of toilet habits and their consequences . . .

monday 17th september

'crazy man michael' (fairport convention) softly finds its way into the aether. the bird-table and window-sills have been topped up with seed and I take a sip from my fresh cup of delicious havana blend coffee, second roll-up ready to spark and all is, once again, unified and looking good . . .

tom has just delivered the mail; this time no fearsome bogey the lovely but insecure bouvier to greet the wary postman, just the friendly curiosity of my calm and untroubled new menagerie. he's bearing the lens hood I ordered and, as is not that infrequent, an envelope addressed to one of the other properties on our track. it will be a pleasant little stroll to 'pine cottage', especially with my new little family; any excuse for a little bit of exploring for my inquisitive duo.

yesterday morning's promise wasn't quite so encouraging: until I pick up the baby-gate on friday, teea and tasha will be sleeping with me upstairs; I just couldn't leave them out what with the incessant whining and desperate scratching on the bedroom door on that first night. one of my two lovelies had helpfully evacuated a full bladder on the bed, soaking the quilt, duvet, sheets, mattress cover and the 'body-form' foam layer. there is also the now soaking wet doggie-duvet which I had unsuccessfully attempted to convince them was their sleeping quarters; one of the girls had thoughtfully taken this to be their upstairs toilet. by mid-afternoon all the misused bedwear is clean and safely airing above the hot water cistern; but there's always some advantage to be gained in, seemingly, negative circumstances. washing the duvets and quilt in the old days would have meant taking a trip to the village to get them dry-cleaned but, with the assistance of this wonderful new virtual world of communication and knowledge, I learned how to cope this arduous task with my humble domestic laundering facilities: a 'delicates' wash at 30º followed by a cool tumble-dry with a couple of tennis balls in the drum kept the down from clumping and they turn out as good as new.

today I'll get their registration papers sent off to the kennel club and make an appointment for the vets to get them checked over and micro-chipped; I'll also arrange to have them spayed. then I'll be hunting through my files to find the marriage certificate and property disposition as the house(s) are in both our names. then there's much hoovering to be done picking up the sticky remains of their doggie snacks which are distributed throughout the house. when I go to drop my post off I'll get some shopping, including some fabreze for those lovely doggie smells that have wafted their way into every corner . . .
oh the joy of it all!

this morning's birdies . . .

sunday 9th sept 8.30am

mr robin's being brave today. he twitters and shifts from one side to the other on his little feet expectantly on his perch on the lower branches of the rowan tree as I distribute the seed on the window sills and birdtable that stands in the small garden at the front of the house. soon, the whole scene will be amass with fluttering of tiny wings as the local avian population emerge suddenly, as if from the very aether, to partake of their breakfast feast. I'll always be there for you my little friends . . .

my morning ritual is expanding and coincidentally, but not unexpectedly, so is my waistline. there is no immediately apparent connection but there is a balance; the desired with the undesired, the positive with the negative, resolution and deconstruction.
as many of us know only too well, there is a price to pay for self-indulgence. the elements of this self-destructive game we play charge a physical price, seemingly on a never-never account, but, in reality, immediately accountable, usually the next morning. in my case, a night of weed and the odd whisky and coke, leaves me with a head and body that, at the start of the new day, is incapable of achieving anything more productive than going through the motions, running on automatic. all quite harmless in the general scheme of things but at this age of saga holidays and promotional offers for stair-lifts and encouragement to make provision for loved ones for the time of one's unavoidable and imminent departure from this life, day-to-day considerations are, necessarily, nudged out of the equation and a plan must be made, however generalised, for the long term.
well, bollox to that.
I ain't dead yet.
I have to do something about the munchies, though.

the new itunes update is installing, at the conclusion of which I shall play that most charming rendition of sweet classic soul, sweet bettye lavette's heart-squelching album, 'a woman like me'. here she is now . . .
the forecast is for rain, I can feel the pain . . .
well, I can't actually; I can only feel the joy. that warm, shaky feeling in my gut as my emotional gears start to engage and the day's prospect veers from hazy anticipation toward a solid promise of fine things to come.