That Morning Sluggishness

There’s a slug in my shower

– sorry you’ll have to go

but however you  got there

I’ll just never know!


There’s a slug in my shower

-yes, you might well make haste

And, if that’s how you got there,

go on, back down that waste!


There’s a slug in my shower

-Yes, I know you’re quite small

But I just can’t be sharing…

That wouldn’t do at all!


There’s a slug in my shower

-yes… it’s raining outside

But you’d get just as wet here,

No use trying to hide!


There’s a slug in my shower

-what a card! Enjoy the ride.

I’ll drop you off real gently…

There now, you’re back outside.


There’s a no slug in MY shower

-for a moment  I felt sad

But then again…Hey buddy!

Can you find your OWN pad?hug me slugs

Photo credit:


DSC_0341 More

Stirring Stuff

My spoon is rather…


How can I


The pleasure it brings

To the touch –



I cannot resist


That silken curve

Down my jawline –

Itself, admittedly,

Not as smooth

Nor as firm

As once it was

But still able

To luxuriate

In the


Of this miraculous piece

Of Spoon-Smith’s


Hard to resist

Once the initial


Has been made.

Then back to

My thumb


The barely

Hollowed wood…

Hallowed wood

A feast for

All the senses;

My eyes follow

The richly diverse

Tones of the grain

Which seems to


The silken tresses

Of an expensively

High-lighted head;

I close my eyes

And inhale

The distinctively

Subtle scent

Of the

Tung Oil-moisturised

Skin –

Ah… stirred by a

Wooden spoon!

wooden spoon 20150127_192731_resized

Little Painty Spider

Little Painty Spider.
Your Mum and sibling
To the white expanse
With its artexed craters
And valleys, to hide.
You though
Didn’t realise the
Roller was coming your
Way…nor did I. Then.
Too late.
Nevermind. You are now
Truly part of the
As your kind have long
Hoped for.
Gone but not forgotten.

Little Painty Spider


World cup Fever – 10 Quotes to help understand the strange world of football for the uninitiated.

It’s the England v Italy game tonight. I wasn’t anticipating watching as am not really a sporty person and had been invited out to party to celebrate not going to either the Isle of Wight Festival or being a football fan. HOWEVER, I find myself sitting near to the landline (family!) and so I thought I’d ask for a quick guide on the rules of the game in case anyone could help…

“All I know is that men are kicking a ball. And they sometimes shout! Think that’s it isn’t it?!”

“And they roll over on the floor crying.”

“Think there might be some hugging too. Any rolling around on the floor could result in green painty stripes on kit ” (reference to Brazil painting out the brown lines on the pitch to make the grass look more healthy and the pitch in better condition!)

“And some tugging on each other’s shirts!!”

“Some people think it doesn’t matter which net to kick the ball in as long as they get a goal!” (the first goal of the World cup was an own goal by hosts Brazil)

“They have to get the ball in the net..the person who does the most rolls aroung the grass gets the most free.kicks”

“…is that where they use foul play (pretending they have been freely kicked) to get a free kick…?”

“I think so!!”

“And sometimes they like to collect coloured cards”

“I think some of them wave them in the other’s face – showing off obviously!”

I feel much better informed now…

Prickles and Pongs

Bribery is the order of the day and, like a carrot, the children are allowed a couple at a time to peer in the box from a safe distance and say hello to the temporary new classmate…in return for producing the required piece of work beforehand. It works. Even the most reluctant scholar perks up and completes the allotted task on time! Unfortunately this coconut-sized bundle of prickles, seems allergic to its fellow students and keeps sneezing – unless it was Pandora’s new perfume which could also be used as an insect repellent as the weather warms up!
Prickles and pongs

And relax…

I’m taking my elderly parents shopping. They are not impressed by my new meditational didge CD.
“What’s that noise?” says my Mum, “Sounds like we are being invaded by dinosaurs!”
My Dad,an artist, doesn’t appreciate the tonal quality.
”Not much colour is there?”
“No colour at all.” complains Mum. “It sounds like a more boring version of the bagpipes.”
“Wait!” I urge them “I think there’s an interesting bit just coming now…” Two beats later the drone is back. I am marvelling at the length of the sound without stopping. I share this revelation with the captive audience.
If he’s not breathing he should be dead by now. No-one can go that long without breathing!” says my sceptical mother.
“It’s circular breathing Mum, in through the nose and out through the mouth at the same time.”
“Hmmph” responds Mum, unimpressed obviously.
“Your grandson is able to do it.” I point out. My Mum immediately takes more interest while my Dad, who has missed this additional piece of information, is still not able to hear the subtleties in the rendition. He is a bit hard of hearing after all.
“I think it would be more tuneful listening to me gargling.” Dad is feeling left out.
We can’t help laughing as holding a tune is not his forte.
“Listen!” I can hear the faint beginnings of a boomerang call weaving its way into the music but by the time they have finished their derisive mutterings, they’ve missed it.
Didgeridoo for the unconverted.

Didgeridoo Dreamimg by Cephalodidge is available here: Joe Caudwell!didgeridoos/cbfn

Over the last few months, Joe of Cephalodidge has been running events that provide a relaxing and healing space for people, using the didgeridoo as a therapeutic instrument, through sound and vibration. These ‘Didgeridoo Dreaming’ sessions have led Joe to create an album that can facilitate meditation, journeying and healing. This CD, recorded and mastered by Tim Charlton (who also did the Ostara album for Joe) is an atmospheric soundscape of two didgeridoos weaving together for just over 40 minutes. The didgeridoo used for the recording was made by Joe from a dead sycamore tree he found in the Autumn of 2013, near a special cave in the woods that he often visits and plays in.
10% of the sale of the new CD will be donated to Survival International, the well known organisation that helps tribal people defend their lives, protect their lands and determine their own futures.
You can hear some short samples of the CD here, and also pre-order it now, the CD will be released by the end of April 2014.

Sun Day

I attempt to get a calmer outlook on life by putting on my new yoga DVD.  A few downward dogs and cobras later, I attempt a wobbly tree pose and feel ready to say “Hi” to the Sun. I am feeling rejuvenated and ready to start my day – ok it is 2pm and my day actually started quite a few hours earlier but I had to get other things out of the way first like the washing and shopping and getting my roots done didn’t I? Oh and did I mention that I am on a fast day and need to keep my mind off what’s in the fridge?

I get a call from a friend and go for a walk along the beach.  I don’t know if it’s the lack of food but I see yoga poses in the sky…


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!

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

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