recently ...

There really isn't much I have to say and I'm not one to witter endlessly, no really, I'm not.
Nor am I a good enough writer to make something worthy happen onscreen regularly.
And right now I need to prioritise finances *sigh*

But at least I can say that I'm loving work - this job doesn't cage my soul like teaching used to.

Soooo, I've set up another blog at http://forgetmenow.wordpress.com/

I'll probably only use it to present poetry or my hybrid version of something related to that ...

Which doesn't mean I'm leaving Blogger, ohhh no ... I'm still reading you, just haven't had much energy to comment lately ... and I'd rather read about you than write about me - though of course I do that, obliquely, when muse wanders in.

ageing well ...

*image: solidinfodesign.com

cleaner gal in a tizz ...

Phase 1 - It’s unnerving to be standing in a building society with the alarm going off. Alone. In the dark. I don’t know where the light switches are. Or the Very Important Thingy that stops the alarm. Wondering when the swat team will arrive. Will they shoot first or let me explain? The alarm shifts a gear and is revving up. Mine too.

Phase 2 – Stumbling across room, hoping there aren’t any have-a go-hero types in the main street just feet away. Unless they’re extremely good looking. That might be ok. I’m on the phone to boss …

Boss: you can do it, Shell, just move across the room, it must be somewhere …

Me: the alarm’s going to REALLY go off in a minute isn’t it?

Boss: yes, probably - but keep moving, it’ll be fine

Me: it's going to get VERY loud isn't it?

Boss: indeed - keep moving, Shell

Me: will you get me out of jail if the swat team don’t shoot me?

Boss pauses for thought then laughs … hmmm …

Phase 3 - Found! The Very Important Thingy! Swipe key fob over anything that looks receptive. Six tries later, things go quiet. No-one outside’s trying to get in. Boss is cheering. I’m already exhausted.

Now about the lights … which one of thirty switches might let me read the next set of codes?

nothings #15

In the yellow room, strewn with unpaired shoes and miscellaneous laundry,

2 a.m. tips fingers close to pen and purrs. They say it all much better.

In the light of yours.

*image: Johanna Pieterman

Greyhound Gap

DOGS' PRAYER

I ask for the privilege of not being born...
not to be born until you can assure me of a home
and a master to protect me,
and a right to live as long as I am physically able to enjoy life....
not to be born until my body is precious
and men have ceased to exploit it because it is cheap and plentiful.

(author unknown)

Actually this may even be Life’s prayer … *sigh*

On the crest of a crisis which - thank the gods and my inspired, beloved Son - has been averted, I lived the weekend on phone and web, pleading with some of the most amazing people to find refuge for two ex-racer greyhounds. By today.

I spoke with Liz from Greyhound Gap at length yesterday. She was brilliant. Calmed me when it was clear how distraught I was. Then polished her armour, ready to do battle with impossible odds and sort out another imminent betrayal of beauty by two-legged fork-tongues.

At the last moment, Son and gods reached her soul and the current keeper relented this morning.
So they are saved. For now.

In the medium-long term, though, loving homes are still needed for Lewey and Charley.

I intend to help Greyhound Gap – they run constant relays up and down the country, often at crazy hours, moving hounds from disaster to safety, temporary or emergency care to permanent and so on.
I have a car, I can and will help with some of that.

I don’t promote "stuff" in this blog but these people are angels and so, today, I am. In the wake of a demonic few who treat beauty badly. Visit Greyhound Gap – they have links to others like themselves too. But they don't really need visitors. They need gold-dust volunteers.

There are some distressing images on the next new link if you click on report sections (I looked at poetry and that upset me enough) so if you visit Greyhound Muses make sure you’re ready to weep. Then help.

*images: Caroline Epp (hearthound.com)

still ...

lots of this ...











hardly any of this ...













and absolutely none of this ...













just in case you were wondering ...

wholemeal pigeons

I threw bread out for the birds late last night - natural recycling, right? Share and share alike?

Admittedly it had made me feel a bit “off”. I don’t normally eat white bread but I’m too lazy to be considered a healthy eater. More a picky manic grazer. And some white breads are nice.
This body survives to spite me. I wouldn’t throw curry out for the birds, though. I’d have eaten that.

This morning white bread still adorns my yard. Huge clumps of it. Cotton wool gone bad. Fluff turned to crunch. In a grumbly sort of way I applaud the pigeons. They have wise beaks. No icky stuff for them. Maybe they’re unable to throw up. Or prefer a curry. Or maybe they’re just smart.
They’re lined up now on next door’s roof. Watching me. Malevolently.

Oh happy day. Clearing up shards of white bread. Apologising profusely.

I'm so living on the wild side today!