I suppose this happens to everyone out here in the ether, that periodic realisation of the pointlessness of it all. [Faux swoon, back of hand to the forehead, staring into the screen with with glazed eyes.]

Blogging, I mean.

I’ve been at it now for over two years - this railing and ranting lark - notched up twenty seven months of musing on a preposterous invisible wall.  I won’t even touch on the reasons for starting in the first place, or recall those early embarrassingly stiff, shy scrawls, or try to pin down when things changed direction, started to dance, then burst and ran screaming for the trees. I gave you the best (and worst) of me. Sob.

Haven’t I said it all now, though? - and in a variety of styles. Is there anything left to say?

This morning the answer was ‘Nope.’

My muse had gone, melted clear away. No point.

But come on. That’s hardly the attitude with which to start a New Year, is it?

2009. Let’s see.

Coo-eee! Inspiration! [knocks on forehead] I know you’re in there.  Come out, come out, wherever you are. [Knocks harder.] Ouch. That hurt.

Should I plunder the past? I’ve done a bit of that; it has limited general appeal. Parody the present? Done that too. Stick with one persona and keep on singing the same old song? (Condemned forever, like Jeff Beck, to endless renditions of ‘Hi, Ho, Silver Lining’.) How about I fall back on diarising? (Yesterday we opened Nancy’s box of things, today I spent 2 hours on the phone to a cancer patient.) You really don’t want to go there, do you?

If in doubt, just ramble.

You haven’t heard my views on fenceposts yet - or compulsory immunisation - or what creative things can be done with leftovers… no, wait… don’t go…

Something will turn up.

Besides, there doesn’t have to be a point.

Blogging, like real life, is an end in itself.

Just to prove how thoroughly I am clutching at straws today, here’s a new cast of potential characters: several generations of The Dogter’s Assistant, aka ‘The Beastie’, (as in ‘Fetch the Beastie!’) in all its headless, disembowelled and interchangeable guises. My favourite is the smile (once a bouncy ball with squeak) on the right hand end. How/why The Dogter left that face intact…

The three blog entries which will follow this one constitute an experiment.

I wanted to see if I could peel down to the core of a difficult experience, to write about it in retrospect in a way which would feel authentic but which would translate to the uninitiated.

There’s no mystery, really, just a warning; these next three entries may prove a tough read.

As a proviso - in so far as an experience such as the one I am about to describe can ever be mitigated or improved upon - it is some comfort to know that things are handled differently now - better, I think - I would like to hope so, anyway.

Prologue:

From: The Witch of Portobello by Paulo Coelho.

In this scene a calligrapher is describing to his apprentice, the central character, his ideas about two types of writing:

‘The first is precise but lacks soul. In this case, although the calligrapher may have mastered the technique he has focussed solely on the craft which is why it hasn’t evolved, but become repetitive, he hasn’t grown at all and one day he’ll give up the practice of writing because he feels it is mere routine.

The second kind is done with great techinique, but with soul as well. For that to happen, the intention of the writer must be in harmony with the word. In this case the saddest verses cease to be clothed in tragedy and are transformed into simple facts along the way.‘

I’m making no claims for the end result, just setting out what I’m aiming for…

Most households have a box/tray/dish full of thingymabobs like this. Have a look next time you visit a friend - the contents can be quite revealing.

1. The red marker pen.

Call me obsessive, but I’m an assiduous observer of sell-by dates. Every jar, bottle or tub of foodstuff in the fridge is marked with a date. That way, you always know when the item has gone over and you can aim to use it in time. No waste, no food poisoning.

2. The spangle-tangle

When I gave up smoking (about ten years ago) I carried this around to give my twitchy fingers something to play with  when I craved a cigarette. For a while afterwards I kept it in my handbag for those eye-rolling moments in department meetings when I would otherwise have started eating my own arm. How it ended up on that dish in the kitchen I don’t know, but there’s something faintly reassuring about seeing it there.

3. The bird ‘flu mask

This is one of the bunker supplies. Don’t ask. It actually came in handy one day when I was hoovering the office carpet and - whoosh! - clang! - what on earth was that? An irreplaceable motorcycle part? A vital electrical component without which the entire household computer network would cease to function? A stray but priceless collectable? Great. Nothing for it but to cut open the dust bag and rake through the contents.

4. The black ‘n’ white cat

We had a cat when we first moved here, but sadly his love of raw rabbit meat led him across the road one time too often. The stars were misaligned that day and he is no more.  One Christmas I asked J what he wanted. A kitten, he said. This stocking filler gift was an attempt at compromise.

5. The champagne cork

(10th wedding anniversary.)

6. The pedometer/calorie counter

I collected the vouchers from a cereal packet and sent off for this item. Fool. What was I thinking of? It was so complicated to operate I’ve never worn it, but I harbour the delusion that one day I will. One day I will read that leaflet, work out how to set the damn thing and put the calculations to good calorie burning use. I will. I’ll go jogging. Or something.

7. Post-It notes

My family just love it when I leave these stuck around the place. ‘Lock up’, ‘Feed dog’, ‘Back at 2′.

Libster Lobster
Labster Lee,
Living in
The deep blue sea.

Libster Lobster
Where are you?
Gone to lunch
( - Back at two).

Lobster from The Little Pot Boiler by Spike Milligan: 1963.
[Drawing by the author.]

8. Nail varnish

A glimmer of feminine glamour among the domestic junk. I think it helps me keep the faith, even if it is more sacrament than serviceable.

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So. You get the picture.

These objects have in common that they are all either garishly packaged, or brightly coloured, or made of plastic. They ‘don’t go’ anywhere else; they pose difficult questions. Eat me? Keep me?

Store, or throw away? Useful, or junk? Souvenir, or bit of old rubbish? Leave to hand, or tidy away?

Binary options, you would’ve thought. But what to do?

Defer.

Whatever you call your pet, make sure you can shout that name in public without fear of embarrassment.

Don’t ask me why, but I named my first cat Doris. Daft, eh?

Years later, when I was moving around too much to give Doris the secure home she deserved, I popped her in a cat box and took her on a National Coach westwards, to live with my father, a man not greatly enamoured of cats. He could never bring himself to call ‘Doris’ out loud.

Consequently, disenfranchised, virtually disowned, Doris acted out, went on wild killing sprees, regurgitated half-eaten mice in the house, scratched his furniture and generally misbehaved. Theirs became a kind of love/hate relationship. He would shout, ‘Gertcha, you bugger!’ and throw cushions at her. Over time, the ‘you bugger’ evolved and softened into a name. Doris became ‘Baggers’. Eventually, when she was granted lap privileges, she even condescended to answer to it.

A friend of mine once had a cat she dubbed ‘Durkheim’ - yes - after the French sociologist, Émile Durkheim. She was from Manchester. ‘Durkheim’ was fond of wandering off.  Those two facts are not directly connected, but anyone who caught an early-evening chorus of ‘DUURK-KEIIIM! Pud! Pud! Pud!’ as it was bellowed up and down our street accompanied by the frantic shaking of a Cat Crunchie box, may have thought so. It was an unforgettable sound.

My in-laws tend to dispense literary pet names. One of their cats was named Jeoffry, after the poem by For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry by Christopher Smart. Their Jeoffry was just a moggy, but sometimes, in the slight upward tilt of his nose, they imagined the cat had some sense not just of odour, but of the Ode; his name gave Jeoffry pretensions.

Our dog has many names. As well as his real, public one, at home he answers to: Mr Stinks, Ebeneezer Stinks, Eeezastinks, Fizzy Drinks, Tubbins, Snouty, Is-he-snouty? Farty McLarty…

Some of his dog friends have excellently embarrassing monikers: there’s Royston, Merlyn, Angel and Tarquin, to name just a few. Royston is a German Schnauzer. His redoubtable lady owner is German too, and many a doggy heart has quaked to hear the start of the rolling ‘R’ at the top of a good lungful of ‘RRrrroySTON!’

The male half of the couple who own the near-deaf Pekinese, when failing to get a response from a plain, ‘COME HERE!’ is usually forced to holler the dog’s name. He ends up mumbling asides to the other dog owners, ‘It was my wife who wanted to call him ‘Dalai’.

So, prospective pet owners, my advice is, choose that name with care.

(Dog names indeed. Sorry. It’s been a slow week. Cough. Sniff.)

Jnr: ‘Mum! Come and see! Look! All the people on the British Horse Riding Team have these MASSIVE noses!’

True.

1. Broad beans are back. I like broad beans - snapping those crisp pods - crack - and scooting each shiny bean out of the weird furry lining with my thumbnail - plink - into the steamer. Broad beans reappeared in the organic veg box today.

2. The hammock is up, tied nice and low to prevent a re-occurence of the disastrous double falling-out last summer. (This is how I know about vestigial tail-bones.)

3. The builders next door assure me that their wretched road blocking, tile grinding, soil shifting, Radio 1 blaring racketous construction work will soon be complete. They will be gone, and so will their portaloo. (We’ve had the odd run-in… but it’s all in the game.)

4. Jnr’s ‘train-tracks’ are history. He is beginning to learn the true power of a well-timed smile.

5. My friend’s husband is off on a didgeridoo weekend. She and I have other plans.

The other place was fun while it lasted, but I’ve left that all behind me now.

The statcounter is gone, I’ve had a good old spring clean of some overused themes and phrases, switched to a no-frills interface and I feel like a whole new blogger. Time to get posting…

True story:

Jnr: Yeah, Dad? Today, at school, Chris Miles got a detention for talking in third person.

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I love wild weather.

Right now, outside, the onshore wind is building. My house is about to be lashed by salty rain and a strong south-westerly.

Here’s a shipping forecast. Rockall.

When I was growing up, near here, once, a storm ripped a corner of the house roof off. Rafters, rain and sky, all in the upstairs bedroom with the candlewick and *anaglypta. (*’timeless but always in style’?)

Another time, one of the barns collapsed in on itself. Nobody was hurt, not even a chicken. A boat was crushed, though.

Ever seen a ripped up tree? Like a huge space-flower picked by a mercurial giant. He got bored and just dropped it, right there, in our field.

Stormy Weather, Elisabeth Welch sings. From Derek Jarman’s wonderful, camp, luvvie-fest romp through The Tempest.

…………………………………….

,

This is only the half of it.

Oh well. Back to Options low-calorie hot chocolate elevenses, lunchtime Slim-a-soups, two digestives in the afternoon…

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