Happy New Year!

Perhaps a little late, but here we are – 2020, perfect vision, a new decade, the Roaring Twenties again… and I find I have taken the roaring part quite literally to heart.

Regular readers may recall I was searching for that little je ne sais quoi, the little added extra, a flourish, if you will, to add as I get off the bus and run away. The running away part is definitely catching on, I’m pleased to say.

On my journey into town the other day I noticed several ladies leaping off the bus and running onwards to their next destination. Not so much men though…come on chaps! Where’s your spirit of, um, adventure!

Anyway. I was with Alex in Asda, just before Christmas, actually, and it was packed. Thronging with desperate last minute shoppers – “Well, why won’t she eat that? She ate it last year!” – “Please stop doing that, Mummy’s very tired and Santa won’t come if you carry on being a little s&*t!”- and all I wanted to buy were the staple supplies of any conscientious cat owner, three different types of wet food and four packets of treats for the Girlies’ stockings, and I found myself welling up with frustration at the mass of humanity seething around me.

I couldn’t help it. I let out a little roar. Alex looked at me, concerned and more than a little alarmed at the unusual noise I produced. So I did it again. And was mildly gratified as one family shot me a wary look and moved to another queue…

I opened my mouth again, preparing.

“No Mum, don’t! Look! We’re here now!” Alex interrupted hurriedly, and we paid for the shopping and left.

Then I added in a roar as I ran away from the bus and actually found it quite liberating… Alex was … horrified. Then my mother came for dinner the other week, and afterwards, Alex, his boyfriend and I walked her to the bus stop.

Having seen her safely aboard, I began to run off. Puzzled, Alex’s boyfriend gamely followed me, as did Alex with a look of grim resignation on his face.

“Why are we running?” his boyfriend enquired.

“No reason,” I replied, then I gave a bit of a roar too.

“Ah! I see!” he said, giving a bit of a roar too and throwing himself wholly into the spirit of things…and although Alex ran with us, he declined to roar…

So. Happy belated New Year, everybody, and may you enjoy the new “Roaring Twenties” in every sense of the word!

                                                                                  *

Look what’s happening next week – we have a guest! The lovely Marje from Kyrosmagica is coming for a chat (and maybe tea and cake) to kick off her blog tour with us and tell us about her new book!  We’re looking forward to seeing her and hearing all about it as it’s a magical mix of short stories, poems and photographs… and perhaps even a cat!

“A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Theatre…”

 

Sometimes I actually do feel as though the stuff that happens in my life is part of a Universal vaudeville routine… I try to console myself with encouraging platitudes like Oh well, it could be worse, it could be raining…

Alternatively, I think: “F&#$k it that’s an absolute b#@%ard”… I swear quite appallingly so I’ve been told, although personally I think I do it rather well, having a flair for the more , um, earthy side of our language… but anyway, generally I just laugh.

For example, the other day my morning began at 5.00am with a sound guaranteed to make any cat owner react with lightning fast speed – I awoke to the sounds of Tooty vomiting copiously down the side of my bedside cabinet. I leapt out of bed, a little too late unfortunately to prevent drippage on to the handles of the cabinet, wondered momentarily at the cat’s ability to run and vomit at the same time, but cheered myself with the thought Well, it can only get better…

On the bus to my appointment with my psychologist – yes, I have a psychologist, yes, I have now managed to instil a level of anxiety in him concerning random issues that he has never previously considered, like doorhandles, and should beans and chips really touch on the plate if you’re eating them together – but I happened to overhear a weary father talking to his little son on the bus as the child burst into a bellowed rendition of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”

“No, buddy, that’s not a star, it’s a snowflake,” the father patiently pointed out yet again.

“But it looks like a star!” the child insisted. Then, a little defiantly: “Well, I’m going to sing every time I see a star or a snowflake!”

A look of hopeless resignation settled across the father’s face…

Then, as I was coming back, I noticed a man leaving the supermarket who clearly had his life’s priorities sorted. He was carrying a tray of cans of beer and a large pack of toilet rolls – I shudder to think how he was going to spend his weekend, but mentally I applauded his ingenuity, for, he had the toilet rolls on his shoulder first, then the beer on top, thereby creating a soft and comfortable pad to carry the items home.

I also recently seem to have adopted quite an interesting habit as I disembark from the bus…I leap off and run away…not quite sure where that’s come from, I know that “Mission Impossible” left a lasting impression on me…but the puzzled look on the other passengers’ faces is quite rewarding to see as I speed away… Try it…

The PenIs…Mightier Than The Sword!

Of course…whatever did you think I meant… made you look though! And that’s my point – words are powerful things.

I was in town a couple of months ago, sneaking in furtively to fulfil my latest craving… violas. Yes, those sweet little spots of floral colour that provide a pleasing range of hue in the garden in those dark few months between autumn and spring. The lady on the plant stall laughed when I said they were very “more-ish” but she knew exactly what I meant.

I sped away, clutching my new garden friends and decided to call in at the crystal shop, Lizians. That day, Ian was at the helm and we launched into, among other things, a discussion about literature and the actual art of writing.

I love words, the music they create as they flow from your pen, the pictures they paint in your imagination… it’s like a three-in-one hobby. We both like to actually physically write, put down initial thoughts, words, ideas, so we both have notebooks and pens always at the ready. Laptops are obviously more convenient for sheer volume but sometimes my fingers trip over themselves and both myself – and my laptop – have absolutely no idea what I was trying to say…

I find connecting with pen and paper very organic, an emotional action that helps layer flavour and imagery, a useful way of capturing a string of words that chimes in the mind like a musical note…I am possibly too wordy, and a bit of a grammar stickler, but Ian and I both agreed that when you write, your aim is to make your reader feel without getting too bogged down in spellings and so forth. These are the sort of weapons people use to put aspiring writers off, intimidate them, when really, the action of writing is very important – a way of immortalising yourself, and your surroundings as the very first artist realised in the caves at Lascaux when they turned an abstract projection of rock into the figure of a horse…

I hope you get what I mean…or am I waffling? A lovely crisp baked treat…or pointless meanderings of words. That’s their beauty – words can be used to describe, punish, communicate, immortalise or obfuscate, but some of the simplest words are also the most beautiful!

Stichtite And Suspicious Sisters…

 

 

There is always something new and wonderful at Lizian – the colour of this stone drew me at once, a wonderful lavender purple, with a soap-soft feel to it.

Stichtite is a protective stone that opens your mind to being aware of how negative attitudes can damage, giving comfort and support while you learn how to adjust. It’s a happy stone that offers companionship and calm while helping you to open and attune your mind, emotional awareness and opinions.

I would hate to even hazard an opinion as to what Ting and Tooty were up to the other morning, other than to say it made me extremely suspicious…

“We’re just sleeping…honest!”

I was pottering about in the bedroom wiping a trail of muddy paw prints off the windowsill that someone had thoughtfully left for me (“Got to keep her occupied, haven’t we…”) and I happened to look up and out of the window – our bedroom overlooks the close, which is sort of L-shaped, with a blind spot at the top corner masked by a hedge.

Just at that particular moment, Ting and Tooty came hurtling around the corner. They were a good couple of hundred yards away and they were really going for it – a full out cat canter, monkey sideways gallop, tails up and to the side.

They came, absolutely belting down the road, neck and neck, even though Tooty is a lady of the larger persuasion, hurdled the garden gate like a pair of tiny steeplechasing horses and vanished.

Seconds behind them came my neighbour in his car – he screeched round the corner, pulled up with a jolt outside his house, flung his car door open and ran into his house, looking upset.

I went downstairs and into the garden, just to, you know, ask if they’d been up to anything.

“Hi Mum! Any treats going? Whatcha been doing?”

“I was upstairs – I saw you both running. Anything you’d like to tell me?”

“Nope.”

“Sure?”

“Yep… absolutely nothing… you might want to avoid him two doors down for a bit though…”

Ah.

Ting’s Evil Genius face…

Chrysoprase And Crazy Cats…

I happened to be sorting out a mixed bag of crystals one day and my partner was watching me. He said:

“Ooh I like those ones! They look like crocodile eyes!”

I picked up the crystals he had pointed at and on closer inspection I thought to myself:

“Hmm, he’s actually quite right…”

Glowing green orbs looked back at me, set in a scaly brown matrix. It seemed friendly enough, but I had no idea what it was, unsure if it was crocodile… or alligator, so to speak. I put it away in my handbag, for the next time I happened to see Liz.

“Ah yes! Apple green Chrysoprase!” she exclaimed.

The stones themselves seemed quite pleased to have an identity, and armed with their name, I thought I would have a look at what they do.

Chrysoprase is good to use in meditation, bringing a deep state of contemplative relaxation. It can be used to help calm and overcome impulsive thoughts and acts, encouraging reasoned thought and the release of judgemental attitudes. It is also said to help with attracting new love, abundance and prosperity. Essentially a crystal of joy, it brings happiness and helps to heal the heart from depression and anxiety.

Chrsyprase is useful in promoting forgiveness and supporting independence, especially when coming out of a toxic co-dependent relationship. It’s a nice crystal to add to any collection as it energises the heart and sacral chakras and infuses the physical body with Universal energy… always a good thing.

Apart from when it’s half-past three in the morning and really you should be sleeping, but for some reason – blindingly apparent to the feline brain of the Siamese persuasion, yet clear as mud to my humble human brain – the done thing is to run about, claws clicking madly on the laminate flooring like a demented lobster, shouting:

“ Wa-oh-ah! Wahhh! Ma – ow!”

No idea what it means.

Then at times, the whole feline family is beset by a moment of oddity – the cat flap will slap and Lily will enter the kitchen with an air of great self-importance.

“Mew! Mewww- weh!”

Then she turns around and marches away, tail twitching smartly above her furry trousers.

Charlie, having listened to what Lily said, will leap off the sofa and run into the kitchen and out through the cat flap. Driven by her urgency, Ting and Tooty will usually run after her, and it doesn’t matter how many times it happens, they never remember that Charlie will wait -with malice aforethought – on the other side of the cat flap to smack them as they pass through…

Some kind of feline re-birthing therapy? I’m really not sure. Sometimes I think I’m the only normal one in this house…

Buses and Bitching…

I know – nothing to do with the words of the title..but I like butterflies…

As ever, buses remain a constant source of entertainment and material to me. There is something about the encapsulated of forty or so people contained within a vehicle that makes the magic happen…

I have three little gems to present to you. The other week I was on the bus into town to meet Alex, who had come over from Loughborough for a few days. Downstairs was packed with pushchairs and pensioners, so I decided to climb the stairs to the upper deck, ticket clenched firmly in teeth Errol Flynn style at his swashbuckling finest, shopping bag gripped tightly in fist, I swung nimbly up the stairs and collapsed into the first available seat.

(“Nimbly?” O.K. maybe “with panic” would be better as these drivers never wait until you’re seated before driving away… one of these days I just know I’ll come rolling back down the stairs like an armadillo to lie at the feet of an unsuspecting O.A.P…”Whatcha doin’ down there luv…bit of a fall?” Anyway, I digress…)

I settled myself, had a mouthful of water, spilling most of it down my front and sat back to gaze out of the window and tune in…

“… yes, but my dentist isn’t very pleased with me – said the fuel rots my gums…”

Bingo! I homed in on that snippet.

“Yes, because when you do fire-eating – I taught myself by the way – you have to hold the petrol in your mouth. I’ve done a few Light Nights (I’ll just bet you have!!) but obviously I can’t make fire-eating the whole act because of Health and Safety, so I do yo-yo tricks, juggling…”

A loud, strident voice breaks in:

“… but I only removed her from the group chat! I didn’t say anything bad about her – just put a laughing face emoji – and now I’m being called in for bullying her! You have to tell them I’m not a bully – she just read the post wrong…”

The bus pulled up at the changeover point where drivers swap routes, and the shift changes.

“Are you all right then?”

“Yeah, not too bad. Yourself?”

“Oh these bloody new buses! I can’t reach the pedals!”

“Someone else said that the other day – who makes these things? Do you want me to pull the seat forward for you?”

“Yeah, I’m only 5’6”,” said the driver, a small, frail-looking chap.

“Not a problem for me,” said the other driver, a strapping bloke, who proudly declared:

“I’m 6’4”!”

Gentlemen – size really doesn’t matter as long as you reach your destination…!

Dragons and Dreamboats

I was helping out at the shop a few weeks ago, not at all obsessively rearranging the incense in alphabetical order and dusting the crystals when a man approached the counter. Not an unusual occurrence in itself, admittedly, nor particularly was the conversation that followed.

“Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied, assuming what I hoped was a pleasant smile of welcome, rather than the grimace of abstracted concentration that I was wearing only moments earlier.

“You’re Not Liz,” the man stated.

“No, I’m not,” I agreed equably. (That’s my name when I’m at the shop… NotLiz…)

“Oh. Where is she?” the man asked, with a faintly pained air.

I generally have two answers to this oft-asked question, a) “Not here” and b) “I don’t know,” both of which are true, and pretty accurate. I decided on b) on this occasion and offered it as kindly as I could to the man, as he seemed both disconcerted and a little upset to see me.

I regarded him – a smallish man, long grey hair in dreadlocks, assorted crystals and pendants hung around his neck.

He looked back at me, still pretty much unimpressed by what he saw looking back at him, a middle-aged woman, duster in hand, face probably smeared liberally with incense dust… He bent to rummage in his back pack and produced a handful of … sticks.

“I wanted to show Liz these,” he said.

“Ah.” I said. “What nice, um, sticks.”

He looked directly at me then and replied, a little indignantly:

“They’re not sticks, they’re wands! From the Glastonbury Thorn!”

“That’s nice,” I said appeasingly, “what are you going to do with them?”

The man looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses and said:

“I’m going to make things on them!”

“Of course you are,” I said, reassuringly, not wanting to offend him, or sound doubting of his artistic capabilities.

“No, look!” he said, and reaching into his hair, pulled out a – dragon and passed it to me to hold. Not a real one, obviously, but one made of clay, beautifully detailed and very true to life – as I would imagine dragons to be.

“That’s beautiful!” I exclaimed, impressed, and handed it back to him.

He tucked it away safely in his hair and bestowed a faint smile upon me.

“Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” I said, and the man walked away.

Now. I have mentioned Mr.Handsome before, the very nice man I first encountered on the bus with my mother. Well, the other evening, I was walking back up the hill from my mother’s with Alex, and I was trying to describe an acquaintance to Alex, waving my arms excitedly (I actually hit someone the other day) and talking about “Pete’s Dragon”, the film, of course, when who should I behold, striding manfully towards us, accompanied by two little dogs, but Mr.Handsome… just as gorgeous as I remembered, white t-shirt, blue jeans, tall, dark haired – well, you get the idea.

I looked up fleetingly – he gave me a brief, polite smile- and I looked down again, cursing my shyness. Alex beamed happily at him and I thought, “My word, he is handsome!” and decided my best course of action was to style it out, talking meaningfully about dragons and waving my arms. Like a nutter.

And then he passed us. Alex looked at me and asked: “Was that him?”

I said: “Yes…”

Then Alex replied: “Hmm…white t-shirt, blue jeans, well groomed… he was looking at me!”