June 9, 2014

Shadows is here!

Summer. Ugh.

 

We’re having summer.  Eh.  I hope it goes away soon.  I like daylight fine—us old people need our vitamin D—but HOT HOT HOT FRELLING DAZZLING SUNSHINE IS OVERRATED.*  And it’s thunderstorm weather so for even those of you (strange) people who like hot-hot-hot-frelling it’s not good hot-hot-hot-frelling, it’s oppressive and headachy.  I always get up in the morning [sic] feeling like the slurry in the bottom of your dishwasher but days like today it’s all I can do to play tug-of-war with the hellterror.**

Or by evening be capable of writing a blog post.***

Unnnnnngh. . . . †

* * *

* A certain heroine of a certain book might disagree with me.   Although I don’t think even Sunshine wants her tyres—tires—melting into the pavement.

** This is an IMPORTANT PART OF THE MORNING RITUAL.  I stagger downstairs in my semi-decomposed state and get my tea and the hellterror’s breakfast^ started.  Then I brace myself and let her out of her crate while the hellhounds cower in the back of theirs.  She goes out for a pee in the courtyard and then comes indoors and checks all the corners for escaped kibble.^^  And then at some point while I’m peacefully mincing leftovers to make her tinned food a little more exciting^^^ she will trot up purposefully carrying her long yellow rubber toy and if I don’t notice quickly enough she will whack me with it, smartly across the calves.#

Let me just say that any woman who worries about her upper arms## . . . consider purchasing a hellterror, or other square, solid critter with jaws that could chomp for England, and spend serious time playing tug of war with it.  It will adore you, and you will have beautifully toned upper arms.

^ Have I mentioned that my local bird population is nuts?  I’ve spent all this frelling money on bird feeders and bird food and THEY DON’T EAT IT.  By the end of the winter I was tired of dumping out (expensive) mouldy bird food and scrubbing the frelling bird feeders so I . . . stopped.  I took the one most prone to morphing its contents into sticky black sludge down altogether—it’s still around here somewhere all cleaned out and innocent-looking—and left the other three up.  The wire fat-ball container in the apple tree does have some turnover, but I can’t see it that well from the kitchen window so I’m not absolutely sure it’s not mice, there being a vibrant mouse population in my garden.  The suet block and seed feeders sway gently in the airy zephyrs and . . . over the months their fardels have become pretty disgusting-looking but I have other tasks ahead of dealing with superfluous feeders for ungrateful avian passers-by.

About a month ago I noticed that the by now black suet block was . . . diminishing.  Eh.  It was probably struck by lightning when I wasn’t noticing.

Nope.  Birds.  They ate the whole thing.  Ewwwww.  And, furthermore, the day that I noticed it had disappeared entirely there was also a crabby looking bird sitting on top of the feeder, swapping ends occasionally the better to keep watch for whoever was in charge of REPLACEMENT and also occasionally bending down to peer, in a significant manner, into the still offensively empty feeder.  Just in case the bungling factotum was nearby and could be brought to awareness of her failings.

I bought a suet block that day.  I put it in the feeder.

That was, I think, three suet blocks ago.  I assume this is the Hungry Gap—which is always later in the year than I expect it to be—so I’ll be interested to see if the little feathered ratbags have now got into the habit, or if they’ll drop me again as soon as something better comes along.

^^ Since the hellhounds have stopped eating altogether and force-feeding+ is not an exact science++, this tends to be worth her while.

+ Aside from little matters like starving to death or the fact that the hellhounds’ unique internal economy goes haywire if they miss more than one meal, this new drug they’re on has to be given with food.

++ Not when I do it anyway.  Siiiiiiiigh.

^^^ Given that it’s ORGANIC the PRICE is quite EXCITING ENOUGH FOR ME.

# Speaking of the somewhat uncontrolled exuberance of youth . . . there’s been a great spreading glob of building work near here since last winter.  They were supposed to be finished by the end of March.  Anyone with experience of Great Globs of Building Work will not be surprised to hear that they are still not finished.  The most annoying thing about this particular glob is that it’s closed off a footpath that everybody in this town uses, including the youff.  Now generally speaking teenage anarchy holds no charms for me but occasionally I do enjoy watching it take on self-righteous adult admin.

The glob admin reopened the footpath briefly about a month ago and then—no, no, mustn’t have that!—changed their minds and closed it off again.  They closed it off by sticking a big gate panel in the gap in the fence they were now regretting.

Over the first weekend, the local youff knocked it down.

Next weekend, the admin attached it to the gateposts with these little plastic loop things like the builders’ version of the plastic loops that hold price tags on clothing.

The youff cut the loops and knocked the gate down again.

This weekend just past, the admin chained the panel to the posts.

The youff dug out the bottom of the panel and shoved it back far enough that they and, possibly, a cranky old lady and her ebb and flow of hellcritters could get through.

The admin have now lowered and tightened the loops of chain.

Stay tuned.

## And doesn’t have a change-ringing bell tower available^

^ With my usual caveat that good ringers do not use brute strength.  I am not a good ringer.  But I have unembarrassing upper arms.

*** Maybe I’ll tell you about my voice lesson tomorrow.

† Fortunately we have a oscillating fan so both Darkness and I can get some churned-up air.  Neither Pav nor Chaos seems to mind that much.

Mindfulness

 

 

Samaritans training was Tuesday this week* so I made it to Aloysius’ Wednesday afternoon silent prayer for the first time since . . . the last time Sams training was on a Tuesday.  And Aloysius wasn’t there.  Feh.  I knew this, and I’d said I’d come hold the floor down in his absence.  There were actually a few other people there—slight gleep from yours truly—but I lit the tea-light, read out a bit of psalm and hit my temple-bell timer.**

Catlady

I’ve found, myself, that it’s not that I’m not praying when I lead/ sing for services, it’s just that I’m praying differently. I’ve always felt that prayer has to be a verb — for me, it’s prayer when I set up the sanctuary . . .  it’s prayer when I’m whispering directions to those joining me in front of the congregation. . . .  It’s even prayer when I’m singing the Mi Chamocha by rote and trying to figure out who would be moved by the next reading . . . don’t give this one to that person, because it always makes her cry, which is best done if you’re not trying to read aloud . . . it’s just not the Mi Chamocha that I’m, you know, praying. Occasionally, when it’s a solo, and there’s nothing left to coordinate, and everything goes right, I get to lose myself in the actual prayer that I’m actually praying, which is holy in a different way. But it’s all prayer to me…

Thank you for this, and for your previous on the same subject.  It’s a mindfulness thing, isn’t it?  I think part of what has helped me about the headspace for performing worship is that I got put on the prayer chain at St Margaret’s really quickly*** and floundered rather trying to figure out how to cope with all this praying for people when I was new to praying at all.  I’ve told the blog that I ‘sat’ at a [Buddhist] zendo back in Maine during a year I was finding very rough, and the silent mindful daily sitting made a huge difference in my ability to cope.  I fell out of the habit of daily mindful sitting when I moved over here but I didn’t forget that that space existed and was accessible.  And then hey-presto I became a Christian and . . . gleep.  The silent-sitting space is both utterly transformed by the presence of God and also strangely—reassuringly—familiar.

The sitting-space became the prayer-space and having God to orient myself toward makes me feel as if I have an idea where I’m going, even if I don’t always fully arrive.  You have to leave your stuff at the door and sometimes I . . . can’t.  But I take my prayer-list there—or as close to there as I can get—and I go to Aloysius’ Wednesday afternoon silent prayer when Samaritans’ training doesn’t get in the way, and the high point of my practising-Christian week is half an hour sitting silently in the dark with some monks, Saturday evening, during the ‘Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament’, before night prayer starts.  The more often you go to the prayer-space the plainer the track becomes.†

I can gather a few little wisps of prayer-space when I stumble†† up on stage to sing for service.  I’m not much of a singer or a musician—I have to work at making what I hope is a half-decent noise—I have to focus.  It is, at this point in my dubious development, relatively straightforward to focus on the prayer side rather than the music side.  The less kind way of putting it is to say it rates as prayer because intentionality counts.  It does not rate as music because intentionality only gets you a pat on the head and a bellow of NEXT from the bloke running the auditions.†††

But . . . where we came in.  If you can hold your feeble, wavering, mortal focus on prayer . . . what you’re doing is praying.  It’s a bit like deciding to run a marathon when you’re over sixty and have bad knees, but hey.

* * *

* Last night was writing emails and texts.  I was expecting this to be shocking and dislocating, like a watercolourist being handed a block of granite and a chisel, but in fact it was a whole lot like . . . writing.  In this case, emails and texts.  The texting was funny.  I’ve told you that I’m older by a good fifteen years than the next-oldest of the trainees, and probably thirty-five years older than the youngest.^  And I’m like, texting, fine, okay, I can do texting, and all these kiddies were saying TEXTING?  We have to TEXT as Samaritans?  And we’re supposed to understand all those nasty text abbreviations?^^  And I’m going, oh, cool.  Txtspk!  <3 !^^^  The Samaritans’ text software limits texts to 160 characters, so my fellow trainees were saying, we’re supposed to compose something EMPATHETIC and SUBSTANTIVE in 160 characters??  And I’m saying, oh, it’s like a slightly stretched tweet—you know, Twitter.  Sure, I can do that.  And they all recoiled as if from a slavering Rottweiler and said, TWITTER?  We have nothing to do with Twitter.  —Snicker.  Us do-gooders are so straight.#

^ How did I get this OLD?  I was supposed to just kind of stay forty.

^^ Which we’re allowed to use, cautiously, trying to take our cue from the texter.  We get a lot of texts and emails from overseas and from people whose first language is not English and we do have to communicate.

^^^ Which, not very long ago, when, I think it was Jodi, used it, I had to ask her for a translation.

# I’m talking to Merrilee tomorrow night and I will have to remember to tell her, since she’s the one dragged me kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, including both this blog and Twitter.+

+ I don’t count Facebook, which I don’t use.  I post the blog links there and if FB is in a good mood and lets me, I read any comments.  But about the seven millionth throw-it-all-up-in-the-air-and-stick-the-bits-to-the-wall-as-they-fall-down-again revision, I mean upgrade, I lost the will to live about all of it.

** And went home with Eleanor after and spent an hour and a half wringing our hands and rending our garments over an incomprehensible political situation that has recently arisen in St Margaret’s.  THIS IS WHY I HATE GROUPS.  THEY’RE FULL OF CRAZY PEOPLE BY DEFINITION.

*** ref comments about saying ‘yes’ to things you think you can do so you don’t get ploughed under with things you can’t, it being the function of a community, including a religious one, to extract as much practical value out of its members as it can.^  St Margaret’s is thriving in a general society where a lot of churches are struggling, and I’m sure one of the reasons why is the bloodhound look in the eyes of the admin as soon as a fresh victim crosses the threshold.  When you sign up to be an official mailing-list member you are doomed.

^ See previous footnote.  Sigh.

† More or less.  Some frelling day I will be able to sit properly at home.  The old Zen-Buddhist, and Zen-Christian, thing is just that every time you’re distracted you bring your mind gently back to your breath, or whatever you’re using as a focus.  If I’m sitting with monks I need to bring my mind back, oh, no more often than thirty-seven times a minute.  At home alone, relying solely on my own resources . . . it’s like trying to whack a manic fly with a flyswatter.  LAND SOMEWHERE YOU DEVILSPAWN SO I CAN NAIL YOU.  Sigh.

†† FRELLING CABLES EVERYWHERE.  MICROPHONES, KEYBOARDS, GUITARS, BASS GUITARS, DRUMS^.  I DON’T THINK THE FLUTE IS ELECTRIC YET BUT I’M SURE IT WILL BE.

^ Or drum accessories.  I don’t think the drums themselves are electrified (? Like I have any idea), but there are certainly cables running (perilously) to the drum kit.

††† This is aside from questions of the quality of the actual music we’re attempting to perform.

 

Feebledweeb

 

Once upon a time there was a carrier company. . . . Let’s call it Feebledweeb.  It’s been around a long time.  I had a lively and robust, not to say ranting, dislike of it over twenty years ago, before I left the States.  Before I discovered the true range of global carrier-company incompetence, creative perversity and aggressive unhelpfulness.

Feebledweeb made both of us crazy—although Peter bears crazy better than I do—back at the old house, when we were living out in the sticks of the sticks and there was a lot more hard copy in publishing than there is now.  Feebledweeb at the time was, I believe, the only carrier that would pick stuff up in the sticks of the sticks of southern England and deliver it, more or less safely and in one piece, to a Manhattan highrise.  And vice versa.  Maybe.  With a following wind.

They did, however, make their services coughcoughcoughcough as difficult and unservicelike as possible.  They toyed with the concept of timed arrivals, and even at that they could never be pinned down to anything more exacting than before noon or after noon.  But that was still better than ‘some time in April, and if you’re out, we’re going to reschedule you without telling you for some date which may or may not be at least six months in the future, oh, you have a deadline?  You should have thought of that before you took your dogs on that totally gratuitous walk, shouldn’t you?  And what do you mean by being so self-indulgent and unprofessional as having dogs that need walking in the first place?  We may not reschedule you at all, you’re not our type.’  Which system is what they reverted to.  All day, any day, whatever, if you don’t like it you can hitchhike to the coast and swim to Manhattan.  But being cruelly imprisoned by a time frame of before or after noon was giving their drivers palpitations and random crying jags and Feebledweeb are totally committed to employee welfare.

Snarl.

And then Peter and I moved into town.  And there seems to have been rather a boom in carriers, some of whom are no worse than dire and unreliable.  But Feebledweeb, unfortunately, seems still to control the frelling transatlantic routes.

Now it will amaze you to hear this, but I am not the perfect client.  I want to believe that I mostly behave myself with Merrilee, but Merrilee’s subrights department has little cause to love me, and it would not stun me with flabbergastery that there’s a doll hanging by the neck in a corner of the subrights department with a pin through her heart and a banner reading ‘Robin McKinley’.  I lose things.  I don’t remember ever having seen things.  When I send things back it turns out I signed the wrong pages, or didn’t sign enough of them*, or I didn’t put the date on when I should have or did put the date on when I shouldn’t.  And then New Arcadia’s post office exploded and was removed and rebuilt using reject Lego in the back of the village grocery, you’re no longer allowed to bring your critters with you to keep you amused while you wait in the endless queue**, and I, having been a borderline*** post office user since I moved over here†, became, um, pathological.

Re-enter Feebledweeb.  Who will come to my house and fetch my botched, ill-signed documents, and cart them off to a subrights department across the Water, where they will be the cause of screaming and nervous breakdowns—only some of which will be because I screwed up (again).

Recently we’ve been having a nice little extended torment trying to get Feebledweeb to do what it says on the tin/envelope.  Subrights and I got all excited—briefly—because according to Feebledweeb’s web site, subrights could include a prepaid return envelope with the documents I’m supposed to deal with in some way other than the way I will deal with them, and I can just pop them in the return envelope and post them in an ordinary post box, and Feebledweeb will take it from there.

Yes, they will.  They will deliver it back to me again with large red marks and seals all over it declaring that I am a liar and a cheat and that I haven’t paid them and their dog is going to pee on my shoes††.  We gambolled through this amusing cycle, I think, three times.

Okay.  The next plan of action is that we are going to revert to the earlier system of their coming to my house to pick up the envelope of mangled documents.

Feebledweeb were supposed to come last Wednesday between ten and two [sic].

Nothing happened.  Nobody came between ten and two and there were no postcards through my door when I returned after belated gratuitous critter-hurtling [see above].

Subrights emailed me anxiously that they had spoken to Feebledweeb again and Feebledweeb would now come this Wednesday between ten and two.

Monday I received a phone call from a very pleasant, very fluent young man with a very strong Indian accent, confirming that Feebledweeb was going to be fetching a parcel from me today—Tuesday.  Er, I said.  Wednesday.  Tuesday, said the young man firmly.  Okay, I said.  Tuesday.  What time?  Noon to three pm, he said.  Fine, I said, in fact, great, and wrote it down.††

Ten minutes later the phone rang again.  This time it was a woman with an English accent.  Confirming that Feebledweeb is picking up a parcel from you tomorrow, she said.  Yes, I said, between noon and three pm.  Certainly not! said the woman.  You can ring up tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. and they will give you your allocated time slot.  But— I said weakly, I have just been talking to someone at your call centre in India . . .

Ring tomorrow at nine, commanded the woman.  We never give out advance time slots.‡

I was downstairs and putting my tea water on at eight forty five this morning, I hope you’re impressed.  At 8:59 I rang the number the woman had given me.  Another woman answered and asked for my tracking number.  I gave it to her, watching an unmarked white van backing up the cul de sac and stopping in front of the cottage.  We have no record— began the woman, and there was a knock on the door.  Excuse me, I said, hope flaring in a sharp uncomfortable way, there is someone at the door.

I threw the door open . . . and there was a man in a Feebledweeb hoodie.  YAAAAAAAAAY,  I said, and thrust my envelope upon him.  I may have said one or two things . . . particularly because this is a guy I know.  Several of the regular drivers for the various carriers are regular enough that us (regular) customers say hi when we see them on the street.  FEEBLEDWEEB MAKES ME FRELLING NUTS, I may have said.  The guy held up his hands (my envelope in one of them), grinning.  You are not alone, he said.

He departed.  I picked up the phone and discovered . . . the woman had cut me off.  Never mind.  The package had gone.  And she rang back to say that the driver had just confirmed pick up and tracking number and all was well.

Five hours later I received an email from the subrights department saying that they had just got off the phone from Feebledweeb, re-verifying that one of their agents will pick up my envelope tomorrow, Wednesday, some time between ten and two. . . .

* * *

* I start to lose the will to live after about the ninety-third copy.  Why does the president of Dormidalump Multimedia Cupcakes and Related Pastry’s wife’s brother’s assistant’s hamster need a copy of the contract anyway?  I’m not sure I like the idea of CHALICE being turned into singing apple strudel, even if Merrilee did get a paragraph in there about how they had to use honey.  I should have held out for baklava . . . but that still doesn’t explain the hamster.

** It seems to me very sad that Pav may never have the fabulous experience of waiting in an endless post office queue.

*** Borderline as in personality

† THE POSTMISTRESS HATED ME.  SHE DID.  She also retired some years ago, but THE TRAUMA REMAINS.

†† Note that (a) the payment for this interesting process is coming out of the money that passes through Merrilee’s hands on my behalf and (b) apparently even if they believed they had been paid . . . they would still deliver it back to me again.  Because they can’t read.  Or because they can’t design forms that are readable.

††† He then asked me where I was from and acknowledged that he was Indian and calling from India. The thing that interests me though is that these overseas call centres have a very bad rep, which is mostly well earned, but allowing for the fact that Feebledweeb is messing him over as well as messing me over, the phone line was clearer than mine to Peter often is and he was intelligent and articulate and able to answer questions . . . off the sheet of bad info they had given him, but hey.

‡  Of course not.  OF COURSE NOT.

One of those days. Oh, another one.

 

 

As frequently referred to, I am Not Sleeping Well.*  I got up this morning at what is for me a not-unreasonable hour, had something semi-resembling breakfast, looked at the clock and decided to have a little lie down before I went off to have a cup of tea with Penelope at 11.  I wasn’t going to sleep because I don’t sleep, but I’m so ratblasted tired the idea of doing half an hour’s work was very unattractive.

I woke up at 10:59.  YAAAAAAAAH.

Fortunately Penelope** wasn’t doing anything else this morning and was willing to have me half an hour late.  Also, she’s used to me.

So I got home afterward and looked at the hellcritters and they all looked at me.  They gazed at me speakingly and what they were saying was YOU CALL THAT ONCE AROUND A CHURCHYARD EARLIER A WALK?***  WE WANT A PROPER HURTLE AND WE ARE GOING TO STARE AT YOU UNTIL YOU GIVE US ONE.

I took all three of them out together.  MISTAKE.  This is the thing about hurtling three hellcritters at once:  if anything goes wrong you are stuffed.  My insane and ridiculous plan is that I should eventually be able to give them one hurtle a day together and one separately.†  What chiefly went wrong today is that hellterror was POSSESSED BY DEMONS.  As we’ve been going out together pretty steadily recently I thought we might CONCEIVABLY be, you know, shaking down.  No.  Wrong.  She hucklebutted in about six directions simultaneously, made Darkness cry, and tied all of us up in her frelling lead . . . and this immediately in front of some damned oaf eating his lunch on one of the church benches and trying not to laugh.  The next time I have to play late catch-up with the morning hurtle we will revert to shifts.††

Darkness was so traumatised by the experience of being hucklebutted at that he couldn’t bring himself to eat his lunch.  He just couldn’t touch a morsel.

I think I managed to get a little work in here somewhere before frelling handbells.  Niall innocently asked me if I minded ringing the 5-6 (I’ve mostly been ringing the 3-4 for a long time now)—I should know better than ever to believe Niall when he’s trying for innocent.  The ratbag made me call a touch.†††  Three times.  Just to prove I could.  I don’t know why this was a successful experiment‡ but unfortunately it was and will therefore doubtless be repeated.  During tea break I was also outed by frelling Niall as having gone to New Arcadia practise last Friday‡‡ whereupon Jillian said, ooooh, let’s make her come tonight.

I was weak.  I went.‡‡‡  And all this Forza and Fustian ringing is having an effect.  They had enough fancy visiting ringers tonight to do a bit more than usual and I was dubiously offered a chance to ring Stedman Triples.  I kept my line when some of the better ringers went off theirs.  Nyah nyah nyah.

* * *

And on another subject entirely, do you know that Seamus Heaney died?  A mere lad of 74.  Much too soon.  If you don’t know his work—or even if you do—here’s a place to start.  Never mind the bogus ‘Ten Best Poems’ nonsense:  these do give you a genuine taste of why you’ll want more.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/booknews/10276092/Seamus-Heaney-his-10-best-poems.html

* * *

* CAN’T IMAGINE WHY.  I’m not neurotic or anything.  Or paranoid.  I don’t think that gigantic international financial corporations are pissing on me from a height or anything.

** Those of you with helplessly retentive memories, and I pity you, really I do^, may recall that Penelope got her blog name because she is so often a Bell Widow while Niall is out ringing.  This is not strictly accurate.  In the first place, she makes him stay home in the evening occasionally^^ and in the second place when he goes on a ringing holiday week during which a bunch of the true nutte—I mean, a bunch of the dedicated go en masse to some piece of country with a lot of bell towers in it, spend all day bouncing over bad roads and arguing with their satnavs punctuated by ringing at three or four different towers—so like what I did a fortnight ago, only day after day after day after day—he wants her to go with him.  There’s another one of these interesting opportunities coming up soon and she’s saying Nooooooooooo I want to stay hooooooooome. . . .

^ HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

^^ I believe she has been known to hide his laptop.  With the bell ringing software on it.

*** Those of us of the male gender who have to pee every five feet had barely got started.

^ You know you could give us cramp in delicate regions by this callous behaviour.

† Superfluous leg stretches and last-turn-around-the-churchyard negotiable.  Which is to say I mostly cravenly leave the hellterror at home for the latter.  The advantage of there being very few other people (and dogs) around at our last-turn time is offset by not being able to see what she’s eating.

†† Despite the NOISE she makes when she’s being left behind after having already waited a monstrously long time.  I am clearly leaving her in the hands of bullie-hating fiends with hot pitchforks and pawscrews.

††† You usually start learning to call from the 5-6 for reasons you really don’t want to hear explained.

^ Yes, I could explain it.  Which is pretty alarming.

‡ My Brain Was Taken Over By One That Works.  Film at eleven.

‡‡ I told you this, didn’t I?  I went specifically to speak to one of the other ringers who’d let me have his seat at the funeral and I’d been too distressed by what we were all there for to remember to thank him properly.

‡‡‡ You know I’d been worrying about not getting enough ringing this month when lots of towers cancel regular practise while everybody’s at the beach or hiking up Everest.^  I rang two funerals and a wedding last week.  I rang three tower practises this week, plus frelling handbells, and I’m ringing another wedding tomorrow.  If I were a less hardened individual I could be getting blisters.

^ You know there’s now a queue?

Fun with your critters

 

 

Hellterror:  Want a lap.

Hellgoddess:  It’s too hot.

Hellterror:  Want a lap.

Hellgoddess:  It’s too hot and I’m wearing shorts.

Hellhounds:  Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hellterror:  Want a lap.

Hellgoddess:  It’s too hot, I’m wearing shorts, if I put you on my lap my legs will break out in large prickly red splotches, and if I put a towel or a sweatshirt over my legs it kind of ruins the shorts part, okay?  Also, dog body temperature is higher than human, which is not attractive in this weather.

Hellterror:  Want a lap.

Hellgoddess:  Why don’t you go play with a nice toy?

Hellterror and hellgoddess engage in staring match.  Hellterror eventually heaves deep sigh of sadness, disillusionment and crushedness and wanders off, channelling Eeyore with every dragging, melancholy step.  Hellgoddess warily goes back to her book.*

Hellhounds:  Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

::Rustling noise::.

Hellterror comes prancing back, bearing her trophy, and settles down on her nice comfy floor-padding blanket at the hellgoddess’ feet to enjoy it.

Hellterror:  Have a shoe.

Hellgoddess briefly presses fingers to forehead.  She lays her book down.**

Hellgoddess:  You aren’t allowed to eat shoes.

Removes shoe, while hellterror looks at her through her eyelashes.  Wags tail.  Hellgoddess puts the sacred All Star back under the bookcase by the front door with its 1,000,001 friends.***

Hellgoddess offers toy that has found favour at other times.  Hellterror accepts it listlessly.

Hellgoddess goes back to her book.  Warily.  Hellterror rests her head on boring toy and contemplates options.

Hellterror trots off purposefully.

Hellhounds:  Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Hellterror returns bearing another trophy.  The scene as before.

Hellterror:  Have another shoe.

Hellgoddess doesn’t bother with the finger-pressing this time, although she does heave a deep sigh.  She sighs much more deeply than hellterror because her lungs are bigger.†  Also her lungs are very well developed because of all the hurtling.

Hellgoddess:  You aren’t allowed to eat shoes.

Removes shoe.  Offers a different toy that has found favour at other times.  Hellterror lets off a glare with her evil little varminty eyes that would knock Jericho’s walls down without benefit of trumpet, but the hellgoddess is made of sturdy stuff.

Hellhounds:  Zzzzzzzzzzzzz.

::Different rustling noises::

Hellterror:  Got a sock.

Hellgoddess:  You aren’t allowed to eat socks either.  Or bras, knickers or t-shirts.††

Hellterror:  Want a lap.

Hellgoddess:  ALL RIGHT.  ALL RIGHT.†††

Hellhounds:  Zzzzzzzzzzz.

* * *

* No, the one I was reading.

Gwyn_sully

I’ve been reading some rather good cheezy science fiction.  But I’m not going to tell you what, because I would be fallen on in a body and pummelled to death for disrespect.

If I promise not to pummel you to death will you tell? I could use some good cheezy sci fi, and I’m not attached enough to anyone to get offended at their being put in such a category.

I read that when it came in and thought, okay, how am I going to do this?  Anagram?  Smoke signals?^  But I’m going to do a book rec on it, so all is well except for the part when I admit that as far as I’m concerned a Classic of the Genre is cheezy science fiction, it just happens to be good.  Hey, I write cheezy fantasy, wizards, dragons, enchanted swords, retold fairy tales, the occasional vampire and so on.  It just happens to be—ahem—good.

^ DM?  Please.  Besides, mine is turned off and I don’t want to know how to turn it on.

** Carefully.  I’m near the end and it’s very exciting.

*** There are more upstairs in the bedroom cupboard.  With the yarn.  There are even more in the attic.

† Hellterror is tiny.  Southdowner has been around kind of a lot this week^ because she’s visiting her family on the south coast, and we’ve met both Monster Scone and Super-Monster Fruitcake.  Fruitcake is ENORMOUS.  Fruitcake is probably twice the hellterror’s size.  I like tiny.  Tiny means I can still tuck her under one arm and go shopping.  Tiny is, of course, relative, and twenty-seven pounds starts to weigh kind of a lot after a few minutes, especially if it wriggles, although thanks to all that dedicated holding of baby puppies, it’s actually pretty good about not wriggling.  But southdowner was talking about a semi-non-confrontation she’d had recently with Scone, and had simply picked Scone up out of the target zone while the idiot owner harrumphed about how his dog was friendly and the dog demonstrated body language of a less than friendly sort.  I had one of these semi-non-confrontations today, when I saw a Jack Russell-y type dog get all low-bodied and intent and . . . I picked the hellterror up.  Isn’t yours okay? said this idiot owner, while his dog held its tail out stiff as a frelling poker and its head low and menacing.  Mine is okay.  Oh yeah? I didn’t say, and kept moving.  I’d’ve been staggering pretty quickly if I’d been carrying Scone or Fruitcake.

And, you know, ha ha ha ha ha and everything, but the aggressive off-lead dog problem depresses the frelling frelling out of me.

^ I’ve been getting a few Remedial Hellterror Owner lessons.  Some of this adolescence thing has been worrying me a little.+  If there are any long-time, naively believe they have some clue dog owners out there thinking of branching out into terriers, be aware that terriers are a whole different life form.  All that standard training and response stuff with other dogs?  Doesn’t work with terriers.  Oh.

+Oh my God, have I BROKEN her??

†† Hellterror’s distressing fondness for dirty laundry—that is, the hellgoddess’ dirty laundry—makes me wonder if I should try wearing new toys before I give them to her, to make them more attractive.  The laundry issue is ongoing, since the laundry bags live in a heap among the bevy of dwarf appliances under the stairs at the cottage.  There isn’t any other place for them to be.  And hellterror appears to have learnt to untie drawstring bags.

††† The funny thing is that I did not break out in itchy red splotches.  Either there’s a seasonal thing going on—she’s pretty low to the ground, and she runs through a lot of grass—or I’m adapting to the third dog I live with.  Her body temperature is still too high for August however.

‡ abigailmm

Chaos and Darkness are the most beautiful dogs, period, I have ever seen. If I knew anything about keeping dogs, and if I thought I could physically manage to exercise them, I would look for some of my own.

If you’re serious, it would be worth contacting your local greyhound rescue and asking about middle-aged couch potatoes.  Older dogs are harder to place so they would love to hear from you, and a good rescue will know their dogs pretty well and could suggest one or two of the couch-potato-iest.  It’s a myth that retired greyhounds need huge amounts of exercise.  Individuals vary, but older retired racers mostly have done all that and are looking for the sofa stage of existence and a little regular gentle ambling outdoors and your company indoors is adequate.  You do have to remember that they can hit top speed in a couple of bounds if they choose to, so you have to be ALERT out walking them.  I have mine on extending leads, but they’ve been with me their entire lives which works both ways—I’m used to watching them for rocketing-off symptoms and they know how long their leads are.  If I ever bring a retired greyhound home it will be on a short, non-extending lead for a long time.  Possibly the rest of its life.

My guys are of course not greyhounds, they’re whippet cross deerhound.  And whippets aren’t quite small greyhounds, there are some differences in detail:  personally I find whippets the more beautiful, but there are some 100% eye candy greyhounds out there just longing for an ordinary, non-racing-kennels home.

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