One of my pupils has been complaining that I haven't updated my blog for some time. So, Michael, this posting is dedicated to you, and as I can't think of anything else to post right now, here is a poem 'wot I rote'.


Green is for trees.
I don’t like greens with my dinner.
They make me feel rather sick.
Mum hides them beneath my potatoes,
But I always find them real quick.

Last week, outside in the garden
I had a taste of some snails.
The texture was just a bit crunchy
But I lived on to tell you this tale.

Now earthworms are something quite different.
They’re smooth and they slip down quite fast.
I found a whole bunch in the compost;
I rather enjoyed that repast.

The chalk from my blackboard is dusty.
It turns my mouth green, pink or blue.
It’s not my favourite munchy
‘Cos it’s very hard work to chew.

Some stuff on the beach is so gritty,
It gets in my mouth and my nose
It’s difficult eating a picnic.
It’s the sand which is there, I suppose.

But I’m still not eating that green stuff.
My mum says it’s good for me.
I say, give me fish fingers or pizza
And hold back on broccoli.

What a sight!

The New Forest, England.
19.11.06




So, in terms of a photo, I could do better.
It was as if it had been freshly painted in transparent water colours.
What more can I say?

What if...

...you were 50 (ish) with grown up children and single. Just how do you meet a suitable man? I've been hearing about experiences with dating from a few friends. Some hysterically funny, some just plain sad. OK, the truth is that, as a novice writer, I've been asking around. There is a book in it somewhere. I even know the title.

Perhaps with internet dating the whole task is less daunting than replying to 'WLTM' ads. You can exchange e-mails anonymously for as long as you like and make a gut decision on whether to keep going before giving away your precious private phone number. You can see a photo - but is he lying about his height? If he says he is looking for a long-term relationship, does he mean longer than 4 hours? You just can't tell.

Jenny's most recent experience was with a man who sounded almost perfect for her. After a few chatty e-mails they exchanged phone numbers and he asked her out to dinner. At 11.30 the bar staff were clearing their throats as well as the tables, so it must have gone well. (I'd say a bunch of flowers would have been a good idea too, but then, I'm a romantic.)

She got a polite 'Thanks for the evening, I enjoyed it' text the following day. Then nothing.

She texted him - still very jolly, non-committal... and the reply came
'I asked one of my woman friends (He did what?) how I should tell you I don't want to take it any further, and she told me to say I was busy every time you got in touch... but I thought I'd better tell you the truth.' Ouch! It's a good job Tesco has got a good price on their Cuvee Prestige at the moment. Jenny needs it.

... and then there was the fireman... No, that'll have to wait.

Today's displacement activity...

... is writing this blog, communicating with other ex-OU Creative Writing virtual friends, doing the washing, avoiding the cleaning, walking the dogs, playing Free Cell... Anything rather than Humanities course work.

Why?
(Sweeping statement coming up)
I hate philosophy.

Block 1 of the OU course I am studying concludes with 'Reasoning'. There is a whole other language here that challenges the way in which I use the same words in everyday speech. I live in a 'words of one syllable, black is black and white is white' world.
Don't get me wrong - I don't have anything personal against philosophers, and those that challenge the status quo. I just can't get my head around the whole concept of wanting to argue 'just because ...' probably because I'll do anything for a quiet life.
So, can't put the moment off any longer. Once I've done this part of the assignment, I can wrap it up ready to send to my tutor.
Next Block - "The Colosseum".
Shame there's not a field trip involved.

Doing what he likes best

In the interests of being fair, I thought Wellington needed introducing.
He was one of 'The Magnificent Seven'; all-black puppies born around the corner from us, so he frequently gets to play with his mum and sister and assorted aunts and uncles kept by his breeder.
Since his arrival in the household last year, he has remodelled the kitchen, read every book in the bookshelf several times, (well, for what other possible reason could he have scattered them across the floor, ripping pages out in the process?) and chewed through the seat belt in a two-week- old car, to name but three of his crimes.
He has also totally endeared himself to us. At 35kg he still thinks he is a tiny puppy and can sit on our laps. As I write he is sound asleep, squeaking away to himself with his legs going nineteen to the dozen. We have managed to teach him to ignore squirrels and cats, both frequent visitors to the garden - but I'm hoping it's a pigeon he's dreaming about chasing off - perhaps he'll see what he can do about the ones that pulled up all our seedlings this summer- the plants that escaped the slugs, that is.
Wellington is under the impression that we are incapable of showering or bathing thoroughly and if he can, comes to supervise the process. There is nothing more disconcerting that having a cold, wet shower curtain pressed against you, when you least expect it.
He does have one particularly strange quirk, though: he is reluctant to bark, except when protecting the house from visitors, invited or not. As a pup, he kept us awake a lot at night, so despairing and exhausted, we bought a 'friendly' trainer - a bark-activated box, that sprays citronella across the dog's face. We think Sasha worked out that if she barked, he still got it in the face! Now though, he 'blows' for his food and if he wants to go out.
Dogs: not every one's cup of tea - but I'd be lost without mine.