Percy has decided to get into film. Coming out of the cinema after seeing Speilberg’s ‘War Horse’ I found him commenting on the beast’s ineptitude. He was shocked to find out that the horse was CGI and decided to show how it should be done.
The photogravure above is a still from quite a moving scene in which, during a robust soliloquy, he pledges his love for all things cat including—but not exclusively—sleeping in front of anything warm, food, more sleep and then more food.
After osculating the heroin (I think he meant heroine – it’s hard to read his paw written script) he then gets shelled. It’s a sad ending, especially as I think he was really contemplating a bowl of shelled prawns. C’est la vie.
Not the best picture I’ve ever taken. Still, it’s a picture taken today, which was the original point of this blog. That the idea behind ‘Congenerous’ seems to have become ever changing and fluid should allow me to leave out the daily picture, if I feel like it. But I don’t feel like it, yet. Besides, Percy rawks!
There was going to a photo of an amazingly fat Pidgeon who sits on a branch in the tree outside my bedroom window. There was going to be, but by the time I stumbled about finding my phone he (or she) had gone (how do you sex a Pidgeon without getting up close and personal?). You’ll have to wait for that treat, then.
I’ve been listening to the recording I made of our rehearsal yesterday, and, considering it was our third proper rehearsal, it’s damn good. Maybe you think I would say that, being the vocalist. But being ‘real’ about my music is a definite seachange. Normally, even if I know deep down that something is good, I’ll shrug it off as a fluke. I wish (wishing is something else I have to change along with je ne regrette rien, which is utter bollocks and futile) that we’d carried on after the Pestalozzi festival. I wish I’d had the balls to have a go twenty years since. Humph. Obviously I’m an arse for hiding my light under a bush for so long. Obviously. Duh.
I’ve suddenly realised that even if I spent the rest of my life doing nothing but reading I wouldn’t be able to read all the books I have, or those I want to read. Especially now that eBooks are with us. This led to a mild panic. But as there’s nothing I can do about it – I can’t suddenly start reading at a gazzilion words a minute, or give up everything else and do nothing but read – I have to accept it and be more decisive about what I do read.
I’m a lazy git. I want to write – at least one decent novel – and consequently have to stop being a lazy git.
Money doesn’t grow on trees.
‘shoulda, coulda, woulda’ is balls, as is Je ne regrette rien. Accept what you can’t change and get on with it.
This list of odd thoughts seems to be getting horribly close to New Years resolutions. Stop it!
Cats really make wonderful friends!
‘Cats’ could be our next single.
Relationships are fragile things; butterflies have stronger wings. Do not take friends for granted.
Patience! F1 2012 will begin sooner or later and there’s nothing you can do to hasten the 1st race.
Yes, it’s a really bad if not truly appalling photo (though it was taken on a phone in a room with pretty dim light). The thing is I’m worried. Either there are a LOT MORE savage flying biting beasties this year, or I’ve lost my mind.
Last year it was hot. In high summer (where we are now a year on) it was so damn hot all the windows were open nearly all the time. Yes, I had a few bites, but they weren’t bad.
This year it’s like I’ve teleported to another planet. The bites swell up to enormous lumps which last for several days before going down. As I write I’m sweating in a long sleeved shirt and a dressing gown – but this, believe it or not, is better than suffering the damn bites.
I suppose there’s a chance I’ve become allergic to mosquitoes. But why now? Hmm? Or maybe, if you like conspiracy theories, ‘someone’ wants us out of this overblown shed and is pumping mosquitoes in through its cracks. I dunno, but I’m not happy. I’m not happy at all. 😦
The internet isn’t a lot of help, either. It exacerbates my paranoia with articles about the rather nasty Blandford Fly, which is spreading countrywide. And then there’s this – and I warn you not to watch it if you’ve just eaten. It’s a chap who was bitten by a mosquito and … well, you’ll see.
It’s a battle, and not one I think I’ll win. Even though the walls and ceilings are dotted with their corpses there’s still the question of my blood. I wonder if eight imperial pints is enough?
I was looking through my photos for one to use in the background of a book of short stories when I came across this, taken last year at the open day of ‘Lightfoot Alpacas‘ in Hawkhurst, Kent.
It was a lovely sunny day and, as days out go, it was a great success. You see, alpacas are soooooo cute it’s damn near unbelievable. They are the very definition of cuteness. They are cuteness personified – no, really, they are. In fact I’m amazed there isn’t a cult of alpaca worshippers out there. Oh, just so we’re clear: alpacas aren’t my bag (or sweater, or socks, either). They’re just cute; damn cute and it’s hard to lose the rictus smile when you eventually go home.
The fact of the matter is that if you took a bus load of hardened criminals to see the alpacas, they’d come back repentant and safe to release.
Walking to the studio yesterday I came across these ducklings and their mother. Mr. X who breeds them is not my favourite person – not that I know him or have ever seen him. He has a little floating duck house moored in the middle of the canal and, presumably to supplement his income – or because he’s a ferocious meat eater, he breeds ducks and geese. And they’re so, soooo cute and fluffy and cuddly.
Last year, while we were recording the album, Mick and I would feed them. We’d call out ‘ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks, DUCKS!’ and they’d come swimming up for all they were worth, quacking away for their snacks. Eventually Mark, who’d come out to see what we were up to, cleared his throat and said ‘you know they belong to Mr. X and they’re for the pot.’
The fact of the matter is that I’m a sucker for cute wee beasties: be they cats, ducks, lambs or whatever. It breaks my heart thinking of eating them and yet I’m not a vegetarian. Why? Obviously the flaw is mine and not Mr. X’s. After all, you can’t get attached to soya protein, can you?
Last summer we saw an advert in the local paper about an open day at ‘Lightfoot Alpacas‘ in Hawkhurst. Having never seen an Alpaca, other than yonks ago on badly shot and scratched ‘b’ movie travelogues at the cinema , we decided a drive was essential.
I’m glad we went because they are just sooooo cute and cuddly. I wandered around giggling and working out how they’d get on with the cats.Of course they wouldn’t. They’re social beasts and you have to keep them in a herd or they pine (and not for the fiords).
Later, after coming to my senses, I sadly realised the futilty of bedroom farming and was welcomed back by my trusty teddy bear.