‘The Bridge’

I am moseying along the river bank, heading towards the old wooden bridge. In the far pasture over on the other side, a batch of newly turned-out cattle is cavorting and bucking in celebration of its liberation. Also on the far side, well ahead of and oblivious to the cattle, is a family; a two + two of seemingly stranded townies who are staring with incredulity at the stile over which they must climb in order to cross the bridge. Each of them is carrying rather more bulk than is strictly necessary, and they clearly see the narrow step up … Continue reading ‘The Bridge’

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‘I Don’t Like Mondays’

I am travelling to work as usual but I have changed my route slightly with a view to using the outdoor parking area. So, tootling gently along and preparing to turn right at the appointed moment, I am mildly irritated to find that there is an obstruction accompanied by a degree of ill-tempered inter-vehicular communication, blocking my preferred exit so I have to drive on to the next one. It’s 8.15 on a Monday morning, I already don’t need this. Missing that turn means heading for the underground car park, a dismal affair at the best of times, but with … Continue reading ‘I Don’t Like Mondays’

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‘Heels’

Heels Yesterday, on the way to the fields and anticipating not just an encounter with Donovan the Lonely Horse but also a soaking due to the gathering gloom above, I came across a double decker bus.  Not too unusual you might think, but in this part of the world we’ve only just stopped pointing at cars and describing them as horseless carriages, so the arrival of a bus is quite an event[1], especially when apparently stranded at the end of a lane it should never have been able to get up and only has steps, a field and a river … Continue reading ‘Heels’

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The Hills Are Alive …

…with the sound of feline yodelling. In the manner of one’s elderly granny upping sticks in the middle of the night to go shopping, wearing only carpet slippers and a hat she bought for a wedding in 1946 and kept because it would ‘come in’, Pickle is beginning to take leave of whatever senses Persians start out with. This has never been much to write home about as anyone living with a Persian will testify. That blank look, reminiscent of an iDog[1] that just drained its battery, is what Persians do between thoughts, and since thoughts are about as frequent … Continue reading The Hills Are Alive …

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Chips and Hips

Thought I’d try walking like those women in American crime dramas. You’ve seen them, sweeping down long corridors having important conversations and not looking where they’re going: Hips, Hips, Hips, Hips; like Kate Moss except the dope’s in the evidence bag not back home unconscious on the sofa.  I get as far as Hips #1 and skid on the kitchen lino, scattering a number of cats and sending the dogs into a frenzy of territorial barking. That kind of behaviour being, quite obviously, the signature move of the dangerous intruder. It takes half an hour to calm everyone down and … Continue reading Chips and Hips

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