What an Idiot

I’m so so so stupid!

Having cut Hammy free from the soft bedding once (see previous post: Cutting the Rope) and reading widely on the net about the dangers of such bedding why oh why did I continue to use it?

Well I did.

What an idiot!

I had loads of the stuff still to use up I suppose that was why I was still using it. Then I wanted to create a nice soft bed for my old, tired hamster to lie upon. I guess that was why I was still using it.

Fool! Fool!

Hammy by frantic scrabbling alerted me to his new plight. This time both legs were entangled and held together by the down.

Only by very careful clipping and cutting did I free him.

I then bathed him very gingerly as he’s no longer able to clean himself.

He’s not drinking so I’m coating his seed stick that now lies horizontally at the base of the cage with natural yoghurt. Even better I also place a ‘table’ of cucumber next to his nose which is topped by yoghurt too.

When I bathe his eyes with cotton buds he sucks on the wet cotton bud too.

But I’m so cross with myself for foolishly continuing to use the soft down.

I’m now using torn up kitchen towels.

And Hammy looks snug.

Very snug.

As I eat his chocolate covered raisins.

A Mouthful of Chocolate!

It was the second time that I’d been there in a week.

I handed over the card and the same chap went off to see if he could find the parcel.

There was no queue this time.

The last time I was here there were nearly forty people in a serpentine queue that snaked back on itself.

It had moved pitifully slowly.

There was a sausage dog that was looking around warily at the feet and bodies in the crowd: but especially the feet. I too was afraid that it would be stepped on as its owner leaned over the counter and signed something.

In front of me people were waiting by the counters and wonderfully shaped parcels of all sizes were being passed to them.

Eventually, it was my turn. I handed over the card and showed my passport photo that looked nothing like me and the chap went off to look.

Others around me were getting their parcels with no trouble at all. I had time to study the cold warehouse. Eventually my chap returned to say that my parcel wasn’t on the shelves and to call in again on Christmas Eve.

Today there was no queue.

The same chap took my card and went off with the same optimism that he’d had the last time. There was a phone ringing incessantly and there was the same chill air. Someone had painted pictures in this warehouse where parcels wait to be collected. These pictures are somewhat dubious and far from cheerful. There is a silhouette of a long skirted woman who seems to be about to stab the man next to her with scissors. There is a coin that has been painted upside down, a treasonable offence no doubt. I think it might be illegal to stick a stamp on a letter upside down: something to do with the queen not being happy if her head is upside down, perhaps she feels the same about upside down coins.

I began to fret.

I caught glimpses of my chap walking backwards and forwards. He was avoiding my eyes. He was scurrying between shelves and ducking out of view.

Eventually, he moved my way and I steeled myself for disappointment once more.

‘Here you are,’ he said.

He passed a small package over that had been hidden in his hands.

‘That was problem you see.’

He pointed out the name that had been written on the side of the package by whoever had tried to deliver it. All the vowels in my surname had been replaced by a different vowel. My new surname looked Russian or something from an Eastern block country. Just a few more consonants and it would have said Rudolph.

I read my new surname aloud and laughed.

Then the chap said something that made me really admire him.

‘I saw that parcel the last time you came,’ he said. ‘It was on the shelf when you last came in.’

‘The queue was out of the door wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You had a long wait,’ he said.

I nodded, admiring his honesty.

Behind him the silhouette of the woman was stabbing him with scissors.

As I left I looked again at the new name someone had given me. Then I checked the package.

It was my friend’s handwriting that had caused the problem. Her ‘e’s were just like ‘o’s.

Or more likely perhaps when she first asked me my surname I probably had a mouthful of chocolate.

Just an Inkling

Not being quite with it (the usual state of affairs) I found myself in another very odd situation recently.

When my friend was leaving work I called in on my local florist to buy her some flowers.

I was croaking with laryngitis when I chose the flowers.
The florist seemed more flustered than usual. It turned out that her helper had let her down, so she was unable to deliver her Christmas orders.
Despite not being able to speak properly, I heard my own creaky voice, quite disconnected from my brain, saying that if she wanted help then I would be happy to help her with her deliveries.

So on the Friday before Christmas I was driving around the town. My car with its back seats down was filled with Christmas flowers and I was inhaling their lovely scented aroma.

I had been told that on no account was I to bring any of the various bouquets back. I had to find people in, or porches, or neighbours that would take the flowers in. Anything!

I planned a route and with my street guide open next to me on the passenger seat (because I couldn’t work out how to close it again) I set off.

I was relieved when my first customer was in.
The name on the card was Auntie Bet and as I stood on this dear old lady’s doorstep and asked if she was ‘Auntie Bet’ I realised that she was scrutinising my features as if I was some long lost relative that she was desperately trying to place and remember.
I was relieved when she finally took the flowers into her arms, but alarmed when she turned from the door and left it wide open behind her. All her precious heat was escaping into the cold air.

Five minutes later, w hen I set off to find the next person on the list I drove past Auntie Bet’s house, and was worried to see that the door was still not closed.

However, my concerns about Auntie Bet disappeared when I tried to negotiate a very busy roundabout. I had been told that the next address was particularly tricky to find. I was unable to remember anything more about the complicated directions I’d been given other than the first part of it, ‘turn left at the busy roundabout.’

I turned left and found a safe place to park near a park anxious to avoid the likes of Clamper Man (see previous post).

I studied the map for a while but could not find the street I was looking for. I decided to walk instead and ask.

I picked up the bouquet and set off. Ten steps away from the car I began to worry that something was wrong.
I looked back at the car. Perhaps I hadn’t locked it properly. I didn’t want to have to go back to the florist and say all her bouquets had been stolen so I went back and checked it.

It was locked.

I set off again.

I met a wonderful lady who was on her bicycle. She knew exactly where I was going and even better said she’d walk with me there.

Apparently I was going to an old people’s home. Her own grandmothers had died in the same home on different Christmas Day’s, the cyclist told me. (I made a mental note that if ever I ended up there that I should skip the Christmas dinner.) I chatted about my own grandmothers. I was very close to one of my grandmothers, a spiritualist, and I was thinking about her when I got the message.
‘The card’s gone.’
It was a clear thought expressed without words.
‘Oh,‘ I said to my new cyclist friend. ‘I’ve just had a message, ‘The card’s gone.’
I set the basket flower arrangement down and we both checked the foliage. The card with the name of who was to receive the flowers with a message inside was indeed missing. The green plastic card holder was still there but empty.
We looked about us. There was no sign of it.
My new cyclist friend very kindly cycled back up the hill retracing our steps in search of it.
She did not find it.
I thanked her and decided to go all the way back to the car. ‘I’d have to go back to the florist and get a replacement card.’ I thought as I walked the long way back, though I was thinking more about the sudden flash of intuition that had told me that the card was missing in the first place. Where had that come from? That sudden inkling that something was not right?

When I was almost all the way back to where I started, I found the card.

It on the ground ten steps from the car!

A Tale to Tell

I experienced a form of legalised mugging a few

weeks ago just before Christmas.

I was off work with laryngitis and had to give a leaving present that I’d bought on behalf of all the staff to a work colleague so that she could take it into work.

I sometimes get a warning twinge of intuition that I have learnt over the years to listen to. On this occasion as I tried to talk on the phone with my raspy voice I asked my colleague about parking. She lives in the centre of town and I was worried about finding a place where I could park easily.

‘No worries,’ the work colleague said on the phone. ‘After six it’s free.’

So I waited for the magical witching hour of six o’clock and drove into one of the empty bays outside her flat. There were many empty parking spaces and I was surprised but gave it little thought.

My work colleague treated me to a cup of tea and said how much she liked the gift. Speaking was really hard for me so as my voice faded away into various whispery squeaky sharps flats, it was time for me to fade away too. I’d only been there for half an hour but outside my car had already been clamped.
When all I wanted was to return to my bed with a hot water bottle I was now instead without credit or debit card or mobile phone shivering outside in the car park under a black sky.
My work colleague apologetically explained that she had meant that the parking was free in a different bay. She rang the number and tried to reason with the clamper man. He arrived and sat in his unmarked white van chewing gum as I approached. You could see immediately that his was a face that had been called all the names under the sun and that every wounding word had slid off his features without causing so much as a scratch. Equally I could see that no amount of reasoning, pleading, or explaining would touch him either. Any appeals about it being Christmas would also cut no ice. His face was blank, expressionless, implacable. He’d heard it all before. He wasn’t interested. He didn’t care. It was his job.
I didn’t bother to insult or plead.
I just wanted to get back home.
Clamper Man had to drive me back to my house so that I could pick up my debit card. Then he drove me on to Morrisons so I could withdraw the eighty pound release fee. He then drove me back to the empty car park, and once the money was in his hands he easily turned the key in the clamp’s locks and within seconds my car was my own again.

All in all, it was not a pleasant experience being driven to a cash point by a total stranger. I was chilled and shivering when I finally got into my car. The Clamper Man had driven all the way to the cash point and back with his window open.
My only consolation was that while he was busy driving me around the town he was not able to clamp others.

The money I paid him was going to be used in part for a Christmas tree, so also on the bright side at least I won’t have any pine needles to sweep up.

And even better my friend who was leaving work received her gift and was delighted by it.

And I at least had a tale to tell.

Hamster update

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His face has the look of a tired old lion, but his eyes look a lot brighter. He’s not drinking any water so I’m giving him treats such as red grapes and cucumber. I’m even treating him to Morrison’s own fruit nuts and seed mix. Trouble is I tend to nibble them too!

To my horror I’ve just noticed that his back leg the one that became entangled in the down bedding is still red and swollen. Worse he is now dragging the leg. I’ve just let him have a ‘run’ around on the kitchen floor which has cold tiles in the hope that it will reduce some of the swelling. I’m going to have to keep an eye on it.

On the Internet I’ve just discovered that this sort of bedding is notorious for causing injury such as loss of limbs and even death to hamsters. Apparently, I should have stuck to sawdust and torn up toilet rolls and not spoilt him with ‘Nestledown’ which purports to be, ‘a cosy and safe bedding for your pet.’

Hammy’s snuggled back in his cage now after feasting on chocolate covered raisins which he prefers to lettuce. There is a strong scent of cucumber in the living room from the delectable salad that lies untouched within his cage but all the chocolate raisins are gone: and Hammy isn't entirely to blame!

Wharf Rat

. .




I am solar powered.

When the sun shines I’m happy and full of energy. I am bright with ideas; but the reverse happens when there are overcast skies and early nightfall. At such times my hibernation gene is activated, and under the duvet I go. Yesterday was such a day here in deepest darkest England. The skies were dull; and heavy rain fell for most of the day. The light was squeezed from the sky and I was switched off.

Only music can reach through at such times.

My internet radio station: Pandora has moved onto playing the Grateful Dead’s music.

I hear ‘Wharf Rat’ for the first time and it’s perfect with the rain falling outside. At the end of the song, as the sounds from the instruments come to a ragged end, people applaud; and I so wish I had been there just once amongst the crowd.


http://youtube.com/watch?v=iXSueu_O79E&feature=related

http://arts.ucsc.edu/GDEAD/AGDL/wrat.html

A word on “The Poem on the Stone of Loughcrew.”

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I just want to explain the very unusual post that lies below this post. I make no claims to be a poet. I just believe that before pictograms became simplified into letters that they were once simple to read and indeed had a universal language that anyone could understand. I woke up this morning convinced that there was a poem written on this stone that is featured below and that it can be easily read. (There are better photographs with the pictograms outlined in white chalk on the web which are far superior to the photo I took.)

Loughcrew is a passage tomb in County Meath, Ireland.

I took the photograph of this stone that lies inside the cairn about two years ago. Loughcrew is about 5000 years old.

I have been immersed in Celtic tales for many years. Last night I came upon a drawing of this stone and went to sleep thinking of the images and what they might mean.

This morning I awoke with the thought that there was a poem on the stone that could be read in any language.

I wasn’t sure whether to start reading the poem from left to right or vice-versa. I stumbled upon the term ‘boustrophedon’ this morning whereby writing/ideas can be read in different directions rather like the idea of an ox turning the plough. As Celtic art features intricate designs I was drawn to that idea.

First I began looking at the water image at the top and then moved left to the sun image.




.............................
.................This is the stone that I think has a poem (or two) written on it.


Next, I turned underneath the sun image and moved from left to right. I imagined the small dots to be food on plates, the cruciform shape to be the tomb itself; the sun with one of its rays broken to be the spirit of the dead king and the large image on the right to be a book of his deeds: a record of his life.

......................................
Dropping below the book and now moving onto the large sun image I took this to be the king himself. I was interested in the eight spokes in this image; thenI stumbled upon the Buddhist ideas of the Noble Eightfold Path which is:

Wisdom (Prajñā · Paññā)
Right view
Right intention


Ethical conduct (Śīla · Sīla)
Right speech
Right action
Right livelihood


Mental discipline (Samādhi)
Right effort

..............................................................This is the entrance to the tomb.

Right mindfulness
Right concentration



I thought then of having a poem within a poem. An inner poem that would be prompted by the eight rays in this image, exploring how Buddhist principles could have worked in Celtic times. (I’m imagining that these principles to have pre-dated Buddhism. )


Then I was looking at the images on this line. There seemed to be two graves one large and the other smaller. There was also an animated figure at the far left hand side. There also seem to be representations of a star, the moon and the sun, which are in alignment.



The previous night I had read how Emer had asked to be entombed with the fallen hero Cúchulainn when he was buried. So with this ancient precedent in mind, I imagined the animated figure on the left to be the wife of the king who willingly joined him in his tomb.
At the bottom of the stone I thought there were boats so I incorporated that thought into the poem too.


Then I wanted a name for my dead king. I settled on Eochaidh Ollamh Fodhla; before I discovered that this tomb and this stone are indeed thought to be attributed to him!

Eochaidh Ollamh Fodhla I discovered after I’d already written about him was responsible for keeping records and updating genealogies at Tara. He also convened a parliament. So the pictograph that I took to be a book which recounted his deeds seems indeed to be very apt as is perhaps the inner poem describing his abilities.


Eochaidh Ollamh Fodhla was also a poet. Poetry was highly revered in Celtic times. So the idea that there was a poem on the stone seemed to have more credence.

This is the stone chair, the hag's chair, that grants your wishes just outside the tomb.

I was unable to find mention of his wife. However, the Goddess Bhéara (Bera) is associated with the area: a hag like creature of great age.

..................................................................................... ....

Later, I discovered the stone I was interested in is the equinox stone in the Loughcrew complex: and that the sunlight shines on the stone twice a year.

So there you have it an explanation of the thinking behind: "The Poem on the Stone at Loughcrew" that is in the post below…

Perhaps tonight I will dream of chocolate!

The Poem on the Stone of Loughcrew.

,

There is no beauty in the crashing waves,
Now your sun has sunk below the dark horizon.
Your spirit walks palely beside us.
Your food lies cold on untouched plates.
As we build your tomb.

All your deeds lie open for those with eyes to see,
The book of records.
Your spirit stands amongst us.
You were the greatest and noblest of kings
With eightfold wisdom:

1.
You saw things as they truly are:
The beginning and the end of the path.
The transient and the invisible
And brought peace to the land.

2.
You acted without greed:
Treating all with compassion
Goodwill and consideration
And brought peace to the land.

3.
You spoke truthful words
Gloved in warmth and kindness.
You knew the value of silence and of harmony
And brought peace to the land.

4.
Your halls were open to all
Your knife lay forgotten in its sheaf
You took only what was given
And brought peace to the land.


5.
You harmed none by the way you lived
Sun and rain
Gave you riches alone
And brought peace to the land.

6.
You righted the wrongs of the past
With unhurried time as your friend
Shielding your pastures
And brought peace to the land.

7.
You stood in the turning centre of the moment
Humbly guiding the plough of past and future
Towards the right.
And brought peace to the land.

8.
You saw beyond the veils
Like a mountain rising above the clouds
Blessed by starlight
And brought peace to the land.


Under the rule of star, moon and sun
We place your grave
As your spirit decreed
Close to the grave of your queen
Who loved you enough to enter her tomb alive.

As we sing of you in this place
May our voices carry you
As your spirit heeds
To the other shore
Of fearlessness and immortality.

May the year’s twice shining light
When day and night are equal
Free your spirit,
Eochaidh Ollamh Fodhla
Creator of the Feis Teamhrach,
maker of laws,
reformer and reviser of antiquities,

Keeper of genealogies, and chronicles,
purger of corrupted records and falsehoods,
To walk amongst us once more
And bring peace to the land.
Until then dear poet
Sleep in the wizened white wintry arms
of the Goddess Bhéara.