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 |   A tentative blog to test the temperature. |
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Ten years ago I was writing several blogs on various subjects - F1 motor racing, Music, Classic Cars, Great Romances and, most crushingly, a personal journal that included my thoughts on America, memories of England and Africa, opinion, humour, writing and anything else that occurred. It all became too much (I was attempting to update the journal every day) and I collapsed, exhausted and thoroughly disillusioned in the end. So this blog is indeed a Toe in the Water, a place to document my thoughts in and on WdC but with a determination not to get sucked into the blog whirlpool ever again. Here's hoping.     |
| On the Tip of my Tongue Have you ever had one of those times when everything you read or watch has massive inspiration for you? You enter a period where the whole environment seems loaded with impulse to get you writing and you desperately want to get busy because you know that what’s inside you is so ready that it will just spill out on the page and be brilliant. An interview with someone you admire has produced certain things that you’ve always thought but now frames it so clearly in your understanding that you have to include it in something that you write, or a flash of insight gives you a perspective that is so different you must produce a vehicle for it right now while it’s still hot. And then you reach for something to hang it all on, to contain the wonderful feeling that threatens to be completely fleeting, and you realise you haven’t got a story to accommodate it. Just something simple and unchallenging, but you’re left with nothing. You try to construct something, a basic framework that can run with all you want to say, but it won’t come. Everything dissolves into banality and you’re left in a corner with grinding frustration and urge to create but no means to do so. You’ve been there? Welcome to my world. Word count: 218 |
| An Apology I decided that the blog was the best place to announce my cringing apology for my absence over the last four days. The blog has not had a post for a while and, if people miss my apology because they don’t read my blog, that seems fair retribution to me. My craven excuse for absence is that I have been ill. Not quite at death’s door but it felt like it for a while. Like most things, it could be described as a bad cold or the flu, but I blame covid and its annoying habit of returning every now and again to annoy. Anyway, the gist is that, when I feel like that, writing is beyond me. It’s hard to concentrate the mind when your body is leaking fluids at every orifice (love that word) and your belly is yelling in pain. I gave up without a fight and slept whenever I could. So there you have it and now you know how easily WDC is abandoned by me when in the depths of debilitating illness. No sympathies required - I am recovered (mainly) now and have already written a poem of sorts for Express It In Eight this morning. And this little piece counts too, I guess. Word count: 206 |
| It is my contention that the inventor of velcro had a cat. Think about it. |
| Staffies are Tough In the Newsfeed today, Joey's Spring has Sprung  mentions the saying, “Leashes are made to be broken.” This reminded me immediately of the greatest dog I have ever had the honour of owning (though it pains me to describe it as that since she was a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and, therefore, our relationship had more to do with partnership than any owning - Staffie owners will know what I mean).She came to us at the age of 8 weeks, the recommended age for a pup ready to leave its mother, and took up her role in the household immediately and with total confidence. This little cube of muscle and bone with a tail at one end and a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth at the other, assumed, with complete understanding, her position of guardian of the family. She was already house-trained so there were no little pools to be attended to, and she set about training us in the appropriate manner. We named her Josie. With me, she was rough and boisterous, my hands fast becoming ragged maps of little red tooth marks and scratches, the evidence of our training matches together. The wife however had different treatment - Josie would bite but never with enough power to break the skin. And for our three-year old son, Matthew, the rule was no teeth allowed. Such forbearance in a pup so young was almost unbelievable. The most important thing a Staffie requires of its human is exercise. They are so over-supplied with energy, exuberance and the joy of life that they must have an outlet at least once a day to run and sniff and jump and career about as wide an area as possible. So my walks with her began at a very early stage in her development. And the way to the veld* (did I mention that this was In Africa?) lay along a few short streets that separated our house from the countryside. I had to buy a leash to rein her in for this short walk, releasing her once we reached the open. I have yet to discover the formula for decreasing a Staffie’s enthusiasm for the daily walk. Put on a leash and the Staffie will immediately proceed to the end of its length and begin to tug the reluctant owner along behind. Josie was no exception and she broke that first leash within a few days. I bought another, stronger one. She broke that too, in perhaps a day more. And so I proceeded up the ladder from strong leash to seriously oversize for the size of dog. She broke them all. In the end I laid out some serious cash and bought a strip of horse’s harness, about half an inch thick. It had a loop at one end, useful as a handle for myself, then a long, long strip of leather, ending in a sort of bulldog clip that could be attached to the metal hoop in her collar. This, she never broke, although she never stopped trying. The great length of this leash meant that it was a bit cumbersome to carry after letting Josie loose to run in the veld. This problem I solved by passing it around my waist, threading it through the loops of my jeans. I liked leaving a length of it to swing from my waist. It was kinda cool and cool mattered at my age back then. And so the two of us would go for a walk in the bush. For me, that amounted to a stroll for a few miles but, for Josie, this was a chance to run and run for mile upon mile, covering probably five times the ground that I managed and at a much greater pace. She developed several games that she played in these walks, one with the plovers that used to nest in hidden patches in the ground. They would keep Josie from discovering the nest by dive bombing her from on high, swooping over her, and then pretending to have a problem and fluttering to earth. She would race for them and they would take off at the last moment, Josie’s snapping teeth narrowly missing their tails as they rose into the air. She never caught one but they made her the fittest dog in southern Africa, I think. And then there was the game she played with me. She called it “Chicken.” As I was walking along, minding my own business, she would approach from behind at tremendous speed. I could hear her coming, the pounding feet and panting breath getting ever closer as my nerves stretched further and further with the inevitability of collision. This was where the chicken came in. I was not allowed to turn around to see her coming. No, my job was to keep going, never deviating from the path and trusting that she knew what she was doing. It was not an easy thing to do when you can hear thirty pounds of very solid dog bearing down on you at full speed. Only once did I break. It had been raining and the ground was wet. I thought she might not be able to make the last minute jink to get around me on the slick surface. At the last moment, I stepped sideways. Unfortunately, that was the side she had chosen to come past. She cannoned into my legs like the shell from a naval gun and I went flying to come back to earth with a thump on my rear end in the mud. She stopped her mad career a few yards farther on and turned to look at me. “Never, ever deviate,” she said and then was off again. But I must return to the matter of the leash. It was, after all, the instrument of my learning just a little more about the incredible character of the Stafford. This was on the occasion of just one more of the hundreds of chicken games we played in the open veld. There was no variation in the approach nor the execution. But it changed the way I dealt with that leash forever after. Josie approached from the rear at full speed as usual. I held true to my course, awaiting that moment when she would blast by within inches of me, a wild hurricane on the way to whatever distant object she’d decided upon. But this time, the swinging bulldog clip caught in the skin at the corner of her eye. Her mad dash was instantly halted, she was thrown into the air and came crashing back to earth. The impact forced a brief grunt from her but no other sound did she make. I hurried forward to attend to her but already she was struggling to her feet. I caught her and removed the clip from her eye. Unbelievably, there was no sign of damage. The skin must have stretched like a bungee cord to have arrested her progress so suddenly, but there was no tear, no blood, nothing to indicate the forces that had been at work only seconds before. And Josie was embarrassed only that somehow she had at last been bested. She wanted only to go running again, for her speed to dismiss the memory of that abrupt comeuppance. Staffies are tough beyond belief. There are tales of them from their early days that I will never tell because I know people will not understand. But they are tough as old boots and then some. And Josie showed me that day just how tough they are. But I never left a length of leash swinging from my belt ever again. Word count: 1,270 * Note: Veld is pronounced “felt.” It comes to us from the Afrikaans and, in that language, a V is always pronounced F and a D at the end of a word is always said as a T. There is no such thing as a “veld,” as the uninformed English would pronounce it. |
| Failing to Win Feeling lousy today but wanted desperately to update the blog. Had a look through the archives and found this. Who knows? It might even encourage someone. Why is the insult "loser" so common today? I seem to hear it everywhere - "Oh don't worry about him, he's just a loser" or "You're such a loser". What is it about losing that is so terrible? Think about it with me for a few moments. The first analogy that comes to mind is a race. Someone wins and the rest become losers. But, just a minute - in any race there are lots of runners, thousands in the case of marathons. So that must mean that there are very few winners and the vast majority of us are losers. Are we to be scorned because we are not amongst the tiny fraternity of winners? You tell me that I've got it wrong; the term, as used, is much more about life than any competition. A loser is someone who just isn't making a decent job of his life. He's losing in the game of life. But who's winning then? Am I supposed to assume that the winners are the millionaires and the magnates, the stars of the entertainment industry, the grossly overpaid sportsmen, the rich and famous indeed? And are you one of them? If you are, then welcome to my page, have a look around and make me an offer of publication (don't forget the film rights). If you're not, it seems that I must welcome you to the club for the masses - the losers. Oh wait, maybe I've got it wrong. Perhaps the term is supposed to mean "one who fails consistently". But fails at what? It can't be money and success, we've already looked at that one. So does it mean achieving a certain happiness or contentment? And I'm expected to condemn that person because he hasn't achieved that state of nirvana as yet? Pardon me for thinking it, but on that score we're all losers. Although I do admit to being pretty happy and I'm fairly content with my life. Whichever way we look at it, it seems that almost all of us are losers. But there's nothing wrong with that. Losing is an important part of life. What was that famous quote - the man who never failed at something never achieved anything? You see, it's all about trying and if you try, sometimes you're going to fail. We all experience failure sometimes, even the mythical winners. And it's not something to be ashamed of; it's what makes us human. So don't call others losers. It's meaningless - you're just saying that they're human. We are, in fact, all failing to win. The double meaning is quite intentional, I assure you. Word count: 460 |
| Collidoscope A collidoscope is similar to a kaleidoscope but, when you use it, you bump into things. |
| Greatness I was pondering on my complete insignificance today, and it suddenly occurred to me that Shakespeare never knew how great he was. Dickens scraped a living writing serials for newspapers, and Salinger caught a glimpse of himself one day, then went off to Vermont to live as a recluse. Old Mark Twain was too busy thinking up aphorisms to have any idea of how celebrated he was going to be, and Dylan Thomas drank himself to death, so unhappy with his lot was he. Just think of it, the Bard scribbling away backstage in a frantic quest to save his acting company, with no understanding of how his words would one day be regarded as the greatest ever written. And the others living their lives quietly as though they were nothing but ordinary men (I’m sure the women were just the same). Amongst writers, greatness never knows itself. Oh sure, there are plenty who are convinced that they have sliced bread beaten and disgraced. But these are the little ones, the celebrities whose light will fade and their works be forgotten within a century. Only time awards the title “Great.” So be of good cheer, brothers and sisters. For all we know, future ages might marvel at our work and wonder how such magnificent minds managed to live in so ordinary a world. Word count: 223 |
| Coffee Since we're all addicted to coffee, here's a potential theme tune. But only for those who remember percolators. |
| Hello? In this house, crazy things happen sometimes. I just overheard a phone conversation between two people, both convinced that the other had phoned them. It made me think immediately of the video below: |
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