There’s no rhyme or reason for anyone to fancy eating a whelk. That’s what I was thinking as I drove home a minute ago so I thought I’d share it.

I had an early fasting visit at the doctors. Something about needing a yearly check which I was most surprised at since you generally can’t get in to see a doctor. Having said that, I quite like their new fangled appointment service options now. I no longer have to wait several hours in a phone queue at precisely 8AM in order to get an appointment for the day and failing. I can go online and make demands of the doctor via message. Much easier. I recently tested this and he rang me within 15 minutes and asked me to come in before they shut shop for a prescription. I’m telling you, it’s all in how you word it.

“I’m on a dog walk in the wilds of the forest, doc. No can do.” I’ve got to say I was shocked at this level of service and wondered if I had a serious illness.

“If you can’t get in then go to the chemist. They can now give you antibiotics. No appointment necessary, just walk in.”

Well, what a turnaround! I did exactly that and got what I wanted after having the time to pop a lasagne in the oven and put a bit of lippy on. I’m very much in favour of this no-nonsense approach.

Anyway, as I was sitting at the docs, they had a bit of broadcast on the waiting room telly about why GP’s are struggling. I cynically sniffed and curled a lip but listened regardless. I forgot to bring my book and I like stay off my phone when everyone else is on theirs so I can watch them being addicted and socially awkward. Besides, if a lion were to stroll in I would see it first and be able to run off. Situational awareness.

The GP broadcast stated how it understood the problems that people were having but that doctors are seriously overworked, many practices have closed, there are way more people, and the people are getting sicker.

Hmm I wonder why that is? I reckon it’s food related. Chemicals, fast food, all this yummy addictive stuff? Or whelks…

And then they said that practices were a lot more expensive to run and doctors only received 30p per patient; less than the price of an apple. I was thinking, that can’t be right, trying to work out how many people a doctor might see and how many 30 pence that was when the nurse called me in.

I wonder what nurses get? Is it less? Am I on the 20p list?

“Have you fasted?”

“Yes, I might be a bit testy because I haven’t had my bacon yet.”

“I get you. Urine?”

“You’re out!… Oh, it’s not a game.” I pulled the sample from my bag wrapped in a beautiful serviette with a floral design because I thought that made it look more attractive.

Blood pressure was high. She did it again. Still a little high and then I remembered that I forgot to take my tablet the day before and I hadn’t taken it yet today. I didn’t tell her that. We put it down to having to run around without bacon or tea at such an ungodly hour. They said they’d call if any results were alarming and that was the end of that. Despite being a bit cuckoo, I’m still alive.

Talking of Cuckoos…

At the pub quiz the other night (which we won, just sayin’) the group started talking about cuckoo clocks. Having heard the cuckoo clock stories, which I will regale shortly, I can only liken it to an experience of my own. This was not a cuckoo clock but a singing doorbell that I bought in a moment of joy and naivety three houses ago.

“It plays all sorts of tunes randomly and it will make answering the door a much more interesting experience!”

Be careful what you wish for.

The doorbell was a novelty for about a week and then it started to become a trigger for violent outbursts. Particularly when you live opposite an old spinster who constantly has something she simply must tell you.

On one particularly sunny day, the door bell rang, not once or twice with the Grand Old Duke of York and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, but relentlessly. Not only had the lady across the road arrived with something to say but so had a child with a scalded foot from a trip to a MacDonalds birthday party. I cursed to the tune of Yankee Doodle ringing out around the open- plan diner as I pulled my hands out of the cookie dough stuck to my fingers thinking how am I going to open the bloody door?

Enter screaming child with scalded foot and shouts of “GET ME A BUCKET OF ICED WATER NOW!” And old Beryl, following behind at haste, only to fall flat on her face on the terrazzo tiles where she knocked herself clean out. At this convenient point, our aged dog decided to have a stroke. Can’t say I blame him, and Waltzing Matilda was the last straw. That’s when I decided the bell was being ripped out of the wall.

Dan, at our pub quiz, said his sister has a cuckoo clock and the cuckoo only comes out randomly when it feels like it. Last week it was at 3.17 PM on a Wednesday. They are eagerly awaiting its next call with trepidation.

My mum also has a beautiful Bavarian cuckoo clock that she paid a handsome price for so she could say, “I have a Bavarian cuckoo clock”. Problem was, the cuckoo started to get right on her nerves, so on one wet Wednesday morning she ripped it clean off its perch. It has recently been repaired at the local repair shop now that she feels more mature and able to deal with cuckooing on the hour. However, whilst the man has mended it to the the best of his cuckoo clocking ability, he said that the cuckoo is not playing ball. Apparently when it does decide to come out it goes absolutely berserk.

Personally, I think somebody needs to investigate as the cuckoos are clearly demented and something is awry. It is said that if you hear a cuckoo from the left it is unlucky but if you hear it from the right it is good luck. What happens if you hear it going bat shit crazy?

We are taking bets on how long the cuckoo is going to last.

Talking of Wildlife…

I recently came across a photo of an insect.

This is an ant, magnified five times under a microscope and it won a photography award a few years back. This is the first time I’ve seen it and I have got to say I am not enamoured. Thank God they are tiny.

In more prettier pictures, please pay homage to my wolfit, Halo the Grey, who is 6 whole years old today.

I took this photo yesterday on our evening walk through the forest which I think suitably captures his noble magnificence.

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There’s wholeness about roaming around the outside at this time of year. Everyday I notice something new, freshly green. Every walk through the woods seems a little bit fuller, the trails less easy to navigate: ferns are unfurling, brambles aggressively searching, and fresh little fingers are growing on the spruce tree. Nature has always been a salve, helping me to decompress and breathe out the detritus of all things internal. If I could live outside without getting wet, cold, or eaten by ticks and tarantulas, I’d stay outside forever. That may make me sound like I’m not such an outdoorsy person, but I am. Being stuck inside drives me insane.

I’ve had the nicest of times sitting on the grass under a tree watching the world go by. One of my favourite evenings was having a bbq on a beach and watching the sun set behind Godrevy lighthouse. I think if I was going to have a celebration of any kind, that’s what I’d want to do.

I stand still in the middle of the forest and listen. Hear all the different birds chattering, the scratching of a squirrel running up a tree. I wonder how many eyes are on me, waiting for me to disappear down the path. But I wait, searching through the trees for deer. I’m not as good as my wolfits, they can pick up the scent from yesterday. I stare through the trunks thinking I’ve seen one, but I haven’t, it’s a fawn branch with antlers just the same. Nature is remarkable. And then I catch sight of a white bobtail flickering through the woodland.

Even a walk around a village is lovely at this time of year. The new flowers arriving, colour bursting out, summer planting beginning. I look at the seasons like a woman getting dressed. Spring sees her stretching and putting on her slip; maybe trying on a few light floaty skirts and dresses. By summer she will be fully donned in a bounteous, colourful gown.

I love flowers. They are beautiful and sharp, innocent and erotic. I always have flowers on my table. I marvel at how stunning each one is. How perfect. Is one more beautiful than another? No, I don’t think so. Each has its own distinctive allure.

As nature brings me peace so does creativity. The two are one and the same for me. I like to bring nature into painting and a few years ago I started to do botanical printing. It seems like an easy thing to do and yet it is not. To get the results you want can take many hours of trial and error and a lot of patience.

Many different approaches and techniques are needed. Remarkably, I enjoy the process even though it can be highly frustrating. Imagine having perfected each layer, placing paint and florals exactly so only to have the final layer ruin the whole thing. This journey can make you despair. But, when you get it right and you pull the final piece and it’s beautiful, better than you imagined, it makes it all worth it.

There’s something magical about what you find, a lot like walking through the woods and coming across a patch full of bluebells or a scattering of cowslips. I am happy that I can merge floral paintings or drawing with botanical printing, like I can share my inside with the big outside. It’s a marriage of perfection to me and I hope you enjoy the results of my nature inspired prints. Available in store

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Print offer for readers here

Readers forgive me. I’ve had four days of back to back celebrations and I don’t think a whisper of whimsy even lives within me. Maybe I lost it down a trumpet at the jazz club. Perhaps it sizzled away under the sun and a BBQ fuddle of endless food. I’m thinking it may have drowned in a bottle of Jolie by Juliette from the south of France, but the likelihood is it’s still snoring in bed, exhausted from the relentless excitement. Bruised and battered by the rhythmic beating of party fever.

You get my drift.

There are so many empty bottles in my glass recycling box that it’s overflowing. It looks like the Wetherspoons truck has backed onto my drive and tipped up the empties. Once upon a time I would have been proud of this accomplishment but now I’m a sensible village dweller, I grimace when I pass it and feel the revellers should come and take some away so I don’t look like the local lush. I’ve been 2 years here trying very hard to prove I’m normal.

I’ve had a nice time with lovely friends and family, though. I’m sorry I can’t give you any Whimsy on a Wednesday but that’s because I’m a mad cow.

Which gave me an idea…

Despite the fact that I desperately needed several naps, a gallon of water, and a healthy meal, I stayed up and did something special for my loyal readers. Those of you who thought they were going to start this Wednesday morning with a titter and a smirk now have an udder surprise.

My mum gave me a funny stone to get tumbled into a shiny thing. However, said stone was not the sort that would polish into a gem, as you can see for yourself. It is a spotty, weird shaped rock which I decided to make into 2 amusing illustrations.

I’m giving away a digital download of each one for my readers FREE for a limited period.

See, I pull away the teat with one hand but give you a new teat full of cream with the other. That’s called looking after your audience, despite regular daylight burning my eyes.

You can collect your mad cow below:

Spot the black and white cow, HERE.

And…

The Stone Grazer, HERE.

Enjoy. I’m off for another snooze.

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I really do need a coffee

I decided a holiday was in order, well, a break at least. I found a bit of a deal at a 5* Radisson Blu, pretty much on the beach in Split, Croatia. Breakfast included. A three night stay only but they say a change is as good as a rest and you know what, it really is. Besides, it’s only a two and a half hour flight and when I stayed in Texas people would drive that long just to go to lunch. I also know of people here who go to Spain for a day, set off at dawn and fly home at midnight. Just take a beach bag and a cossie and you’re all set for a banging day full of sunshine and sangria. I’ve always fancied doing that if you can snag a deal but it’s all the faff at the airport that puts me off.

Got to Split without any faff apart from when we had to do this new fingerprint malarkey. Mine didn’t work. I think it’s because I once chewed at my fingertips when I considered going off grid for an experiment. Perhaps I made them too shallow. Anyway, I had to queue up and do it all again at the main desk. So did everyone else. The people who set these things up generally don’t know their arse from their elbow.

They let me in and I asked them what thank you was in Croatian. I don’t know how you spell it but it sounds like koala. That was easy enough to remember and that’s all I needed at that point. The lingo is lot more complicated than the softer European languages I am used to and know how to say “make that a double” in. This was quite harsh with an Eastern European sound. I was told that the Croats can seem quite abrupt, and they are, but in a no-nonsense kind of way. I like that. Straight to the point with no flowers.

We decided to catch a bus into Split from the airport which took about 45 minutes. Once in Split we agreed (loosely) to walk the 40 minutes to the hotel because it was early and walking lets you see the area and get a feel for stuff. Since it was nearly lunchtime, a stop at a bar for some local cuisine seemed like a bloody good idea. I had a local dish called Cevapcici which is grilled sausages with flat bread, soft cheese, and a red pepper sauce. Nice. I then saw that they did ‘Chicken Wine’. I took the plunge and wondered if I would get a glass of wine or a poultry gravy. Turned out to be a rather strong rosé which I thought might hinder my upcoming walk.

The walk to the hotel was made worse than it should have been by the person following Google maps neglecting to change the travel option from car to person.

This can’t be right, I thought, my head spinning from this hot thing called sun at 24C beating down on my wintery English head. The heavy rucksack didn’t help either, or the fact it was all up hill next to relentless traffic. By the time I reached the hotel I made an abrupt Croat seem like Santa Claus. What made matters worse was that the bus tickets alone cost €20 and I found out I could have got an Uber for €13 from the airport to the hotel door!

“But where would be the fun in that?” and “This is more of an adventure!”

Maybe spring that kind of optimistic foolery on me a few days later when I’m settled in front of the sea with a sparkly water and a smidgen of joie de vivre. Not when I’m having palpitations and nursing broken feet. Timing is very important if you want to live.

The hotel was very pleasant with that air of commercial branding. A pool, a spa, and an expensive roof top terrace. The view to the left showed the glistening Adriatic Sea with cruise ships and yachts, and the right highlighted an enormous run down, empty building looming with graffitied menace. An interesting outlook.

“The beach is just down the steps, here you will find a promenade with bars and cafe’s.”

‘Koala”. I said.

I wouldn’t have said it had I been told there were 200 steps down. Particularly when I’d just walked all the way from town. It was when I had to go back up them on my return that I started to cry.

My next meal went down beautifully as I looked at the sea whilst eating a Pasticada. I asked what the word is for saying something is good, because the beef braised for hours in red wine made life worth living again.

“Dobra”

“Pasticada, dobra. Koala.” Fluency was beginning.

I thought how funny it would be to have a character called Debra Dobra and I could feel a limerick coming on. I then found it seriously un-funny when they kept bringing me tiny glasses of wine. I thought the first one was a mistake or the waiter had been taking a swig on delivery.

“Have you run out or something, love?”

Turns out that wine measures in Croatia are only a 100ml. The sort of amount you’d rinse your glass out with first. Or your mouth. And that came at a costly €7. The prices here surpassed Blighty and that’s saying something.

The old town is very beautiful. Reminiscent of Venice without the water and bridges. Lots of little alleyways and bistros tucked into corners. This is the main event and where you will find all the big spenders from the liners on walking tours. I don’t mind a walking tour as I like to sneak a bit of free info where I can, but in the height of summer when they are all over the place led by insufferable ex -teachers wielding giant pom-poms on sticks, I get agitated. Thankfully, it wasn’t so bad and I had enough room to witness Dalmatian singers harking in Diocletian’s Palace.

My first experience of Croatian ice- cream wasn’t the best. They are way too fancy. Exaggerated to a level that becomes a chemical intrusion. I was frightfully disappointed. I’m used to the unmatched ambrosia of Italian gelato or a nostalgic British Whippy with a flake and strawberry sauce. Not this stuff. However, I found a better one later, tucked away with his simple recipes. A holiday without a cone is no holiday.

I walked up and down the Dalmatian coast at a rate of around 20,000 steps a day and didn’t see a single spotty dog to make a wish upon.

I took two small prints from the ancient palace walls because this is a new found thing that I want to do to remember a place and help fund my wish jar. I will be selling these prints for the price of a chicken wine in the near future.

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I don’t know what you’re doing for Easter next weekend but it will probably involve a get together of some sort: a visit to church, a big Sunday roast, games with the family. Or, you might be stuffing your face with chocolate, going on an Easter egg hunt, trying to find an Easter bunny in Tenerife, or making devilled eggs. But should you be at a loss at what to do, I have a suggestion.

Food for Thought

This past weekend I went off to the North East coast, as I do a few times a year, to visit friends. There’s always something going on in Whitby and even if there isn’t some kind of special event, it’s a seaside town that never sleeps. Once up there, things get arranged for a few days so we all have a fun and exciting time. I’ve been to the Goth weekend, Steampunk, Fish and Ships. I’ve witnessed storytelling in the pub, the ice cream parlour, the funicular and Robin Hoods Bay. The list of fun activities is endless.

At this point I think the Whitby tourist board might consider hiring me.

This weekend we went to a pub called the Hare and Hounds that is famous for its steak, mushroom, and ale pie.

They only make so many and they are made to order so you have to wait patiently whilst you salivate over other peoples plates nearby. If I was going to give any advice on this I wouldn’t do what I did and just have a banana all day because you will start to eat your own insides. A glass of wine whilst you wait doesn’t help because you’re just adding to the acidic process. The wait, however, is worth it. The pie arrived like a tall column of magnificence, golden, shortcrust pastry loaded full of steak that fell apart in the thick meaty gravy when I sliced into it. Divine. I couldn’t breathe afterwards but I was more than happy to die at that point.

Pre- Easter Chicken

Anyway, the next day we went on what we like to call “The Whitby Trail” which means we meander around the cobbled streets looking at shops and popping into pubs and generally having an afternoon of pleasure seeking before teatime and the next northern culinary delight.

This was called Chicken Parmo and had been specially prepared by the local butcher.

Invented in the North East, Teeside I believe, and known as an indulgent takeaway. This chicken schnitzel, breaded, fried, and covered in bechemal sauce is then topped with melted cheddar cheese just to make sure they took indulgence to the next level. I was almost convinced that this actually would be the end and what way to go!

Thankfully it wasn’t, but I’ve found another way to go that should be a definite if you fancy slipping off the dish. This brings me back to my Easter suggestion.

A Crawl to the Bitter End

Whilst we were all out galavanting, my friend came across an Easter Saturday event. Just when you thought too much chocolate might make you badly, have you ever considered a twelve hour pub crawl?

No?

Well, allow me to enlighten you.

This pub crawl has been going for 27 years. And I’m not even sure if anyone has died, which is an absolute miracle.

You have half an hour to have a scoop in each pub before you move onto the next one. That’s what we Brits call necking it.

We all sat there wondering how this is possible. You would have to have 33 drinks. Even if you only had half a pint, that’s still 16.5 pints all necked at super speed. 33 glasses of wine, totally impossible as that’s nearly 7 bottles, and 33 shots would kill you. I don’t know what the badge of honour is at the end but I think it might be a free pass to a hospital drip.

Needless to say, I won’t be doing it because as you have read above, I don’t see the point in empty calories.

Until next time, Happy Easter!

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This week’s whimsy has a note of pleasantry. That’s nice, isn’t it?

I have discovered…

That stealing a piece of cherry pie out of the fridge took me by surprise. Normally, I’d have warm pie with cream or custard, not cold and lacking company. But oh my lord. It’s so much better! Was it because I stole it or was it because it was cold?

We had a hot day. In fact, we had a couple. March came in and teased with 18 degrees and a chance for washing to go on the line. People cut their first grass of the year and it smelled of memories. I took my first dog walk of the year wearing a t-shirt. I threw open the back doors to kill the sillage of winter’s breath. The birds sang louder, the people smiled more. The pub opened on a day it’s normally closed, which is perhaps why the people smiled more, the blossom on the cherry trees showed off in competition with the magnolia. I went for an evening stroll to to see the last of the daffodils.

The lambs arrived in the fields. That says “Spring” to me. My favourite time of the year.

I found that Kermit isn’t always Kermit. This amused me.

And, here’s some more art philosophy…

Every year I enter into an international postcard competition. A worldwide show where artists send in 6x4 pieces of work that get shown in the gallery for about a month. Last year I won second place which made my day. People can buy your postcard art and any you don’t sell can be returned or swapped with another artist. I opt for the latter because I forget about it and then get a surprise in the post. This year I sold 3 postcards and got 2 swapsies.

And here they are:

From Northern France we have the mystery of Mr. Quinn!

There’s something softly sinister about this. The more I look at it, the more I like it. The artist is a guy from France who emailed me and said my family and I are welcome anytime. I love it when that happens. So long as he’s not a masking behind a soft composure with an arsenal in his Maison de Maître.

From a lovely lady in Ireland we have the Time Capsule:

It reminds me of silos. There is a sense of waiting which is collaged into the piece. The colours make me feel a bleak, coastal longing. Great texture. (Why am I not employed by Landscape artist of the year?)

And for anyone interested in my plonk of the week, because I’ve moved on from water tasting, here it is:

A Pinot Noir from Oregon, if you please. Well, I’ve got to say I nearly passed out with joy at the taste of it. Unfortunately, I had to share it with friends over a cottage pie. It’s an extremely good, I had to force myself to put it down fresh, fruity, delicious wine. You need to get it in.

And, if Scott Kelley is reading this, well, you need to send me a case of this vino in return for the admirable promotion I just gave you.

I’ll send you a postcard.

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I was going to talk about who made the Moon…

It’s at the right point to create tidal variations on Earth for life, exactly the right distance from the sun, making it the perfect size to cause an eclipse. Meteors hitting the Moon cause a maximum depth of 2-3 kilometres regardless of the size of the impact and the Moon is not as dense as Earth.

But I thought, there’s no point talking about that because you’ll all think I’m mad so instead I’d like to discuss water sommeliers.

Yes, you read that right.

Whadda Wha?

Eau My Word

I went to some friends’ house the other evening for a chilli, a rhubarb fool, and a nice bottle of wine. My pal told me that she’d listened to a show about water sommeliers and urged me to listen.

For people who do not have a penchant for a fine wine please see me, there’s a new rival on the block. Posh water. It’s a thing. People are travelling around to do “water tasting” and the vocation of assessing the mineral content and saline quality in your mouth is growing. You can obtain certification from the Fine Water Academy and learn the key concepts of water and how to tell its story: virginality, minereality, vintage, the epicurean integration, and of course, the iconic brands.

Even though we have the best drinking water in the world coming straight out of the tap for free, what’s a bit of chlorine or fluoride between friends, the mineral content of some bottled waters are becoming nutritional must haves. Some of these waters have detoxifying properties and contain essential magnesium, potassium, high hydration, and balance the PH of your body to perfection.

Then there’s the collectables…

Liquid Luxury

Of course, it wouldn’t be the same unless fashion poked its nose in so we could rip off the stupid. Or is this the next art investment? Perhaps I should start painting with fancy water so my art is worth thousands. This could be my moment.

The most expensive bottled water is Acqua di Cristallo tributo a Modigliani. I mean, it’s a bit of a mouthful already isn’t it, and goes for $60,000 per 24 karat gold bottle.

Fillip Jewellery Water in Swarovski donned bottles is going for $1,180 a litre. BLING me a bottle of that if you will, sir!

Svalbaroi Polar Iceberg Water. Sourced, no less, from gourmet Arctic icebergs. Frozen in price @ $185 per litre. Bargain!

As I was listening to this show at 3am this morning, the woman on this water mission visited a place in Cheshire where a rather funny, bearded Viking, found a spring under his pub and is now making a mint with his own bottling plant. Smart.

Even closer to me is a place called Buxton. Everyone has heard of that premium British water which takes a 5000 year journey through limestone. But, here’s the thing -if you go to Buxton they have a couple of fountains that spew it out for free.

Free.

You only have to say that once to a Brit.

Subsequently, there are people rolling up with empty bottles and ewers, filling up and probably selling it on eBay. One couple drive a good hour and a half from Leicester every few weeks to fill up so they can have a constant supply in their fridge. Another woman buys cheap bottles of water from Morrisons, tips it down the sink, and then refills them with life-giving Buxton spring.

I’ve got to say, I’m tempted. Perhaps if I go and load up I can do a trial for the savvy readers of this article. Maybe I’ll become purified.

In the meantime, if you fancy having a go yourself, here’s what to do: Get yourself a pricey water. Take a mouthful, swish it around your mouth like a mouthwash (gross) and swallow. Your mouth is now prepared for tasting. Enjoy nature’s delicate tones and the nuance of sweet and creamy minerals as they refresh your essence.

I even considered becoming a water sommelier for a laugh but then thought, you probably have to have an exceptionally clean palate: no bacon, no garlic, no vin-de-necessaire.

I honestly don’t think I’m disciplined enough.

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I’m so tired. I am not sleeping properly because I’ve been watching and reading about unusual things. Also, I get excited about the possibility of what could happen; I don’t have dreams, I have wild adventures. It’s difficult being imaginative and totally paranoid all at the same time.

It all Started With Bread

I decided that I wanted all my staple foods to be organic so that I wasn’t eating a load of crap like fillers and stabilisers and a whole list other horrible stuff. Turns out there’s a bread map. This means you can now find the best dough wherever you are. Once I’d got that nailed, it followed with eggs, tea, milk, and dairy. I have been eating like this for a month and its made a significant difference to how I feel.

Poor.

Since the great corporates have been lying about ‘what’s good for you’ for a long time, I put on my tin hat and went on a fishing expedition to find out what and who else had been pulling my plonker.

This is why social media should be banned. Or, people like me should be banned from it. You can’t rely on age limits. No. There needs to be mental assessments.

The Final Countdown

I found myself down a rabbit hole with a bloke called Avi Loeb, after looking into ancient Sumerian text and the 12 Anunnaki. I say bloke, but Avi is a theoretical physicist working on astrophysics and is a junior professor at Harvard University. Now Avi is very entertaining to watch. This is a man who has an incredible passion for his work. He is constantly smiling and sitting with ants in his pants, particularly at his latest obsession, the comet 3I/ATLAS. Not a comet, according to Avi despite what NASA say. Those gatekeepers are just trying to keep you from the truth.

You see, according to Avi, this thing has several anomalies. I believe he has counted 14. There are 3 continual jets arranged at precisely 120 degrees between them around this object, and those jets should now have stopped because if the surface of the comet is ice, it is now harder than concrete because the temperature around it is substantially lower than freezing. It is emitting gasses that comets don’t normally emit, including the basic building blocks for the DNA molecule. Interesting…It has changed trajectory and speed and looks like its ploughing towards Jupiter to recharge its batteries and send a message home.

This is not a comet it is an artificial artefact. We can’t say manmade because Spock might object.

Yes, readers, this could be the Starship Enterprise!

So, the good news is that everything else going on in the world won’t matter when we get invaded by aliens. You have seven days to find something hard to bite down on or try and make sense of it yourself at Avi’s website.

I Found a Connection

Following on from this, I heard about a film on Prime called ‘Age of Disclosure’ about aliens and UFO’s and all sorts of malarkey, like them showing up at military bases and turning nuclear warheads on and off for a laugh. I went and had a look at that. One thing led to another and I found myself practising the art of telepathy to connect to the unknown, even though if something showed up in my back garden I would be hysterical. I’d rather have a chat with an alien down at the pub where I could drink it under the table if I needed to escape.

I continued down the rabbit hole and saw an ad for a show called ‘Evil’ and remembered that I’d wanted to watch that ages ago and forgotten. The name should have been a clue but I liked the the premise of the show where an atheist psychologist and a priest end up working together to solve mysteries. However, it is sometimes horribly scary and this is adding to my sleep problem. I figured it was time to jump out of my extra terrestrial obsession and maybe check out what was in the mother of my sourdough.

The Exorcism (putting a child lock on YouTube)

Thankfully, I had a lovely trip to West Sussex planned to visit my godparents which took me out of my mad little mind for a while. Although when it came to go to dinner and I dressed up in my beautiful black shimmery top and palazzo trousers, I found the black boots I had packed were both different. Entirely different. One was suede and one was leather for a start and the heel difference was at least three inches. I couldn’t have got away with it if I wanted to, but that wasn’t the worst part. They were both for the same foot.

“Lord above, I’m turning into my mother.”

This is the devil at work. This is what lack of sleep, mental obsession, dodgy milk, and forgetting to take your vitamin D does to you. When I got back home I took the wolfits for big, long romp in the woods. Nothing like nature to clear your head and balance the old system. I listened to the birds chirping and breathed in the beautiful smell of the forest ground. Petrichor, I think its called. Of course I looked it up.

That smell in the woods? It’s called decay. You basically like the smell of death. And, birds might not be joyfully singing, they could be screeching in terror and sending out warning alarms. Ever considered that?

Bloody hell! There’s always someone to piss on your chips, isn’t there?

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Help me save for a new tin hat

It was only a month after Christmas so I was rather wrung out. Or, it could be that I’m getting somewhat forgetful in my older years, I don’t know. All I know is that I won’t be going back to that shop again for a while.

When most people are packing away Christmas and getting ready to calm the hell down after a month of shopping/eating/cleaning/being nice to people all the festivities, I’m not. No. I have to start again because I have a lot of birthdays in January and they are for key people in my life. This means I can’t go getting anything in the sale, or adding to Christmas gifts, or looking like I’ve not made a spectacular effort. I have to go above and beyond. When everybody else is moaning about how long and boring January is, I’m speeding through it with an empty purse, a full credit card, and a banging headache. I can’t wait until pancake day is over so I can have a rest.

“What are you giving up for Lent, Jules?”

“People.”

The Backlash

I went into a well known chemist / beauty store to buy a small gift to add to the other endless ones on the list. A very nice mascara that promised length and durability. Blink and you could kill someone. I stood at the display looking for this brand in the right colour. I was having a devil of a job trying to find the one that wasn’t waterproof so the recipient wouldn’t have to go through four buckets of micellar water to get the stuff off. I have known people wait for their eyelashes to fall out instead of going through the cleaning hell that leaves them nearly blind. The vanity game is not for the weak willed.

All of a sudden and straight away I heard a voice at the side of me and I jumped to see a sales assistant standing nearby.

“Are you looking for a mascara?”

“Well, yes but…”

“Number 7 have brought a new one out and it’s absolutely amazing. Super length, not clumpy, glorious coating.”

“But this one…”

“And, it’s got the slimline wand, just like the one you’re looking at.”

“It’s just that...”

“LOOK AT MY EYE!”

I jumped in shock when I actually looked at the lady’s eye, mostly because it violently stood out from its naked companion. It was like comparing a tarantula to a midge.

“I only did one eye. You see…”

Yes, I can see that. Incredible. Truly. However, I know the person I’m buying it for specifically wants this one, otherwise I’d give it a go.”

“There’s £3.00 off today. And I can assure you, she won’t be disappointed.”

Hmm, you don’t know my family

I decided to throw caution to the wind and take a chance. The fact the lady was walking around with one giant lashed eye magnified by glasses was enough to make me recognise this was someone taking their job seriously.

She took me to the counter so I could pay for the item, with a lovely discount, and be on my way.

A dare in the head is worth two in the brush

“Do you have a loyalty card?”

“Yes, I do, thank you.”

“And before you go, is there anything else I can help you with?”

I decided to ask if they had another thing on my list. This was a place that was likely to have it.

“Do you have a whore brush?”

“I beg your pardon?!”

“A whore brush?”

Her one giant eye stared at me in disbelief.

“A WHORE brush I said slowly and louder. You know, a whore hair brush. WHORE HAIR!”

For the love of God, why does this woman not know what I’m talking about? She’s happy to coat your lashes but when it comes to the crowning glory, she hasn’t got a scooby-doo.

“WHORE BRUSH. WHORE. WHORE HAIR.”

It was only after saying it out loud several times and not getting an answer that it finally registered that what I was saying was wrong.

VERY. wrong.

I gasped.

“Oh my God I’m so sorry. What on Earth is wrong with me? What I meant to say is boar hair. A boar hair hair brush!”

“I did wonder,” she snipped.

She looked it up on her computer whilst I tried to explain how I got whore mixed up with boar and hair together and I’m dreadfully tired and I did buy a lovely mascara though.

“We don’t have them but they do them at Kiehls for £90.00”

“Ninety quid for a bloody hairbrush? I don’t think so!” What I wanted to say is that it would probably be a lot cheaper if it actually was whore hair but then realised how highly inappropriate that was and it was time for me to shut up. Wrong crowd.

I thanked her for her help, hung my whore head in shame and left the shop.

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buy me a hairbrush

I seem to give off a Dr Dolittle energy. Every year, when animals start to poke their heads up after winter, they seem to wander in my direction with issues.

I had a baby hedgehog in the middle of the road that needed saving, a poor sparrow being pushed around by magpies, fallen baby birds squawking for rescue, and once I had a baby crow in my garden and had to wear a hat and glasses every time I went out to see to it in case the murder of crows above pecked my eyes out. It’s a relentless ordeal.

I took a walk on the wild side

The other day I went for a dog walk in the woods and found a bright yellow canary. There it was, foraging for food on the floor and it flew up into the tree when my wolfits took an interest.

Great. Somebody’s neon pet budgie has escaped and now I have to deal with it. There it sat in the tree like a glowing banana. Far too naive and domesticated for the wilds of the forest.

I tried calling it and speaking in my kindest birdy voice but to no avail.

I went on my walk and came back an hour later. After dropping the dogs in the truck I went back to where I last saw it and there it was on the floor again. Not a clue on situational awareness. I crept gently towards it making chirping noises and up it flew into the tree again.

*Sigh*

I tried again to coax it down. Even the tits were helping me as around 15 of them were screeching violently at the yellow bird. Perhaps it was in their tree, I don’t know, or they didn’t like the look of its fancy feathers.

My Dr Dolittle lingo didn’t seem to be taking effect: Get down here you little yellow skank. Fine. stay there. See how you like it when Mr sparrowhawk picks you up in your canary yellow coat. Biggest fashion faux pas in here since Friar Tuck.

I came to the conclusion that without a large net I wasn’t going to get hold of this creature. Perhaps freedom was a benefit it could enjoy before getting taken out by a friendly predator. The dogs were crying and I had to go. Maybe someone else would have better luck. Even the owners, wherever they were.

For Flocks Sake

Of course, it wasn’t that simple was it? My brain couldn’t just leave it at that. C’est la vie, oh no.

What if a buzzard gets it? I mean, it’s a sitting duck.

It’s going to make magpies so jealous.

Robins will hate it.

What if is it’s too cold? It’s used to central heating and probably a blanket.

At half 6 the next morning I got up and went back to the woods. I took some food. I say food, it’s the stuff I make my own muesli from, you know, like raisins, oats and pine nuts. I mean if you’re hungry you’re hungry, right? I didn’t think it’d fancy bacon. I didn’t even have a cup of tea. Off I went, bleary eyed and nauseous to go and find somebody else’s pet bird because my sick and twisted mind convinced me that some old lady or little child was devastated at having left the window open.

I got there at 7AM to find the place was shut. A barrier right across the car park entrance. Bloody typical. Who shuts a forest off? Desperately annoyed, I went across the road to the open and rustic woodland for a walk. The birds were in full morning chorus and I cleverly had an idea.

King of the call

I took out my bird app. Perhaps the canary had flown this way, and if it had then the app would pick it up! They are known for their singing, are they not? I walked all around the woods with the phone listening to all the chirps and cheeps and warbles and coos. So many birds turned up on the screen that I had to scroll down for ages to see! As well as the usual suspects I got a chiffchaff, a ringed necked pheasant, and two different woodpeckers! That gave me another idea for a current art project challenge called “Making an Entrance” which I thought fit the woodpecker perfectly. So that’s what I painted above. Talk about killing two birds with one stone, eh? Anyway, I digress.

At the end of my walk I went back to the original wood and it was still closed off so I went home for a much needed cuppa and breakfast.

And then…

I went back at lunchtime. Just to make sure.

The canary was nowhere to be seen. I walked up and down the path where I first saw it but nada. Why I expected it to be in the same place I don’t know, because that’s rather ridiculous. I can only hope it has made a friend and flown off into the sky, playing on the currents of the wind. Or it’s safely back with its owner who needs to buy me a coffee for all my bloody trouble.

Talking of which…

Buy Me a Coffee (or margarita)

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Dear readers who have loyally followed me for many years - this is where I live now. The fancy pants, all-singing, many pages website where I used to reside is no more.

Simplify. That is the word of the moment. Don’t want too many spoons.

My old place was far too needy, high maintenance, and irritable. There’s only room for one of us to be like that. And, as soon as I heard that Dolly Parton had started a Substack late last year, I felt it only right to follow suit.

To newcomers who come across this bothy, please enjoy some Whimsy on a Wednesday - it has been going on for years. Not today though, it’s Monday. Though I am prone to turn up on random days with art philosophy, rantings, and other weird stuff.

My current obsessions are aliens, Professer Avi Loeb ( though when I listen to him on You Tube I imagine this is how my dogs feel when I talk to them) perfecting beef birria tacos, telepathy, and botanical printing.

I’m off now. The sun is here and after weeks of being as a soggy as the bottom of a week old trifle, I need to dry out.

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