At The Movies

 

My problem with me is that I often want to see life as a movie.

I have always been the same.

Ever since I was a little boy and Shelley Winters got stuck up that Christmas Tree in The Poseidon Adventure.

Like Shelley, things were always larger than life.

I’ve joined an LGBT+ reading club in Chester, and the organise Alison has confirmed my application with a sweet email but I know that there is a part of me that is expecting the first meeting to be a little like The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, what with Dawsey Adam’s hole filled jumper and Isola Pribby’s sweetly dotty spinster.

Of course it won’t be, but I know that

I get it.

Certain scenes in my life do have a cinematic resonance to them. 

And we all experience these, do we not?

Dancing on the roof of Weston Park Hospital with friends one night in 1990 would have made a delightful vignette for any coming of age movie staring Molly Ringwold and John Cusack.

Christmas Morning 2002 when me, The Prof and two dogs climbed all over each other in a hug fest that told me I had my own family for the first time in my life could have graced James L Brooks’ Terms of Endearment .and My Grandmother calling out “ My Poor Poor Boy “ when she saw his coffin in Church would have sent an icy chill over any audience watching Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice.

The film clips stand. But life isn’t a movie.

We plod along

Today nurses will strike in Wales for the first time in welsh history

The postmen have already marched out and the rail drivers will go next week. 

It’s all a bit serious, but at least I can smile as Mrs Trellis’s erect bobble hat can muster a few laughs aka Mrs Pumphrey  in All Creatures Great And Small

Reality lies , as it always seems to do, between the too worlds . 

The ordinary and the cinematic 

My meatballs looked lovely but were hard as bullets

Albert peed on the carpet for the third time yesterday morning

And I did get a distinction for my first assignment, feedback lying somewhere in Google classroom.

Hey ho

Meatballs

The water pipes were frozen this morning

Sailor John told me where to defrost them

I made IKEA meatballs for lunch

The postman left a message on the village Facebook page 

He’s on strike until Friday 

 

Cold

 Still cold 

But inside it’s toasty 

Crem Etiquette

 Crematorium etiquette. 

Try to sit on the right at the back .

Out of the way. 

In the cheap seats.

I liked the St Asaph Crem

The hymn’s lyrics came upon tv screens and they project a huge photo of the deceased on the wall as you go in. 

The vicar was a bearded hearty soul that looked like the Titanic’s captain.

He was a bit of a show girl I thought.

I wasn’t sure about the Christmas Tree in the grounds, it was lit with fairy lights

There were a couple of villagers at the funeral so we teamed up . 

I enjoyed the hymns and belted out “The day thou gavest “ so I could be heard at the front.

I hate lacklustre singing at funerals.

There’s nothing worse.

My choir will be singing at my funeral , I’ve decided I want Olè Laya Loila instead of the first hymn

A Winter funeral

There is nothing sadder

The Fickle Finger Of Fate

 

Life is a fickle beast.

One minute you are battling the small brickbats of shite that make things literally crap

The next you are swinging your hips to a fun bit of music and sad videos on tiktok suddenly do not have the power to make you weep when you don’t want to.

I finished my assignment last night. 

I just need to type it up today.

Bluebell is back on the road, ( albeit a totally iced up one this morning) but won’t be taking me out until lunchtime as the - 5 temps last night have re- iced the lane and effectively rendered the incline to the main road impassable. 

I’m taking a neighbour to a hospital appointment

From having nothing in my calendar last week, I have found things filling up gently.

Gorgeous Dave has asked me to go and attend a Meat Loaf By Candlelight evening which sounds a somewhat unlikely pairing, I must admit. 

Tomorrow, I’m bunking off college to go to the Choir’s annual pub singalong and next week I’ve arranged  supper out with Chic Eleanor .In between, I’m meeting another friend for brunch at Bryn Williams and there’s the village Christmas Fayre to help with next Saturday.

Tomorrow I’m going to the funeral of a dear friend’s husband . Eirlys has featured on many of the early Going Gently blogs as she was my chicken guru , and fountain of all knowledge when it came to hens.

I’ve just come off the phone to her after reading her all of the tributes that were written in memory of her husband on the village Facebook page. 

Not a FBer , herself , she gave me permission to pass on the news that her husband John had died.

This morning I slowly read out each comment in turn and moved dreadfully, she listened to each one, silently as the tears fell.

“I didn’t know , that We knew so many people” she quietly added when I was finished 

A funeral tomorrow lunchtime ….singing in the pub, tomorrow evening

So Scarlet was right

After all tomorrow IS another day

I’m not Sticking My Arse In That!

 Roger has never seen snow before but his sweet dim nature precludes any negativity he may have for the cold stuff. 

Mary just gets on with it.

Dorothy finds it’s a total bore and is constipated. 

One look at a cold snowy path and she’s throwing back one of her “ You've got to be fucking kidding me“ looks.

She hasn’t opened her bowels since Friday.

Neighbours Mandy and Sailor John phoned last night to see if I was ok. I had seen them in Tesco last Wednesday where I indulged in a quick and much missed game of supermarket Sweep ( you know the one where I secretly fill their trolleys with useless items  without their knowledge) 

I had forgotten just how good at the game I was , when I walked towards them , ( unnoticed) and plonked a huge tim of pineapple rings on the top of their pile without even a eliciting a glance. 

Now that’s skill.

I’ve turned off The Archers omnibus this morning as David’s distress at Ben’s mental breakdown is a little too much to bear on a Sunday morning and the kitchen is quiet same for dog snores.

I’ve banked up the fire again, had a hot shower and changed my clothes

Bucket of coffee then essay writing.

Liver and onions for lunch with mash and gravy.

Snowed In

 

It has snowed more heavily overnight and my tiny part of the village has been effectively cut off from the main road, as even small amounts of snow on the incline up to the village proper renders the lane useless until it is gritted.

The cottage is warm though, not toasty but warm ,I stoked up the burner late last night and the silence caused by the muffling of snow is pronounced. 

I’m going to make coffee and then plan my essay.

Yesterday I subscribed to Netflix

I have no interest in watching Harry & Meghan spilling their guts out, but I spent a Merry four hours or so watching the delightful Norwegian monster movie Troll and the Spanish zombie movie Malnazidos set during the Spanish civil war.

Both mindless old fashioned fun, in their own rights.

I’m a bit low of food but can get by with raiding the freezer. I have enough dog and cat food already.

Chorizo chipolata sausages with egg and muffin for breakfast.

Hey ho

Winnie Remembered

 

Two years ago today my Winnie died

This was her obituary which, in retrospect is something I’m really proud of writing

I’m not sad, just reflective…the old girl is worth remembering 

Winifred Sâlote Tupou lV was a diva of rare proportions.

She was a blog writer’s dream as her adventures over her seven years at Bwthyn Y Llan never ever needed embellishing.

She was truly larger than life

Larger than I ever expected from our first, rather lacklustre meeting.

The meeting was September 1st 2013

I was in the middle of organising my last open Allotment Day when she arrived with her previous owner for an introduction, so our meeting was brief and , for me somewhat disappointing.

All I remember thinking was that she was overly large, had no neck to speak of and looked frightened of everything but I agreed she could come a few days later for a trial run.

And after that, stay she did.

I think Winnie was a fully cooked five year old bulldog when she arrived and it wasn’t long before I worked out the she had her own quirky set of obsessions which proved to be somewhat of a challenge when she finally got her confidence.

She masturbated incessantly, goaded on by the Professor who thought this behaviour hilarious rather than embarrassing and the object of her desires centred upon his tastefully buffed brogues and the infamous “ Slippers of sex” which were strange hand knitted slippers designed and made by Kit, an old lady who still lives in Bron Haul......Her habit of self pollution continued until her late onset emergency hysterectomy a couple of years ago, but even then , very occasionally she would back her toilet parts seductively onto her trusty fanny flannel when having a periodic summer bath

She adored visiting Workmen of any description , though it was fairly obvious that a generic friendly masculine type with overalls was her man of choice, and I must say that she would sulk for hours if she was not allowed to watch what household job needed to be completed. I also remember, her going missing when the British Telicom men were here putting in the broadband extra line. .........I eventually found her sitting in the telicom van’s passenger seat sharing a packet of cheese and onion crisps....

Winifred was also totally obsessed with food. All food. Any food.....and I once famously brought her around after a particularly robust attack of heatstroke after dipping her nipples into a cold bath and dropping a Tesco cocktail sausage on her gums.

Her food obsession lead to a life of stealing if left unchecked and I remember the toe curling embarrassment when she raided an elderly woman’s handbag for her polo mints and the time she helped herself to a baby’s Farley’s Rusk , which she found wrapped on the lower shelf of a baby buggy parked in the Church Yard.

She adored very small children too, and given her great size remained totally in control and gentle when around them. I remember one very emotional moment, observed a couple of times on Going Gently when she suddenly found herself surrounded by a large gaggle of pre school children out for a crocodile linked walk on the Dyserth walkway one summer. I warned the supervisor that she was indeed safe and as I walked up I saw a plethora of stubby little hands rub every inch of her in wonder.....her gentleness and obvious pure pleasure of the toddlers’ attention moved me to tears as I glimpsed just for a moment her natural ability of being a mother

Of all of her fellow animals in and out of the cottage, only one became a true friend, and that friend was Albert. I have often blogged that only she, out of all of my dogs had the capacity for thought and the understanding of simple concepts.

She understood Albert, and was never fazed by cat behaviour, idiosyncrasies that were always lost by the other dogs and last night , as she lay silent and still on the kitchen floor, only Albert came to her, carefully and wide eyed, to sit between her paws , his black head rubbing hers.

Now Winnie, was also a serial sulker. I often referred to her as being a gay man in a bulldog suit as when thwarted or god forbid told off in any way she would stare carefully into the middle distance for the longest of times before flinging herself with gay abandon onto a rug or an unoccupied sofa.

The longest sulk I ever timed, lasted almost six hours....a lifetime in the dog world.

Her last half hour on earth was typically Winnie. She ate a full bowl of dog food ( garnished with several Aldi cocktail sausages) then was allowed a ten minute hysterical rubber chicken gum before settling down on the mat by the door ( instead of her usual place in the reading armchair next to the radiator )

And that was where I found her only an hour later.

Quiet and peaceful

And all on her own terms

I’m sad but not heartbroken ....it was her time to go

And like the ideal cocktail party guest

She didn’t outstay her welcome

But I shall miss my old girl