Death brought a sword. Ceremony demanded it.

What is the Fuel Economy?

Dad’s version of Auld Lang Syne;

“On mules we find
Two legs behind
And two we find before
We stand behind, before we find
what the two behind be for .. “

Late in the first day of June, my Father passed peacefully away. Those of you who never got to meet him, I am sorry for your loss. Those of you who had had the pleasure of his company know “peaceful” is a polite lie. Dad never did anything the easy way. Somewhere on the Aethereal Planes, the Reaper is nursing a few broken ribs and a stiff brandy while ruefully contemplating a scored and twisted scythe. My Father is close by telling terrible jokes to make that grinning skull laugh .. because laughing with broken ribs would hurt.

Bloomasu

Bloomasu .. your health my Dears :)

Bloomasu .. your health my Dears :)

If I had to use just one word to describe myself, I would choose “eclectic”.  My various pursuits have brought me into contact with every hue in the kaleidoscope of society from dull grey conservatives to  iridescent rainbow eccentrics. I could never understand the poor blind souls sniffing disdainfully at “wierdo hippies”. Some of my friends are so dazzling, they rival the most ostentatious Bird of Paradise.  How can anyone not see the joy in such friendships, or appreciate the irony of crazy people that keep us sane?

For me the very brightest of these luminous beings are Gypsy Otter and her Cavalier Rake.

Mischief on a Path Less Traveled

Cashew Rocky Road

Cashew Rocky Road

Casa de Chaos bustles along to the sounds of ringing phones, computer games, laughter (or the odd argument), piano music and the tuneless-flamin’-jungle-music issuing from the kid’s rooms. The cats demand attention while the dog yodels accompaniment to distant sirens. The Junior Sorority come and go, friends and neighbours drop in to pass the time of day. Strangers knock to ask directions, or the name of that fabulous flower in the front garden. It’s a busy, noisy household.

The Mollusc Mazurka

Roman Snail

Is it safe to come out yet?

For the first time since I had my operation, I was able to go for an evening walk. It wasn’t much of a walk, given the distance Fuzzbutt and I normally cover in our evening rambles .. more of a shuffle around the block really .. but it felt so good to be standing (almost) straight and stretching my legs. I am not used to being so sedentary, so for the past week or so I have suffered badly from a condition the Junior Sorority laughingly refer to as “bot-rot” .. my butt is almost permanently asleep. Such respect they show their injured Mother.

It is a cool evening, the ground and air moist after the rain that is traditional for Anzac Day. As my Beloved and I strolled along, I noticed that some snails were also out for their evening constitutional, taking advantage of the cool, moist conditions. Of course I view snails as The Enemy .. voracious invaders who eat my garden alive, so those imprudent enough to show themselves paid the ultimate price as I gleefully stomped on all I saw. Although not normally given to displays of violence, I take a sort of grim satisfaction as the little buggers go to their next plane of existence with a gratifying crunch. My Beloved rolls his eyes and makes sure my efforts don’t become too gymnastic.

The Year of the Turning Worm

Another birthday come and gone, another year fled on winged feet .. with me in hot pursuit, somehow never quite catching up.  Much has happened since last we spoke. Sometimes it seems as though all the water under the bridge is tears.

I have been ill.   This is unusual enough that illness itself is some sort of heady cocktail three parts confusion, one part anger.  Mercifully the “thing” growing in my uterus is not cancerous .. although at this point I am not entirely sure that this is not a very back-handed mercy.  Were it were cancer, the blasted thing would have been removed immediately, along with the offending organ, and I’d be writing to you in a cloud of settling dust. Instead I am caught in a sort of no-man’s land waiting for band-aid therapy to work, terrified that the next sneeze will cause me to exsanguinate before I can get to a hospital.  At least it’s an improvement on taking Primolut. They call it Primolut because “Psycho-in-a-bottle” didn’t test well in market research.

You don’t remember me, do you?

Sad Panda

Sad Panda

It was the phone call every parent dreads. I was settling down to a hot cuppa and a chat with my afternoon client when I was interupted by my phone ringing. It was Angel’s school principal.

“There’s been an accident ..”