt I was wearing a swimming costume, which I naturally had to strip right off to be able to ‘errmm… do my thing.

Frankly, I could have stayed there all day.  Set on a  high ledge, the loo overlooked a large pond, nearly a lake in fact, covered almost completely in huge white water lillies. The pond was surrounded by different varieties of palms, plants with man-sized leaves,  and hanging pink and purple flowers that I didn’t know the names of.  Birds were swooping about catching insects just above the water. It was quite the most delightful view I think I have ever come across.

Sitting there, on the loo, naked, caressed by a cooling breeze and staring out across that wonderland, which looked as if it had been created by some Disney cartoonist, felt very surreal.  I’m pretty sure no-one could see me, but there was a queue forming outside, so I couldn’t linger for too long.  However, the memory of that place remains with me as the finest, and most surprising loo I’ve visted…….so far!

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Let me introduce myself….

Well hello there.  Second challenge of writing 101 is to introduce myself. It’s proving trickier than I thought it might be.  Introducing myself.  Should be dead easy.  Do I want people to actually know who I am though? Is it enough to know I live in Nottinghamshire, England, and that age-wise I’m no spring chicken, but have actually never quite grown up? That as well as writing, I like music, travel, eating, wine, gadgets,yoga, flowers, fish, dogs, walking, reading, photography, watching movies, sleeping, …..(I could go on…) and that my family mean more than the world to me?

Do I want to write down on paper (well not paper exactly) what my blog is about?  Do I know the answer to that?

Well not really.  I started my blog a couple of years ago when I left my job.  I’d already been writing bits and bobs for a good long while, and had completed a creative writing course with the Open University.  I’d enjoyed it, and wanted to write more, maybe even publish stuff.  Anyhoo, started the blog to get me writing, concentrate the mind a bit.  And, to a point, it has.

I haven’t published any of my stories on the blog (I use it more for venting my spleen), but recently took the brave step (for me ‘cos frankly I’m more Pam Ayres than Betjeman) of posting some of my poems that had already been well received in the PoetrySoup community.  Also, almost due to pure laziness, I have started posting some of my photographs.  It’s quicker and easier than having to think of something to write especially when time is tight.  Besides, I’m rather proud of some of them.

So, whilst I try to post regularly, I can’t honestly say I have any particular purpose or theme.  I hope what I write is vaguely entertaining, and people can identify with at least some of it, but I realise that my writing needs to be brought back into focus, and with any luck writing 101 might help me achieve that.

Oh yes, and I want followers, lots more followers.  And people to comment.  It can get a bit lonely posting all this stuff and still not being noticed. Anyway, it’s amazing to know that my words are out there potentially reaching people from all over the world. I’m going in the right direction, let’s hope this new set of challenges will prove even more successful.

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Freewriting for writing 101

Ok, this may not make much sense. It’s a bit of freewriting I’ve done as the first exercise in writing 101. See what you think!
‘Twenty minutes seems like a bloomin’ long time to freewrite. I used to do a lot of it during my creative writing course and found it really helpful. I remember they told you not to use punctuation..hmmm gone wrong with that already here, and to just type a stream of consciousness. Dreams seem to be a stream of unconsciousness the mind just travels randomly and weirdly to where it wants without any input from me. Often scary dreams, uncomfortable dreams that live on with me throughout my day. They also said don’t correct mistakes..gone wrong with that too. I’ve made a few mistakes as I’ve been typing, but not many. I’m good and fast at typing. Did it a lot when I was working, in fact I learnt to touch type at school and its been a useful skill since the explosion of pcs. Mind you, when I learnt it was all big ‘ol typewriters, not even electric, that you used to have to thump the keys hard to get a dodgy smudgy letter from. Sometimes letters arrive at my house that are smudgy from the rain. It rains a lot here. Not raining now though. In fact theres not a lot of weather this morning just dull greyness, it’s not even that cold. Autumn approaches. Did you know there’s Christmassy things already in the shops here. September. September in the rain. That’s a song I remember from years back. I like music. I downloaded George Ezra’s new album on Saturday. My dad was a big fan of music. He used to stand in front of our fireplace conducting orchestra’s on the radio. He was a bit barmy. We didn’t get on all that famously I’m afraid to say. Bit of a temper on him, though never violent with me or mum, but hit the wall a few times and his verbal tirades where something to behold. Not sure whether they’ve scarred me for life I think I remember him being more arty than cross generally speaking. Gosh this is turning into a bloody counselling session. I certainly didn’t want that to happen I wanted to write of wine and roses and pretty things. Sunshine and laughter and nice people singing. My writing is never like that though. Always turns out dark and dismal. Usually violence and murders in my stories. People who are nice on the surface but turn out to be psychos. Hmm wonder where that came from? Hehee… this is a counselling session. I wonder how much longer I’ve got left. I type fast so it could be another ten/fifteen minutes yet…who knows..doesn’t time fly when your enjoying yourself. Time is relative its so much slower when you’re waiting for the clock hands to click on to five so you can go home after a busy day, than it is when your playing games with your children. Watching tv shows can either slow or speed up time too depending on whether you are enjoying them or not. We watched a lengthy Chinese film on Saturday evening, can’t remember the title, but there was a lot, a lot, of fighting, and I couldn’t tell who was who it was just one grey blur of people with swords, it seemed to go on forever, and yet the programme I chose to watch, which made me laugh, was over in a flash. I guess that could be that the film was three hours long and my programme was just half hour, but you know what I mean. Journeys out to holidays, even long haul ones, go a lot quicker than coming home. Goodness me how long journeys can drag. It takes just and hour and fifty minutes to get to London by train from my house, but oh’ that journey can feel like a lifetime when you are on a smelly, overcrowded train sitting next to someone who had their music playing just loud enough to you cant actually hear what it is but you can hear that thrumming beat. Enough to be really annoying, but not bad enough for you to actually complain. Or the people who are sitting getting really drunk around the same table as you. I hate sitting round those tables. Often four people forced to look in every direction but each other for the entirety of the journey, or as I once was, stuck with three others who were sharing a bottle of champagne. They could have offered me some couldn’t they. Although champagne on a train could be a little sickmaking I would think. I don’t usually eat or drink if I can help it. Apart from anything, if you drink too much you are forced to use the revolting loos. I used a loo on a train in India. It was a squat one. That was a challenge I can tell you, but at least you don’t have to touch anything. I could write a book on loos around the world, have been in all sorts. Good and bad, very very bad. Also sad. Some of the loos in China were pretty horrid, but I tell myself I only had to use them the once, some of the villagers (in a particular place) had to use it the whole time. That’s one thing travelling helps with, finding your place in the world, alerting you to other people’s circumstances, reminding you that you are one of the fortunate ones. In fact, I view travel as an education. We took our daughters to India when they were about thirteen. They learned much about different cultures….’

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Beam me up

Just back off me hols.  Yep, we’ve had a wonderful couple of weeks in Kerala, India.  Splendid grand hotel with wonderful staff (The Leela, Kovalam), yummy food, fantastic pool, and beautiful scenery.  Who could ask for more.

Me.  I could.

Like everyone else I love being on holiday.  Not a care in the world, the only decisions to be made is whether to lie by the beach or pool, or what to choose from the buffet that won’t add on immediate pounds and make your wobbly bits even more wobbly when you lurch on to the sunbed in your cossie.  I don’t even mind getting a bit burnt here and there, or even being covered in bites that keep me awake.  What I really don’t like about holidays though is the getting there and back.

Despite being fairly well travelled, I still loathe airports.  The endless queuing. Firstly. to book in.  Will we get nice seats? Together? Will we get seats? (The last question being the direct result of being victim to the scandalous overbooking that apparently all airlines undertake.  We were fortunate that through bribery that particular airline managed to persuade some other passengers to relinquish their seats to us.  Others in our group weren’t so lucky.)

Then of course you wave your bags goodbye, wondering, as they trundle off, if they’re ever to be seen again, and if so, will they be in one piece.  We always pack spare keks and swimwear in our hand luggage… just in case.  I figure, at least, if I have swimwear I’ll be able to sink myself in a nice cool pool while I’m waiting for the rest of my carefully chosen accoutrements to arrive.

Through into departure lounge via the queue for security.  I always beep.  Why do I always beep? No idea.  I take off my belts, bangles and shoes, but still I beep.  Is it my underpinnings, being of the wired variety? Do other ladies that have wired underpinnings beep?  Surely I’m not the only one.  Suffice it to say, I beep, so I need patting down by a severe looking security woman.

After patting me down and finding nothing, one unfortunate woman in an airport in Nepal, chose to search my handluggage.  Poking about with her bare hands she managed to find a very squishy manky banana in the bottom that I had completely forgotten about.  I will never forget her look of disgust as she pulled it from the bag.  She didn’t search further, just waved me on.  That’s the ticket!!

Anyhoo, eventually through security.  There is the interminable wait.  There’s only so many times you can walk round the shops in a departure lounge.  Who buys stuff in there anyway?  I’m always puzzled by the luggage shops. Isn’t it a little late for that?  So we sit and people watch and eat uninspiring sandwiches until we are given the gate number and cheerfully told it’s a ten minute walk away.  En masse down the walkways, rushing as if they might leave without us when we know we’ve still got more than another hour before there’s even a chance the plane will be fully boarded.  I’m worn out before we’ve started.

Then there’s the almighty rush to board.  Everyone pushing and shoving, fighting for space in the overhead lockers.  Only then can you claim your seat.  You know, the one next to the very big person/very chatty person/snorer/dribbler/drunk/weak bladdered…the one in front of the kid whose up for spending the next five hours kicking the back of your seat whilst either whining or screaming.  The one with the air hostess who believes in service with a sneer, not the nice one who works the other side of the aisle.  God I hate planes.

Then take off. I still white-knuckle at every take off.  I try to go to a happy place, honest I do, but there really isn’t one that can include those scary engine noises and the sicky feeling as the earth drops away.

Settle in, get into a film maybe, and the food comes.  The little tray of horrors. Everything crammed on it like a jigsaw with spillage.  You eat what you can and are stuck with the table down across your knees when the bloke next to you decides he ‘needs to go’. Great.  If anyone has found a way of successfully dealing with that scenario please let me know.

Meal time over, you try and nap.  It really is impossible to get comfy in a plane seat.  Try as you might, your legs are never right…. straight out under the seat in front and your bum falls off the not wide enough seat. It’s not wide enough widthways to curl up either.  You try some sort of in between thing with your head propped on your hand, and, despite the kicking in the back, just about manage to nod off, when the bloke next to you wants another wee.  Shouldn’t have had that third beer should you mate.

Eventually, the pilot lets you know that you’ll be landing shortly, but first we have to go ’round and ’round for half an hour because there is a queue.  Who’da thought it?

Despite the warnings to ‘remain in your seat with your belt buckled’ everyone unbuckles and stands up the minute the wheels touch the ground, and there is the usual push and shove to get off the plane.

For our trip to India, there was a three hour wait before starting again on another plane.  What can I say, it was great to arrive, and even greater to eventually see my luggage clunking on to the carousel.  It was also great to forget the prospect of the return journey, if only for a while.

So yes, I would ask for more.  I would ask for one of those machines like they have in Star Trek, that will beam me to my destination (with my luggage!) in the time it takes to say ‘chicken or fish’.  Come on, this is the twenty first century, surely someone has invented it by now?

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Stormy Weather

There’s a big storm howling around outside at the moment. Torrential rain filling up the pond and flattening the flowers.  Yes, it’s British summer again folks.

My mum has never liked storms.  Always been terrified.  Hiding in cupboards if necessary. I can’t remember if it’s the lightening or thunder that she’s particularly afraid of, I don’t think she’s sure, but at 91 she’s still a bit of a wuss over them. Don’t expect she’ll change now.

I’m privileged to live in house that is surrounded by open spaces and can see storms approaching from some distance. We are also fortunate to have a ‘double aspect’ bedroom, so can watch the dark clouds and flashes closing in, passing overhead, and then sailing off into the distance.  I have many a happy memory of standing with my daughters, noses pressed against the windows, all of us mesmorized by the spectacle of a fierce storm lighting up the sky and clearing the air.  We’ve even danced outside, feeling the fresh rain tingle on our skins, while the clouds smash together overhead a few times.

However, I’m not quite as brave as I used to be.

A couple of years ago, I was alone in the house when a really extreme storm hit.  I have never seen rain like it. The road was a river and you could barely see outside for the rain on the windows. The thunder and lightning were incessant and the dog was a wreck – she’s as scared of ’em as my mum!  I was doing my best to calm her down, whilst wondering if it really was the end of the world, when there was the biggest, loudest, reverberating crack of thunder I’ve ever heard. It was as overhead as it could possibly get and shook the house to it’s foundations. Instinctively I ducked, convinced the house would be a pile of rubble around me at any moment.  It wasn’t.

Instead the alarm went off.

You may know that I am hideously neurotic when it comes to security.  It comes from being burgled three times.  Consequently our house is fitted with the finest alarm system money can buy.  It wasn’t set because I was at home, instead, it was shrilling it’s displeasure at being hit by the lightning.

As if the dog wasn’t traumatised enough.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve been in a house while the alarm is going off, but I can tell you, it’s not pleasant. It’s painfully earsplitting. You just want it to stop. Trouble is, mine wouldn’t.  It was stuck on. No amount of coaxing, putting in codes, hitting, or swearing would stop it.  The thunder was still thundering, the dog was barking like a lunatic, and the alarm was shrieking it’s high pitched war-cry non-stop, while I had to dig out the phone number for the alarm company, ring them, and try to have a sensible conversation.  The blokey at the other end of the phone, while being courteous, couldn’t quite grasp that the darn thing just wouldn’t turn off, and asked daft things like ‘have I entered the right code?’, I wouldn’t say I was rude, but….

Eventually, he said he’d send an engineer out.  This was at about four o’clock in the afternoon.  It wasn’t until nine in the evening that he turned up.  The alarm was still going, the dog was still barking, I was at the end of my tether, but at least the storm had passed.  It took him about three quarters of an hour before he managed to silence the darn thing. It had been fried.  We needed a new unit. It would cost. Cost a lot.

Since then, I’ve not been so keen on storms. Neither has the dog.

 

 

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Rebooting my blog

The eagle-eyed amongst you will have noticed a bit of a change to my blog this last week or two. You see, I had a ‘moment’ a couple of weeks ago when I was feeling a bit lonely, a bit unloved and unwanted.  I wasn’t getting many visitors, no comments, no activity.  Apparently not even good enough to include advertising. I felt left out.

Not the first time in my life.  I was always one of those kids.  The left out ones.  The odd-bod, the loner whether I wanted to be or not.  As I got older, I found meetings and conferences uncomfortable, feeling as if I was an imposter, not good enough to hold my own. Not clever enough to hold a conversation with all those important, intelligent folk. And that exactly sums up how I was feeling about blogging. Now, my usual response would be to give up –

‘Face it, you’re not good enough, you’ve given it a shot and failed, might as well find something else to do with your time’

But if being part of this on-line community has taught me anything, its that well, anything goes.  Your blog is your own, who really cares if anyone reads it, as long as you enjoy writing, posting, sharing.  So I decided to pull myself up by my bootstraps, and start shoving things on here pretty much for my own amusement.

My ‘ditties’ for instance (still can’t bring myself to call them poems – seems pretentious).  I’ve been posting them in the ‘poetrysoup’ community for some time, but always blushingly. Posting them on my blog seemed scary, as if I’m inviting criticism and ridicule. However, on one of my braver days I went for it, and hey, d’ya know what…they’ve got likes…lots of likes.  It’s great!

Likewise, with the photos. I’ve got a pretty good camera, and I really love taking photos and have thousands knocking around. Some of them are ropey, some of them seem quite good to me (fair enough, I’ve an untrained eye..) I’d never call myself a photographer, but, you know, we’ve travelled quite a lot and, well, why not share them I thought.  And yes, they’ve got likes too. Gosh, I’m on a roll…

I started my blog pretty much as a journal type thing, a diary documenting what I’ve found to do with my life since retirement, and up until now I felt I should stick to that formula.  But I’ve found diversifying is a real treat, and eye-opener.  I’ve found lots of other poets and poetry blogs that I hadn’t come across before, and some wonderful photography sites that I can learn from. I’m starting to write a bit about each photograph I post – blimey, you never know, maybe it’ll become a travelog!

I can post a picture or poem much quicker than I can write an article, so I’m able to keep the whole thing more active. And, through necessity, I’m learning a lot more about utilising the tools available to make my site look and behave better. Best of all, I’m getting a lot more visitors to my site (still not enough…come on you slackers..) and the number of followers is going up daily (yay! Hellooo and hugs to you all…)

I’ve got lots more ideas, and things to share, and I’m still learning, so over time, I expect the blog to morph some more. It’s all a bit of an adventure then, and thinking of something to post has stopped being a chore and has become exciting and fulfilling again.