Making a book
Filled with
Pictures of angels
And, most poignant of all,
A letter in a childish hand
Filled with
Love and sadness;
Filling me with sadness
As I read of one girl’s
Love for her sibling.
Then I go home and am
Moved to tears by
Their mother’s link
On a Facebook page.
Every single moment
Of this life we are given,
They pass in a blink even if
They run their natural course.
How then can we waste a


How to jump to all the wrong conclusions while eavesdropping.

If you could have seen my Dad’s face. I tried to ignore him, I really did, but sitting in the doctor’s waiting room at half past six on a Monday evening when his appointment was at 5.15 it was hard not to overhear the rather loud conversation going on between two teenage girls behind us. I could just imagine what he was thinking. I could see him sort of try and turn around to see what these delinquents looked like. I knew that he wouldn’t be disappointed. They were sitting about 10 feet away so each had to speak up to make sure they were heard by the other. The furthest one away started talking about how her newly-pierced lip was agony, while the one directly behind us admired it and asked how much it hurt to have it done. Their conversation then widened out to compare how different places convey pain at differing levels. I knew where this was going. I knew that they aimed to shock. My Dad didn’t. He was shocked. He tried to catch my eye while I pointed out a potentially interesting magazine article in some attempt to distract – an upwards movement of the eyebrows, which I ignored and went back to looking at my riveting copy of Trainspotters Monthly.
The two sets – Lippy and Dad, Teen Mum and her Mum – started complaining about how long they were having to wait and how they were getting rather hungry. I turned and offered them some chewing gum using Lippy’s real name (Jasmine) and cooing over the cutest little pink-enveloped infant who belonged to the other girl. My Dad disappeared into his appointment and the rest of us had a chat. Jasmine’s Dad was still doing his historical re-enactments and his other two daughters were getting on well, as was his wife.
On the way home, in response to his disparaging remarks, I explained that he was too quick to judge – they were one of the loveliest families I had ever taught (all three girls having gone through my class at some time) and Jasmine’s lovely mother had gone out of her way to help him to paint the school play scenery about ten years before.
A cliché but never truer: books can’t be judged by their covers!

Imagination working Overtime

Abandoned mouselets?
Sorting through boxes –
strange squeaking every thirty-six

noise creator
half expecting mices…
Eureka! Defunct smoke detector

Goodbye and Good Luck…

15th Jan
This morning, as I was sitting on the toilet, a small brown mouse emerged from the cupboard under the sink. looking a bit perturbed to see me there he turned and headed for the door. Luckily it was open after my early morning wander – otherwise I might have felt a bit more concerned from my, formerly comfortable, vantage point.
The loaned Rodent Repeller, which had impressively been flashing intermittent green and red lights like a nightclub from the 80, accompanied by a clicking that alternates between hip hop and house rhythm, obviously hadn’t been doing its job. I had heard somewhere that mice don’t like loud music so yesterday I dug out an ancient ghetto blaster and put it on the kitchen work surface. There was a cd already in it, I turned up the volume and ‘Panic at the Disco’ blasted out of every orifice. I had hoped that it would prove prophetic.
Back to today and my next job was to check the mousetraps and just as I expected, they hadn’t worked either – no surprises there…especially since I’d just come face to face with one.
I decided to chop up a Thornton’s chocolate left in a box from Christmas and see if that was more tempting than the brown goo that came already in the pre-baited traps, and then I left for work.
Late afternoon and I picked my Dad up so that he could help me with a flat-pack desk (ok I was hoping that he would do it for me). I checked the mousetraps and noticed that one had the shutter closed. Knowing that they were very sensitive, I picked it up and tipped it up and down a few times then looked through the air holes at the end. I thought that I could see a tail but the box didn’t feel any heavier and there was definitely no one trundling up and down inside.
I found an old defunct washing up bowl and took it along with the trap and a box for a cover into the garden. Carefully opening the shutter, I was then rewarded with the emergence of a little mouse. I shoved the box lid on quick and my poor Dad was charged with keeping it sealed. I had heard that you had to take it at least 5 miles away to release it so that it wouldn’t find its way back. Picking a rural area, I pulled in by some fields and a footpath and took the lid off the bowl. The little critter sat in the corner looking a bit stunned and then attempted, without much success, to scale the obviously colossal walls of his prison. I tilted it sideways and eventually he clambered over the side and came to sit on my foot. At this stage I was a little anxious that he might take refuge up by trouser leg, but as my foot instinctively moved sideways he hopped off in the other direction and headed back up the lane to disappear into the garden of the only property in sight.
Mission accomplished but I do hope they don’t have a cat…

mousie 1

Two Words Tuesday

Flatpack flumoxed…

Minimal Word Monday – This house ain’t big enough for the both of us!


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