We Know We're Not Supposed to be On Here...

Wrote 1,850 words this morning, which takes the total word-count for Bethany Rose up to 23,250 so far. Writing the spooky bits is such fun...!

Warm spring sunshine yesterday enabled me to get some weeding done. Today's torrential rain has forced me to postpone further efforts. We have three yellow crocus and a patch of snowdrops in bloom. What happened to the rest of my crocus though? I planted heaps of them four years ago, and there has been less each year. Anyway, yesterday I had no sooner finished weeding a stretch of one border when a cute little robin came to investigate. I was looking out of the kitchen window as I was washing my hands, and saw a wren on the fence.

Bathed the dogs yesterday. I managed to capture them in the bathroom by stealth. Otherwise if they hear the 'B' word they hide under the bed and will not come out! I bathed Emily first as she was the cleanest. I'd no sooner towelled her dry than she jumped back in the bath to torment Ygraine. So then I had to clean the bathroom too--completely.

Sylvia's beloved dog, Gelert, died on Tuesday. He'd had a couple of peculiar wobbly spells recently, and then he had another and died twenty minutes later. Poor Sylvia is devastated. As any pet owner will tell you, shen a pet dies it's like losing a member of your closest family--more so, quite often, as people often far prefer their pets to their legal relatives.

Comments

A Cure for Aging?

"All that we profess to do is but this, - to find out the secrets of the human frame; to know why the parts ossify and the blood stagnates, and to apply continual preventatives to the effort of time. This is not magic; it is the art of medicine rightly understood. In our order we hold most noble -, first, that knowledge which elevates the intellect; secondly, that which preserves the body. But the mere art (extracted from the juices and simples) which recruits the animal vigour and arrests the progress of decay, or that more noble secret which I will only hint to thee at present, by which heat or calorific, as ye call it, being, as Heraclitus wisely taught, the primordial principle of life, can be made its perpectual renovator...." Zanoni, book IV, chapter II, by Edward Bulwer-Lytton, first published in 1842. Oroboros keyring - Spooky Cute Designs The idea of being able to achieve an immortal life is probably as old as human life itself. Folklore and myt...

Remembering Richie Tattoo Artist's Studio

Richard in the street entrance to his tattoo studio in Liverpool. The vertical sign next to Richard is now in the Liverpool Tattoo Museum. Yesterday, my sister Evelyn, Richard and myself stood outside Richard's old tattoo studio and looked up at the few remaining signs, whose paint has now mostly flacked away to reveal bare wood. On the studio's window are stick-on letters which read, "Art", where once it boldly announced his presence as the city's only "Tattoo Artist". I can remember him buying that simple plastic lettering from an old-fashioned printer's shop. This was in 1993, not long after he'd opened the studio and before he could afford better signs. After he'd patiently stuck them onto the glass we realised that from the outside the sign read "Artist Tattoo", so we had to carefully peel the letters off the window and have another go, laughing over having made such an obvious error yet worried in case we spoiled the letteri...

Dear Diary...

Do you keep a diary? Why did you start it, and, if you started one then stopped, why was that? What sort of things do (or did) you write about? I ask as, as a long-time diarist myself, there is an interesting piece in The Guardian today which talks about one woman's diary habit, which she began at the age of fourteen. I started a diary around that age too, but destroyed it after my mother accused me of using cocaine. A stern scene followed, with both parents perched ram-rod straight in their armchairs, while I was subjected to a heated inquisition. Where had I bought it, and who from? Didn't I know such things led to death and doom? I struggled to decipher their bewildering accusations, until Mum blurted out, "I read it in your diary!" To find my diary, Mum would first have had to rummage through my dressing table, obviously when I wasn't around to protest. Her intrusion on my privacy was assumed by both parents to be acceptable, and now, with this handwritten c...

Search This Blog