Midnight hide and seek

Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday ...

Another tick tock Tuesday in Tuesdayville being tested by time ...

Morple doesn’t work. Morple is my OAP clock and retired from swinging his arms around quite some months ago. The twice a day where his timing is spot on, he gives a nod in my direction and seems to say ‘Told you so!’ before settling back into his noncommital status in life. I found him in a charity shop. At that point he worked quite well. However, during the indeterminate amount of time he has resided in my cottage, he obviously feels I am no tyranical taskmaster and can therefore absolve himself of all time keeping responsibilities ... and who can blame him?

Keeping him company is Captain Blackbeard who has taken up his new favourite position in the best seat in the house. Sat atop a cosy blankie (now a round little bed) he is perfectly placed for comfortable viewing of all TV programmes, slumbering and (of course) for putting in frequent food requests seeing as I (his hooman) am usually very conveniently placed for such a thing. He and Morple have regular discussions pertaining to the passing of time. During one such discussion he sat bolt upright and seemingly became frozen. Morple is holding close countenance, but I very much feel that he may have had something to do with this.

The clocks changed this weekend and Morple had much to say on the matter. “Time will move on an hour for a third of the countries in the world causing a mild form of jetlag. Government’s will declare that they’re doing it for the farmers. Highly dubious!” I agree with Morple. The farmers don’t actually like it either ... after all, it’s not like the cows care what time the clocks say it is.

Every year the same poll goes up enquiring as to whether the public have had enough of this practice. Every year the majority of the public says “Stop it!” ... and every year the practice carries on regardless.

One of Morple’s favourites is Dr Hannah Fry. He says that according to her, the whole time problem discussions began in 1784 because of a satirical letter written by Benjamin Franklin to the Journal de Paris. In it he declared that the French were using too much candle wax and oil. He didn’t suggest changing the clock times, but suggested that if only the French would get out of bed earlier then this would resolve things. He therefore humorously proposed a tax on people with shutters, limiting the amount of candle wax and oil each family was granted and that canons should be fired on all the streets of France to ensure everyone got up at sunrise.

Then, in 1895, a New Zealander entomologist and astronomer called George Hudson did suggest changing the clocks as he loved collecting bugs, but was very annoyed that by the time he finished work it was too dark for him to go out and carry out his beloved hobby. He suggested changing the time by 2 hours but this was not implemented until 1928.

After that, in 1907, a Freemason called William Willett was out on his horse one morning and was disgusted to see everyone’s blinds were still drawn. William was an entitled little shit and loved playing golf and was pissed off that his evening games were cut short by the sunset. So he wrote a pamphlet entitled “The Waste of Daylight” in which he suggested changing the concept of time itself (pretty much just so he could get another 9 holes in.) His suggestion of British Summer Time was eventually implemented around 1916.

A bit of a potted history courtesy of Morple, the now ‘defrosted’ Captain Blackbeard and Dr Fry, but the fact is that titting around with time like this achieves nothing other than making for a 6% increase in the number of fatal car accidents the next day and there being up to a 24% increase in heart attacks, plus a huge spike in workplace injuries and it messes up everybody’s circadian rhythms.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday ...

Tsundoku: A beautiful word combining elements of the terms tsunde-oku ("to pile things up ready for later and leave"), and dokusho ("reading books"). I excel at the former and procrastinate at the latter.

I love the Japanese language. I love all languages that can take one word and have that word mean so much.

I love collecting books, I have piles and piles of books. I can close my eyes and imagine such piles as they would be displayed in a Japanese home, so well placed, so well ordered pristinely polished publications ... and then I can turn and raise an eyebrow as I see my own higgledy piggledy, dust ridden, mish mashed efforts.

Each book I acquire, I must have. Each book I bring home will be ‘the one’ to set my pen and my one and only marble racing and aflame with ideas. I look longingly at these books, I know before they are even in my hand that I will want them. I always feel captivated beyond all reason and inspired, and have an aching for the book(s) I do not have, because I am always convinced that without them my pen will remain inert and the pages will lie empty.

Such all consuming moments make me feel like my father and his DIY (although I doubt he got so excited about bits of plumbing and paintbrushes, but you never know.) I remember all his trips to the various outlets, his coming home laden with all the items needed to complete a household task. From that would come the careful placing of everything near where his task was intended to take place ... and then the inevitability of nothing happening, because the next project after that had already caught his eye and therefore another shopping trip was being planned.

John Updike’s short stories and Ryu Murakami’s pink tour tale “In The Miso Soup” are the latest books floating around in my cranium, swearing to me that they are like Neo in the Matrix and that they are the one(s) that will truly set me on my literary path. I’m dancing toward them in my head ... I’m imagining going to see if they’re still in the shop next week ... and should I successfully acquire them, in my eye’s periphery, I know exactly which pile I will add them to.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday ...

Moss, moss, luverly moss ... nothing quite like it whilst looking for floss!! ;-)

Between the moss, moss, moss and the rain, rain, rain there’s a drip, drip, drip in my brain, brain, brain. Probably due to the fact that the one and only marble has once more absconded from his hammock and left the cranial window wide open and therefore all my thought processes are at the mercy of all the wet, wild and windy weather vagaries that the Emerald Isle has to offer.

In spite of this, as I was standing at the kitchen window contemplating cleaning my teeth, a plethora of the green stuff caught my eye. So, down with the toothbrush and toothpaste idea, and up and outside with the camera instead.

Aaaaaaaand back in again! ;-D

Twas a brief foray and now the rain is coming down once more. It’s relentless! So relentless (as it turns out) that my poor 25 year old charabanc has finally bitten the dust. Took her to the garage to get her assessed and titivated afore the NCT, only for them to turn round and say that (sadly) she’s run her course. Rust has gotten into all the places you really don’t want rust to get into. :-(

Should I cue the music for the Last Post? It feels like I should. After 15 years of tootling me and the hairy horde this way and that, it feels very wrong to have to bid her goodbye. But goodbye it is. Farewell and fulminations in the direction of all the Marti Pellow weather that has brought about this adieu.

Monday, Monday, Monday ...

“I can’t stand the rain against my window ... Bringing back sweet memories ...”

I can hear both Tina Turner and also the version from The Commitments. Either way, the rain keeps a-coming down in an extremely relentless fashion and I feel I’m losing a little of the fondness for the wet stuff.

I like rain, I really do. I like the sound of it, it helps me sleep at night ... but you can have too much of a good thing.

Yesterday was quite surprising as I realised I could see sunshine through the rather grimy lounge window. A combination of condensation on the inside, and whatever has attached itself to the pain of glass on the outside is making for quite the barrier between myself and the rarely seen ‘glowing orb.’ Nonetheless, I gazed outward for quite some time as I cuddled with Mr B. I informed him in a fairly chirpy fashion that I was looking at the sunshine ... however, his expression told me in no uncertain terms that quite frankly I should just carry on with both smooshing him and brushing him and not be at all distracted by such shiny trivialities.

The other picture was taken whilst sitting in one of the car parks in the shiny metropolis. Another grey day, another load of rain, and another moment of me wagging my finger at myself in admonishment at still having no raincoat. It was definitely with a great sigh that I eventually got myself out of the old charabanc and then I laughed wryly as my ‘pretender’ of a raincoat did its usual trick of succumbing almost instantly to the raindrops. As ever, I was left with that strange cold and damp feeling that you get from fabric that has done a half hearted nod in the direction of what were meant to be it’s capabilities, before throwing itself gleefully in the direction of giving up the ghost.

The shiny metropolis awaits my presence tomorrow (lucky me!). I haven’t yet checked the forecast, but I have the sneaky feeling that I don’t really need to. Still, there’s always the option of the umbrella (yes, I am still on that particular list), which comes with the added possibility of it being blown inside out. Hmmmmmm ... (ponders) ... perhaps that’s the way to go? That way (at least) I can go for the double wet and windy whammy and be not only dampened in spirit but also whisked in a direction down the street that will be of a startling nature to both myself and other passers by.

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday ...

As ever, the weather is grey. It was grim with a vague hint of hope first thing (a teasing of sunshine that came to naught) and now very much settled into stillness and a sense of monochrome. At least the birds are busy. Chirping away and busy rifling through the undergrowth and thinking about where to pitch camp for this year’s breeding.

I only know what’s going on out there because I periodically turn around from my kitchen chair perch and have a quick peek to see if much has changed. That said, I have been completely outside and fed Fermata and Lady Clemence and watched the Robins and Blackbirds and Doves ... I went as far as the local shop for the usual kitty litter newspaper ... but, inevitably, I’m back at the kitchen table, and currently being accompanied by Captain Blackbeard’s bagpipe sounding snoring.

I used to think I’d end up spending time in the lounge. The place that is inhabited by Mr B aka Fat Boy Not So Slim. I thought I would end up reading books in there. But then, there’s no sofa in there ... hasn’t been in quite some time. Mr B did unconscionable things to the bed settee that used to reside in there, so it was tossed out and no replacement has been found. I amuse myself that anyone looking in through the window to see if this place is worth robbing would take one look through the window, note the absence of lounge furniture and TV, and decide that that was either an indicator of somewhere that wouldn’t be worth breaking into or potentially evidence that someone else had gotten in and done the place over prior to them coming to take a look.

Just took another peer over my shoulder. The kitchen window spider is currently hiding, that or she’s gained a cloak of invisibility. It must be great not to need furniture. Nice just to be able to pull some silk out of your bottom and weave a home. I feel a distinct affinity with her as her housekeeping skills are definitely on a par with my own. How wonderful to just shed your old skin, leave your old meals as ‘wall art’ and, if you fancy an extension or slightly different situation, then you can just go ahead and build it. No planning permissions needed, nobody needs to come and provide a regulation compliance certificate that says ‘Well done, you are a good citizen!’ and no family/friends to come cast a critical eye and declare whether or not you’re on trend and with the right shade of beige chosen too.

Hmmmmmm ... definitely food for thought. I really feel this whole pulling silk out of your bottom malarkey does seem like the best way to go. A shame the resident spider doesn’t hold courses, cos I’d definitely attend.

Mind you, the spider would definitely point out that being a hooman really does come with an awful lot of limitations ... she’d be the first to tell me there’s no way for me to bring about silk production for myself ... at least not without me probably ending up in A&E on a Saturday night needing to have something removed from the derriere section of my anatomy ... and I hate to clog up their system any further than it already is just because I decided to clog up my own. So ... nope ... not a plan for tonight.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday ...

Shoes I have known and loved ... shoes I have tolerated ... shoes I have loathed.

Mostly I tootle around the house in my Crocs. They’re not elegant, they’re not supportive to my feet but, for the most part, they do keep my toes warm. Sometimes I can’t be bothered to change out of them and I end up wearing them whilst in the shiny metropolis. This I usually regret, on account of them not being supportive to my feet, but it happens again and again and again. I find myself in the car and halfway there and with the Crocs on my feet, so that is that.

Years ago I had a pair of Wolky roll clogs. I loved them. The comfiest pair of shoes I ever owned. I wore them for everything. I would’ve slept in them if I could have. I’d happened to be in Bath on the day that I saw them ... I bought those and another pair of boots that I wore into the ground. In the end, I gave those clogs to a friend of mine. My feet had developed certain issues and, for about two years, I couldn’t wear those clogs ... so why keep them? When my feet were better again, I so wished I had held onto my clogs ... especially as, by then, I couldn’t get another pair. The insistence of shoemakers that they must keep changing the styles ... oh how I wish they wouldn’t.

There have been shoes I put up with because my parents bought them for me. They made the money, so they made the choices ... plus, waiting for me to make a choice as a kid was excruciating. Waiting for me to make a choice back then would have resulted in therapy for my parents. ;-D I remember each time we’d go into town and I’d have my feet measured before another sensible pair of shoes was provided. My mother would beam at me and hand me the bag with the shoe box in it and I would take it, carry it back to the car and sigh remembering the pretty shoes that I’d been denied.

One particular school pair comes to mind. Oh how I loathed that pair. Couldn’t blame my mother for buying them for me. She’d said I could choose this time. It did not end well. Two hours of saying I could choose led to my mother snatching up a pair that I’d hated on sight, with the declaration of “It’s these and we’re going home!” Initially I would wear them and then take a fashion pair into school with me and swap my feet into those. Inevitably, I was eventually found out. The fashion pair were confiscated and put away and I had no choice but to wear the loathed pair. So ... I then took to walking an extra mile to a school bus stop that was further away. I would drag my heels for every bit of that mile. At the end of the day, I would get off at the same stop and drag my heels the extra mile home. Those shoes were wrecked in a delightfully short space of time. My mother was astonished at the state of them. I was thrilled.

The shoes in the picture are mock Crocs. 4 euro from a charity shop. I wore them to death. Then, like all other shoes that can be worn no more, they’ve been put outside to make friends with the moss and anything else that sees fit to use them as a home.

Friday, Friday, Friday ...

Someone very kindly dropped into my mailbox and said they hadn’t seen me in a while. You know who you are (waves) and it was nice to see you in there :-) So, here I am. I’m still out here. Looking out and around at the world, whilst the world looks back and tilts its many heads.

I was kneeling down in the hallway with Lady Clemence. She occupied with her noms and making purring noises whilst she ate ... and me just generally contemplating life, the Universe and the many dust covered objects that surround me.

It occurred to me just how many things could be considered to be watching.

I have a friend who dislikes coming into my house. Too many dolls and pictures and a fine variety of this, that and the other, all of which seem to be ubiquitously gazing. This makes her uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, am so used to looking around and having things ‘look back’ that to me it’s just the everyday.

I can go into other people’s pristine houses and feel just as discomfited because it’s all too perfect. It makes me think of the various magazines I’ve leafed through and made collages out of. Somebody else’s ideas that have all spewed out into millions of houses and made no statement whatsoever. Even the professionally taken family photos that might be up on the wall are someone else’s idea of how a happy family should look ... and they’ll be pretty much the only things around ‘looking out’ but I don’t feel as though they’re there at all.

The very familiar bunny in the picture is on the handle of a dead friend’s umbrella. Every time I look at it and it looks back at me, it’s kind of like I’m sitting with her again and I can remember our ‘put the world right’ conversations and smile. Even my walking boots seem to be giving me the nod and a request to pop them on and get back out there, so we can take a look at nature and neighbours and take a wee break from hermitude.

I amuse myself with all the things in this house of mine. I imagine the whole place just being sealed up once I’ve departed this mortal coil and left as a curiosity to those whose ‘desire to know’ will drag their feet up the overgrown driveway. Faces will be squashed against windows, hands held to frame either side of eyes as they peer in, as though that action will bring items closer for scrutiny. They’ll be looking in and all my curios will be looking out. Or maybe no people would come at all and it will simply be birds and squirrels gazing through the mucky glass wondering why I haven’t come out with peanuts and bird seed.

A permanent game of I spy, that’s how I see each day that turns up. Not what the media throws out at everyone, but all the things in between. Having a bit of fun and sitting in your own home and peering out of the letterbox as a different view. Lying on your back both inside and outside and looking every which way at things you’d never have spotted otherwise.

Someone To Watch Over Me is a film I’ll probably dig out, an oldie that hasn’t been viewed in a while ... and I’ll smile remembering the mischievous delight I used to take in messaging friends with the words “I can see you” ... often times I couldn’t see them at all, but it would start a daft conversation and encourage meeting up.

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday ...

Spider, spider on the wall

Do you know I’m here at all?

I’m not alone, the cat’s here too

I’d run away if I were you

I like spiders. Any kind of spider and I really don’t understand people’s fear of them. No spider has ever come hurtling towards at me at a rate of knots brandishing 8 different kinds of weapon. I’d certainly rather be stuck in a lift with 8 different kinds of spider than 8 other people ... but then I don’t like lifts ... and that’s another story for another day.

Currently I’m watching the above House spider as it alternates between brazenly displaying itself and hiding behind my wellingtons. House spider. I find the name funny and apparently there are 11 spiders that come under that particular umbrella. The variety that I’m looking at remind me of childhood, the ones that would dart across the chimney breast. Dependent on size they were referred to as Sams, Delilahs and Goliaths.

My house is full of spiders but they’re not all House Spiders (or [ponders] are they? considering they’re in my house ;-)) ... and I wonder if the House Spiders that I sometimes eject (if I find them crawling through a precarious pile on the kitchen table) and put out in the shed, whether or not I could now call them a Shed Spider and whether any of this would make any difference to them whatsoever.

I very much doubt it.

The human race spends so much time naming things, and I get why, but it’s of no consequence to the other-than-human recipient of the name.

The other popular spider within my house is of the Daddy Longlegs variety. Spindly, delicate and with a completely voracious appetite. These are the ones that I know, if I find a recently dead insect, I can drop it into their web and they will happily turn it into their next meal. These are definitely the roadkill runners inside my abode. I used to think Daddy Longlegs referred to Craneflies, but now I know different. Plus, the Harvester (which is how I used to refer to the Daddy Longleg spiders) are actually not spiders at all, and are actually far more related to crabs. Howzat for a wee bit of fascinating! ;-D

No doubt I digress. After all, no day would be complete without a good dollop of digression. ;-)

Sadly (and all too often) the House Spiders fall foul of the House Felines. Something that size must be investigated at all costs, and such investigations involve putting one’s paw out and giving the curiosity a bit of a tap. You know, just to get its attention, after all, you can’t just rudely shout hello. Unsurprisingly, all such ‘friendships’ are short lived and simply result in a look of pussycat puzzlement. End result? One dead ‘friend’ and yet another ready meal for the Daddy Longlegs.

Thursday, Thursday, Thursday ...

I’m still out here and I’ve been thinking ... a lot. I’ve been reading ... a lot. I’ve been writing ... a lot. And I’ve comes to this conclusion ........ there is no conclusion, just more tangents and questions. The endless ‘why.’

The book I’m currently reading is ‘We Are Gold’ by Alice Chambers. I picked it, at random, off one of my many dusty book burgeoned shelves. I studied it. I wiped the dust off. I read the blurb on the back and then rolled my eyes around and contemplated what might just have persuaded me that this was the kind of book I would want to read.

Five minutes later I was still pondering and non the wiser. So I took a chance, and opened the book.

Now I get it.

I’m only reading about 4 pages at a time and just letting it sink in. It’s deceptive in its simpleness and almost sly in its thoughtfulness. A book about grief but without turning it into some kind of well that you feel you might just have peered into and found something ‘Ring’ like coming back at you. It’s delicate and it’s playful.

I came to the unsurprising conclusion that my reading muscles have grown lax, too much screen time. I’m trying to cut down on that. An interesting endeavour particularly when trying to put together a blog post.;-D It’s quite fun to just type and hear my fingers rattling across the keyboard, whilst my eyes scan the room and my ears listen to the inordinately large and noisy bluebottle that’s decided to check out the kitchen’s landscape.

Other books occupying my mind are ‘Eric’ by Shaun Tan and ‘The House in the Night’ by Susan Marie Swanson with pictures by Beth Krommes. Both bought for the princely sum of one euro. Very few words and some beautiful and thought provoking illustrations. I don’t want anything complicated to look at before I turn the light out at night, but I do want something that’s going to feed my imagination monster.

I have no cupboards for scary beings to hide in, just the underneath of my bed (and it’d take a brave monster to go under there with all the dust bunnies). And if the under-the-bed monster is a-coming out to get me, he’d better be holding toffee apple scented flowers and creating dream scenes that are gonna cinnamon my socks off!

Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday ... another topsy-turvy Tuesday in Tuesdayville ...

Thank you so much for all your messages of condolence. So very, very much appreciated. You are all so kind. xx

It’s been a week since Smallest Dog (age 14) passed away. Unsurprisingly, I’m still coming to terms with her absence and it will be a long time yet where routines don’t trigger another bout of tears. Her passing, though not entirely unexpected, was sudden and the silence is deafening. No more ‘woo woo wooooo’ conversations, no more ‘button eyes’ as chicken was demanded, no more following me around outside trying to show me her favourite nooks and crannies inside the Big Shed as I took photographs.

Biggest Dog, Mr Snippy and Betty are all confused. Not that they had that much to do with Smallest Dog ... particularly Biggest Dog as the feud between them never ceased ... nonetheless, her departure has made an impact. Mr Snippy was the only one Smallest Dog would tolerate and spend time outside with. Betty is at a triple loss as both of her chosen boyfriends have gone and now she is having to ‘make do’ with Mr Snippy (who sleeps a lot and doesn’t clean her ears.) Betty and Smallest Dog may not have had much to do with one another, but Betty knows that something is different and she doesn’t like it.

Wednesday, Wednesday, Wednesday ...

Another dismal weather day on the Emerald Isle. Precipitation, precipitation, precipitation ... Marti Pellow must be delighted.

Each day starts the same way ... routine, routine, routine. Occasionally I’ll mix it up a little bit, but I guess there’s something uncomfortably comforting about heading out in auto pilot. Wake up, do some stretches and exercises to get everything functioning, head into the kitchen and put the hairy horde’s food together and eventually end up with Mr B as the last port of call.

From the moment I enter the lounge, Mr B is then occupied (at least for a fast and furious few seconds) with his meaty meaty and his biscuits. Curtains opened, litter trays dealt with, piano keys hammered just in case mice have decided to set up home anywhere within the frame.

During this morning’s efforts, I spotted a little fruit fly on the bird painting that my friend Cora painted. This amused me. A little something for the bird to aim at. Put me in mind (once again) of the old rhyme about the old lady and the fly, particularly with the horse in hot pursuit from the other painting (another friend painted that one). Naturally, out came the camera for this latest distraction ... equally naturally, out came Mr B’s claws to pay a wee visit to my right leg, to remind me that he was right behind me. Ouch! Cuddles ensued. ;-)

I love looking at paintings, especially those with really thick oil paint on them (Shani Rhys James is a favourite). I briefly dabbled with painting but wielding the brush didn’t appeal. I like oil pastels more (although it’s been a long time since I’ve used them) ... there’s something infinitely satisfying with putting a blob of something colourful on a piece of paper and then using your hands, fingers, fingernails to push it into shapes.

Anyway ... back to flies ...

Flies just add that little bit extra to whatever you’re looking at / watching. I love watching TV at night and seeing some huge Bluebottle as it ‘photo bombs’ a romantic /steamy scene, or stands on the same street as the gunslinger ... makes me think of the old B movies ... now not only is the hero/heroine having to fend off one oversized monster, but here comes a ‘monster’ from the outside of the screen world. A lady in a painting will suddenly have a rather fetching addition to her hat or fruit bowl. And, every day without fail, these various sized wee beasties crawl across my screen and commence leg cleaning in the middle of my sentence ... yep ... they’re doing it right now. I see you Mr Fly! ;-D

Tuesday, Tuesday, Tuesday ... yet another topsy-turvy Tuesday in Tuesdayville ...

Little snail, Little snail ... on my window pane ... you're taking my attention ... just to drive the cat insane.

Another night-time goodnighty night with Mr B and I was just about to close his curtains, when ........ this rather glorious snail came into view.

Mr B was unimpressed as I immediately ceased give him smoothies and luuuuurve and went off in search of my camera. Whilst I tried to take to photos, Mr B did what he does best and with huge persistence and he spent the whole time pushing against my arm and my head and purred as loud as loud into my left ear.

I’d like to say that this is because he adores me but, truth be told, and just like cats all across the globe, Mr B loves his meaty meaty. He loves the tuna, the whole tuna and nothing but the tuna. I, on the other hand, love all things non human, am easily distracted, and am definitely a sucker for a gastropod making eyes at me on ma window.

This particular snail didn’t do much of anything other than tilt his head this way and that, presumably hoping that I was capturing his best side. Perhaps he was semaphoring to other snails that some strange being was gawping and gaping at him, whilst being accompanied by a strange wide eyed furry familiar that was carrying out some strange purring and pushing and magical ritual. Perhaps he’d just woken up from a nap. He could have been quite a garrulous gastropod or simply a snail that had chosen silence as his watchword. Who knows?

Friday, Friday, Friday ...

For the most part I’ve given up on morning alarms as they’re too jarring. My ‘I’ve just woken up’ face generally looks like several small people slept in it anyway, so why on earth would I then want that added unwanted sleep shattering something that then makes my face look not just like an unmade bed but one that’s also had a few thousand volts put through it.

I’ve taken to just generally relying on the Hairy Horde getting themselves into motion as they declare that it must be toilet time and breakfast time. Unless, of course, I have to be somewhere ... having to be somewhere does indeed involve an alarm, and the one I’ve chosen sounds like the dawn chorus ... which is amusing as once I’ve turned the birdies that live inside my phone off, the ones outside carry on with declaring the start of the day.

Today was a no alarm day. I was kind of coming to, the dogs were still slumbering, the radio was on low and I was half asleep mulling over a strange dream that involved me being on an airplane that was just like a bus service. Everyone had run onto the runway, the crew had opened the doors and just stepped back, and it had become a general free for all as to who did and didn’t get a seat. In this dreamscape I almost sat on a baby that was lying on the aisle seat because I was distracted by a large dog that was taking up the window seat and was busy cleaning its rear end.

Anyhoo ... my mind was just pondering a clown costume clad gentleman I’d been talking to in the dream when I became halfway aware of a knocking noise. My brain became puzzled between dreamworld and the potential for reality. I stopped pondering, listened and figured I’d imagined it. Cue clown man again and the fact that he wanted to know why I hadn’t drawn myself a crayon ticket. And then the knocking came again ... the Hairy Horde burst into vocal and leg moving action ... and I crawled to the end of my bed and flipped open the curtains.

I blinked at the sudden inrush of daylight but eventually managed to focus on someone I recognised as one of the local farmers. “Have you seen my dog?” he shouted through my partially open window. Amidst the canine cacophony of my lot I assured him I hadn’t. “It’s the old Collie” he continued “you know the one. Let me know if you do” and then he was gone. I threw on my dressing gown at this point and went outside with the dogs and generally stared at leaves until they were ready to head back in for food.

So that was my start to today ... my most unique unset and unexpected alarm. And, although he’s a nice old chap and his knocking certainly got me out of bed, all things considered, I think I’ll stick to the birdsong ;-) ...