Purple Prose

Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan

Dear Diary,

I never saw a Purple Cow; I never hope to See One; But I can Tell you, Anyhow, I'd rather See than Be One”

Frank Gelett Burgess

I'll start with a poem today, you all know this one.




Warning - When I am an old woman I Shall Wear Purple



When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin slippers, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer mats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practise a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph




Here I am again after a week or so of mulling - I love that word, it’s a great excuse for not-writing, a sort of pre-writing, pondering stage.

This morning I came into the waking state slowly, ever-reluctant to return to the land of the living that’s me. But lines were running through my head, blog-post lines and they were all truly purple prose. For yesterday I found a bargain in the sales, a long woollen coat, quite plain but classic and guess what colour it was? Purple. There was only the one coat in the sale, it was a size 14 and it was reduced to £30! I know a bargain when I see one and I had been coveting this particular coat all through last winter but felt I couldn’t afford it. And here it was just waiting for me. I tried it on and it fitted me just perfectly.

I had better come clean and admit that the shop was the Edinburgh Woollen Mill. There I’ve said it and I know what you are thinking. This is an old ladies shop? Indeed it is but there are little gems to be found there if you look hard enough and even Jeff Banks was singing its praises the other day. He was praising the cut and the quality, you know the stuff. The trouble is you see, where I live in mid-Wales there is a dearth of shops and even more of a dearth of clothes shops. This is a blessing in disguise really as it is very hard to be tempted into spending money round here. I am often to be found in charity shops as we have one or two of those and real treasures can be discovered there sometimes: household stuff, books etc as well as clothes. I get a real kick out of finding a bargain.

Anyway back to the coat and all things purple.

Why am I posting this? Most people who visit me here will probably know that I spend a lot of time over at Purplecoo, it’s become like a second home to me now and is filled with special purple folk who I count as my friends. Recently we had ‘homework’ and were asked to post pics of a purple hue. I was on holiday at the time and sent a note in asking to be excused (Purplecoo is a boarding school you understand, its name is Cowarts……don’t ask, you’d have to be there).

I digress again.

Purple to me means the heather-clad mountains of West Cork and it’s a colour that feels somehow near to Spirit which could be why I am drawn to it. It’s dark and mysterious but not as dull and depressing as black. It’s warm and autumnal, it speaks of juicy fruit, sweet berries, plums and aubergines. It paints the flowers in my garden and mixes so well the others. It’s separate from the primary colours so it’s ‘different’ but it’s kind of close to red, another love of mine. It sits so well with pink which I adore. (How could anyone not like pink?). It looks well with white too, a colour that I can no longer wear on its own.

Purple is probably my favourite colour but I hope I’m not taking it too far as I had new reading glasses recently and scoured the shop’s frame displays for some purple ones - I found one pair and bought them of course.

So this will be my better-late-than-never homework, some purple prose and a few other bits and bobs.

When I was a young teenager (sooo many years ago), T, my soon-to-be sister-in-law took me shopping one day in Guildford, the city that she and my brother (and me) were to set up home in after moving down from London. T was helping me buy some new clothes and she also taught me ‘how’ to shop. I’d not had a ‘proper mother’ you see but that’s another story. T unknowingly showed me how to deal with pushy shop assistants in the ‘boutiques’ (remember boutiques? remember pushy sales women?) Ah those were the days. I learned to say ‘I’m just looking thank you’ and I learned how to fly in and out of all the shops, assertively looking for the best clothes at the best price. Anyway I ended up buying a gorgeous wine coloured winter coat and some tops, but best of all my purchases was a pair of purple wool bell-bottom trousers.

I was tall (for those days) and skinny as well and as I was growing up I used to always cover my long bony arms with a cardigan and my legs with boots, if I remember rightly. But suddenly Twiggy was in vogue and my shape was the shape to have; at last I looked ‘right’ and even more so when T took me to a hairdresser and I had my longish thick, unruly wavy hair cut into a very short elfin-type crop. For years after that I kept it short, half an inch all over for a long time, very easy to handle for my lazy self that was.

I’ll never forget those bell-bottoms and also a Biba dusky pink towelling mini dress that I bought much later when I lived in a flat in Guildford. The dress was short-sleeved and so soft it was almost velvety.

T helped me, I will never forget that, it was a sort of ‘makeover’ I guess but before they became all the rage. We are both of a certain age now but I will always be grateful to her for that shopping expedition in Guildford.

I wonder if any items of clothing or shopping trips hold special memories for you?

To be around in the sixties will have to be my Blessing today. There was the music, the art, the fashion, the social revolution, the rise of feminism, the sense of positivity in the air, anything was possible and there has not been a time like it since.

I attracted attention with my new hairstyle and my trendy trousers and my life as a young woman in the sixties was just beginning…..

Anyway after all this rambling perhaps you will understand why seeing a purple coat in a sale has sent me into raptures and why I just HAD to buy it. The decision was made for me. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.





Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

More Bits and Bobs

Dear Diary,

These are a couple of pics taken on our walk with Finn and Kitty, we were high up in the forest close to our cottage. The Forestry workers have cut down a lot of pine trees and opened up the fantastic views.







This next pic is by Klimt of course. My brother and sister in law are coming to stay with us this weekend after they have been to the Klimt exhibition at Tate Liverpool.

This poem is another of my favourites.

Villanelle For Our Time


From bitter searching of the heart,
Quickened with passion and with pain
We rise to play a greater part.
This is the faith from which we start:
Men shall know commonwealth again
From bitter searching of the heart.
We loved the easy and the smart,
But now, with keener hand and brain,
We rise to play a greater part.
The lesser loyalties depart,
And neither race nor creed remain
From bitter searching of the heart.
Not steering by the venal chart
That tricked the mass for private gain,
We rise to play a greater part.
Reshaping narrow law and art
Whose symbols are the millions slain,
From bitter searching of the heart
We rise to play a greater part.


Leonard Cohen

The man is a genius.


I haven't felt inspired to write from my own heart these last few days. I have been in a mulling mood rather than an expressive one, so to stay in touch I have just picked a few more bits and bobs that I hoped you may like looking at and listening to. Talking of which, listen to this, it is Sara Maclachlan singing Angel (live) accompanied on the guitar by Carlos Santana. Angel is one of my favourite songs, one that I just have to listen to from time to time. Sara sings like an angel too.






I hope you have a weekend full of wonder,

I hope the sun shines on you.

Enjoy each miracle,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

Bits and Bobs

My dog Kitty

Back door

Garden pics taken by M

One of my favourite quotes by one of my favourite writers:

Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.
Maya Angelou


A favourite song, a poem:

Love Minus Zero/No Limit

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.
In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.
The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.
The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.


Bob Dylan


A song that always lifts my spirits:
The Travelling Wilburys.

The End of The Line (with dear George Harrison, God rest him).







Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan

Thoughts on Poetry

Dear Diary,

A true poet does not bother to be poetical. Nor does a nursery gardener scent his roses.
Jean Cocteau

Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.
Leonard Cohen

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.
Robert Frost

Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them.
Dennis Gabor

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
Robert Frost

Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful.
Rita Dove

I will start with two poems, one is rhymed, one not. The first by the American poet Rita Dove who writes about a lady I admire so much and feel sure I would have done the same as she if I had been travelling on that bus..


Lady Freedom Among Us


don't lower your eyes

or stare straight ahead to where

you think you ought to be going

don't mutter oh no

not another one

get a job fly a kite

go bury a bone

with her oldfashioned sandals

with her leaden skirts

with her stained cheeks and whiskers and

heaped up trinkets

she has risen among us in blunt reproach

she has fitted her hair under a hand-me-down cap

and spruced it up with feathers and stars

slung over her shoulder she bears

the rainbowed layers of charity and murmurs

all of you even the least of you

don't cross to the other side of the square

don't think another item to fit on a

tourist's agenda

consider her drenched gaze her shining brow

she who has brought mercy back into the streets

and will not retire politely to the potter's field

having assumed the thick skin of this town

its gritted exhaust its sunscorch and blear

she rests in her weathered plumage

bigboned resolute

don't think you can ever forget her

don't even try

she's not going to budge

no choice but to grant her space

crown her with sky

for she is one of the many

and she is each of us

© Rita Dove. From On the Bus With Rosa Parks


The second is by one of my favourite poets.


WHEN YOU ARE OLD


WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)



Yet another day begins with rain. It’s feeling cool again, the river level is quite high for this time of year and it is in fast flow. I’m getting a wee bit desperate now and feel the need to remove myself to warmer climes. The rise in fuel prices won’t bother me as I have my own method of transport.

You can see a picture of where I keep it, hanging on the wall by my back door.

It was writing group last night and there was a lively discussion about poetry and the comparison between poems that are rhymed and those written in free verse. Some folk felt very strongly that poems should rhyme. I think there is room for both and as long as it is good writing and it ‘moves’ me, that is all that matters.

Just out of interest I looked up the definition of the word poem in my Bible, my 1963 Concise Oxford Dictionary

A metrical composition, esp. of elevated character; elevated composition in prose or verse,

A poet is a writer of poems and a writer in verse especially one possessing high powers of imagination, expression etc

I think that as long as the writing is poetical, musical/rhythmical/ metric, metaphorical, reads and sounds ‘right’ and its content ’moves’ you as all good art must, then it is a poem. But the quotes at the top of this blog say it far better than I do.

What do you think?


Have I given up on the blessings, you may ask? Never!

Here are six for today.

A day off and nothing to do!
My dear newfound sister and her lovely family who have just spent the weekend with us.
Time spent with E my youngest granddaughter.
Deep and dreamless sleep when one’s energies are almost depleted.
A favourite TV series that is returning this evening - Who Do You Think You Are?
A pile of lovely books to read - so many that I don’t know where to start.

The sun is peeping at me, such is her habit now, that of shyly peeping out of the clouds instead of shining full on. For she has turned into a bit of a sly temptress who promises me gold, lures me outside and before I know it, it seems that the sun and the rain are in league because the heavens have opened and showered me with heavy torrents.

I am going to brave the elements though as we are just off for a little jaunt in the car, some exploring of new ground to do.

Can’t wait. Back Soon.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait.

PS My favourite poetry quote is by Robert Graves..

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money, either.

Oh and here is a puzzle for you. Does anyone know what this is? Keep looking at it; watch what happens. It was very camera shy.

Header picture, Connemara Farm is an oil painting by Elizabeth Ryan

Images of Scotland

The above are photographs of the Applecross Peninsula in the Western Highlands of Scotland. They were taken by my daughter who has just returned from a week's holiday there. They remind me of Paul Henry's paintings of Ireland.


Here is a poem that I have written in response to the MEME which was entitled I am from:



I am red from their blood and the passion spent


I am red from their blood and the passion spent

I sprung from the workhouse grey and from black London smog.
From scrubbed steps and tears,
intimidation and hardship.
Magdalen years.

I am from Ireland.
From the strong ones;
fighting stock, survivors of famine,
hunger and want.
From Britain’s infiltration attempting
Irish subjugation.

I too am born of the Kerry clay.
I am from red haired kings,
from O’Connor castles and fields of green
and farms and butter churns.
From the peat and the bog
From a few acres dug.

I am from poets and artists
and singers of songs
and dancers of jigs to
a glass or two.

I am from West Cork
where purple mountains meet beaches and the roar of their sea.
Westernmost coasts,
Holy Ghosts.

I am from shipwrecked Spanish galleons,
black haired pirates and
blue-eyed wild beauties of the night.

From Druids and tinkers
and Celtic fortune-tellers
and Sisters of Mercy wearing
silver rings and rosaries

I am red from their blood and the passion spent.



Cait O’Connor

The Wicked Month

Dear Diary,

I'll start with another Irish blessing for you.

God bless the corners of this house,
And be the lintel blest,
And bless the hearth and bless the board,
And bless each place of rest,
And bless each door that opens wide
To stranger as to kin,
And bless each crystal window pane
That lets the starlight in,
And bless the rooftree overhead
And every sturdy wall.
The peace of man, the peace of God,
The peace of love on all.




It is August, the wicked month, according to my so-much-loved Irish writer. Edna O’Brien. I wish I could write like her.

The weather is certainly leaning towards the wicked side, so very dull and rainy again. We have just returned from visiting my stepson and his family, we had such a wonderful time in Norfolk, a county I had never visited before. The sun shone the whole time, in fact to employ a cliché it was a real scorcher. What a treat for we summer-starved folk and the new sun-hat got a lot of use. My step grandchildren, H aged 15 and O aged 12, are two very special and beautiful people and I miss them (and also their parents D and K of course). We had a lot of laughs, lots of good food and drink and very pleasant outings.

So I will tuck in my Blessings here before I go on.

My lovely step family.

Memories and laughter. Moments to treasure amongst the company of those we love, especially if they live far away.

Sunshine (of course).

Journeys to new places.

My Angel divination cards that always resonate with what is called for.

Scented candles and new shoes/clothes/hats/

Treats, rest and good food. Alcohol!

A little Good News that I cannot yet reveal.

Returning Home and seeing the animals especially dear old Finn.


But now I am back to work and back to blogging.

I have a couple of MeMes lurking in the notebook so I will inflict them on you. One comes via Lane and is called

I Write I Don’t Write.

If you are reading this then why not do your own version?


This is mine:


I write because I have to.

I write in bed.

I write at dawn.

I write in the mists of sleep

I write in the middle of the night,

in the dark

and my pencil makes squiggles that I hope to be able to read in the morning. Too often the words next day are illegible or just some kind of gobbledy-gook, ideas that in the night seemed to be some kind of inspired genius and in the morning present themselves as the ramblings of a madwoman.

I write all day in my head.

I write in a flash of inspiration.

I don’t write for you,
I write for me.

I write for you,
I don’t write for me

For whom do I write?

I do write if there is a deadline.
I don’t write to order.

I do write by hand with pen and paper.
I don’t write on the computer.

I write letters in my head.

I do write in a notebook whose cover has to be colourfully pleasing to my eye and I have a collection of these waiting to be filled, all picked up as ‘bargains’ in my travels.

I do write on little scraps of paper because I can never find said notebooks when ideas come to me while doing chores/moodling/listening to Radio 4 or music.

I don’t write often enough when I am out on walks with the dogs because I nearly always forget my wee ‘walking’ notebook.

Ditto in the car.

I don’t write In the shower because I can’t can I? Too wet. It is however the place where I get so many ideas that come in a flash. From where do they come? I think it is something to do with the running water and its elemental energies being associated with ‘feelings and inspiration’.

I don’t write when hot/cold/ tired/ angry/ headachey/ ill/ busy/hungry/in company.

I don’t write on workadays.

I do (always) write when angry and the need to communicate my feelings is intense.

I write for enjoyment, especially this blog.

I write for therapy.

I write rather than speak.

I write my life.



THE END.


This blog is To Be Continued.

A visit to the shops is called for and much as I want to write, the fridge is empty.

I guess I don’t write when the fridge is empty.

The next MeMe is

I am from,

so watch this space……



Bye for now,
Cait.

To Make You Feel My Love - Adele

Full Moons, Images and Words

Dear Diary,


An Irish Blessing for you:

May you have warm words on a cold evening, a full moon on a dark night and a smooth road all the way to your door.”

It's a Full Moon tonight





And now for the images:


The stairs in my wee cottage






The view from my kitchen window







Some lavender in my garden




Remember my mystery plant?


Verbascum




It grew





And the borage seeds grew too





The bench who lives by the river


The front garden and the river bridge




The dear old bike who lives by the old woodshed



The new willow arch on the river bridge




The sheep, they have gone now but here is a memory




Before I go I will leave you with a poem.

I told you I was reading Dannie Abse's book The Presence.

This is one of his poems. If one can be in love with a poem, I am in love with this one. I am ashamed to say I have only just discovered this man's writings and his use of language is an inspiration


Not Adlestrop


Not Adlestrop, no - besides the name
hardly matters. Nor did I languish in June heat.
Simply, I stood, too early, on the empty platform,
and the wrong train came in slowly, surprised, stopped.
Directly facing me, from a window,
a very, very pretty girl leaned out.

When I, all instinct,
stared at her, she, all instinct, inclined her head away
as if she'd divined the much married life in me,
or as if she might spot, up platform,
some unlikely familiar.

For my part, under the clock, I continued
my scrutiny with unmitigated pleasure.
And she knew it, she certainly knew it, and would
not glance at me in the silence of not Adlestrop.

Only when the train heaved noisily, only
when it jolted, when it slid away, only then,
daring and secure, she smiled back at my smile,
and I, daring and secure, waved back at her waving.
And so it was, all the way down the hurrying platform
as the train gathered atrocious speed
towards Oxfordshire or Gloucestershire.

Dannie Abse


I'm sure we've all been there haven't we?



And remember this quotation, as I am in photo-mode tonight:


Fear is a darkroom where negatives develop. ~Usman B. Asif

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Welsh Book of The Year 2008

Dear Diary,

Just a little literary news today and on the musical front I have posted a video of a very moving song my daughter sent me this morning. It can be found below this post. She knows I am a lifelong Clapton fan and I’m pleased to say that both my children appreciate his genius as well. And my son shares his passion for playing the guitar.

But on the subject of books which is probably my number one passion (though music runs very close I have to say…).

The Wales Book of the Year is an annual literary award given to the best book written in English and the best book in Welsh in the fields of creative writing and literary criticism.

I am so pleased to report that the book I am currently reading and so enjoying - The Presence by Dannie Abse, written to help him overcome his grief after his wife died in a a car crash, has won the 2008 Wales Book of the Year. It is a fabulous book, by a great writer and poet and I heartily recommend it. When I find a good book I don’t want it to end and I am tempted to read it in small ‘doses’, this is one such book that I will no doubt read again.

Abse wrote The Presence in the aftermath of his wife Joan's death in June 2005. The Cardiff-born author, who lives in London, was also awarded a £10,000 prize. The results were announced in a ceremony at the Hilton Hotel, Cardiff on 1 July 2008.

The three final short listed books were:

Dannie Abse: The Presence (Hutchinson.

Tom Bullough: The Claude Glass (Sort Of Books).

Nia Wyn: Blue Sky July (Seren).

If you have read my blog you will know that I have been raving about Nia Wyn’s book Blue Sky July for a long time and have been forcing it on all and sundry, whether they think they fancy it or not. So I was really pleased when it was short listed for this award.

I am still waiting to read Tom Bullough’s book The Claude Glass as I have requested it through the library, there must be a waiting list so I can’t yet comment on that one. It sounds like a very well written novel of personal and 'local' interest, so is Something to Look Forward To, I'm sure. I will blog about it asap.

Bye for now,
Go mbeannai Dia duit,
Cait

Eric Clapton and John Mayer

Blessings, a Poem, some Pictures, and (below) a Song.

Dear Diary,

The pictures above are by the artist Liz Ryan.

It's high time I posted some Blessings as I have been a tad neglectful lately; there seems to have been a lot of bad news around and as for the weather, I will say no more.

(Where is summer hiding?).

Here goes then. I will do my best.

I'll start with poetry, It's always there to seek out, read or to have a go at writing myself. Lines are always going round in my head (don't you just love words?).

Below is one poem that cheered me recently, it was 'homework' submitted by L, one of our writing group members.

Lauri & the Monster

I was sat telling Lauri

a bed-time story:

It was like Jackanory

but just her and me

when a big blinking monster

fell out of the wardrobe;

before he could strike

I said, "You leave her be !".

We don't want your kind

around here causing trouble.

We've heard all about you ...

you're very naughty.

We will not put up with you

eating our children.

Be off Mr. Monster ...

Be gone instantly !

The monster looked sheepish

and cast his eyes downward

I noticed a tear

then another, then three

and I said Mr. Monster

Oh why are you crying ?

He sat on the floor

and explained it to me.

He said, “I'm the monster

that lives in the bedroom

of every small child

in every country

and nobody loves me

because I'm so scarey

but scarey is not

what I wanted to be.

My fate it was cast

by the toss of a coin

I could have been charming

a Prince don't you see

but I met the wrong side

of a Witch in Llangammarch

and this is the spell

that she cast upon me.

But you, you can save me !

Sweet little Lauri.

You are the secret.

You hold the key.

You can cancel the spell

that the Wicked Witch made

and I'll make you a princess

if you set me free”.

We looked at each other

Lauri and I

not sure what to make

of the monster's story

and as quick as a flash

while our guard it was down

he jumped to his feet

quite gymnasti-cally

Then showed us his teeth

and a bottle of sauce

that he kept in his pocket

specfi-cally.

Strangely enough

we’d assumed this might happen ...

We're not very gullible

Lauri and me.

I snatched up the bottle

of sauce from his pocket

and opened the window

as wide as could be,

then threw it as far

as my muscles could manage.

It landed next door ...

in a nest,

... up a tree.

The monster was foiled

and he starved quite to death.

Kids without sauce

taste disgusting you see.

So the moral herein is:

Keep wardrobe doors closed

And be wary of ketchup

- and tales of “poor me”.

©Ven.June2008

Our writing group is another blessing. Like minded souls getting together for chat and a drink afterwards, sharing our work and our love of the written word. We have a new member who writes songs and he performed his homework for us last night accompanied by his guitar - very original and enjoyable.

Music goes hand in hand with poetry, what are songs sometimes, but poetry set to music anyway? I have posted my Record of the Week below too, it's called No Air and it's one of those tunes that sticks in the mind, always a sign of a hit I think. Apparently the singers were on American Idol, not that I have ever watched it, I just caught the song on the radio in the car yesterday and loved it.

Our writing homework last month was on the subject 'Toss a coin'. My litle prose poem effort is in an earlier blog below. Next month is 'Never Go Back'. I am thinking around that one, waiting (hoping) for inspiration.

Paintings are always a blessing, where would we be without art? Liz Ryan is an Irish American artist who I 'met' online. Her work is really outstanding and puts me in mind of Paul Henry's work and he is one of my most favourite artists (who also just happens to have been Irish).

Real coffee is my next blessing. I am hopeless but M makes lovely coffee and I need the caffeine kick this morning as I was very late to bed last night.

This leads me on to Afternoon Naps. OK I know I have probably used this one as a blessing before, but some days, especially when I am really tired and the weather is dire, then my bed calls me a little more loudly during the day. She tempts me in with a Good Book, but usually after a few pages with that indulgence then I am soon fast asleep. But hey ho......this means I can stay up late again tonight, it's hard being a night owl.

(I am back to work tomorrow morning so had better not be too late to bed tonight though).

I must mention the very kind Purplecoo folk who have been sending their Purple Healing Vibes, from far and wide, to someone in my neighbourhood. The power of positivity and love is truly amazing, would that it could be more widespread in our world.

M has just rescued a finch that was indoors on our kitchen window. Men have their uses so they will have to be another blessing. They have strength and are good at mending things..... they can sing with deep voices and ............and............come on there must be others??? Help me someone...

All this rain has lessened my hay fever symptoms dramatically. That is good news. It's stopped me gardening so I have been able to get on indoors with another writing project. I haven't been sunburnt. Haven't done any of the outside painting that I had planned to do (is that a blessing? I don't think so, strike it out).

Listened to music more. (I know that is bad English - see next sentence).

I have been more lazy (now we're talking, this is more like it), I've read more, I've written more.

I've Looked Forward more.....for surely there must be Good Weather somewhere on the horizon.

(Anyone seen Summer?)

Bye for now,

Go mbeannai Dia duit,

Cait

Record of the Week - No Air - Jordin Sparks and Chris Brown

Arte Y Pico Award

Wow! I'd just like to thank.............. oh shut me up............

I have got an award! It's called the Arte Y Pico award and I believe it was birthed in Portugal. I am so pleased and honoured especially as dear Exmoor Jane awarded it to me. She is an accomplished author who also writes a wonderful must-read blog about the diary of a desperate Exmoor woman. Not to be missed, anything that Jane writes.

Conditions with this award come attached (don't they always?) but they are quite simple. I have to nominate five other bloggers who I consider to be worthy of receiving such an award.
Here are the 5 rules of the award (it’s all rather strict)

1. You have to pick five blogs that you consider ‘deserving of this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and which contribute to the blogging community, no matter what language they are in’.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his/her blog to be visited by everyone. (or what?)
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given him/her the award itself (once again, it’s a bit bossy but I suppose if you invent an award you can set whatever rules you like – whether you choose to follow them or not is entirely up to you).
4. The award winner and the one who has given the prize has to show the Arte y Pico blog so that everyone will know the origin of the award.
5. To show these rules.

But choosing just five is not simple as there are so many blogs I love out there.

After much deliberation I have been forced to whittle it down and here are the nominations. I chose them for their effect on the senses which make them all worth a visit and for me a visit to their pages is always a life enriching experience..

In alphabetical order they are: (you can tell I am a sad librarian).


Blossom. Why? She is a wonderful artist, a fantastic photographer as well but hers is more than just a photographic blog - her writings are beautiful and many of her postings stay in the memory.

Lane's Write. Why? Her writing is just so delicious, you do almost want to eat her words and I am totally addicted to her blog. Its subject matter varies, is always so intelligent, humorous and really inspiring.

Pipany. Ah dear Pipany, to visit her blog is a treat for every one of the senses and it is a treat not to be missed. I will say no more. Just go see.

Tom Foolery This blog cannot be categorised which is probably why I go for it; there is a taste of originality and it is another of my must-reads. It's different, so funny and there is always something on the page to make me think.

Un Peu Loufoque- The Adventures of Un Peu Loufoque are the humorous tales of the life of the Loufoque household, a family of some social standing living in central Brittany at some time during the two world wars. Dates are a trifle vague, as are many things about Un Peu Loufoque. The stories tell the daily trials and tribulations of a well brought up innocent abroad in the world.
This tale deserves a wider readership. There are other links to follow as well featuring the huge artistic talents of this blogger.

So there we have them. Do visit and enjoy.

And thanks again Jane!

Homework

This is a piece of homework for my local writing group. The subject for June was 'The Toss of a Coin'

Coin of the Realm

A Story-of-Sorts in the Making

by Cait O'Connor

Any similarity to a child’s primary school composition is highly likely.

Warning. May contain cliches.




(The Beginning. Background to character).


I answer to the name of Lucre.

In polite circles I am a ‘medium of exchange‘.

Honest money, that’s me, I may not be precious metal like my ancestors who dressed in gold and silver and lived amongst treasure in luxurious surroundings.

I still belong to the ‘Ready’ gang.
OK, OK, I know I’m not in with the big papery gangs ‘The Notes’; I admit I’m only ‘Small Change’, but in the wealth stakes I am still pretty Hard Cash.

I’ve been around just as much as those Big Guys; I could tell you a tale or two, I’ve been in some sticky situations, ah the pockets, the purses I‘ve slept in…. Just don’t get me started that’s all.

I’m still a coin of the realm don’t you know? I come from the Royal Mint. Where do you come from eh? Anything Royal?

I thought not.

(Middle Bit. Stay with it),

I used to be given away quite a bit; I still am from time to time and when that happens I may end up in some charity collecting box or other. Only the kind and generous folk put me there though. But I don’t mind; I’m the same as them, I like to feel I am ‘doing good’. I’m never ever given to children any more though, there must be some dark reason, I know not what.

My dad, he was a Copper, no don’t laugh, it’s true, some folk called him a Penny but round these parts, where we woz minted, well we woz known as Coppers.

I have cousins who were Tanners and an Uncle Bob.

Well, we all have an Uncle Bob don’t we?

I’ve done my family tree (haven’t we all?)

My Grandad, well he was a Florin married to a Farthing and there are Sovereigns in my line, I’m sure of it.

At least I’m still genuine. What you get is what you see , there’s nothing counterfeit about me.

(Warning. Sad part coming up).

The times they are a changing…..

If I fall to the ground nowadays most folk will still see me lying face down in the dirt but now they just walk right past me. Once upon a time their faces would have lit up, they would have exclaimed joyfully and bent down to rescue me from some dark pavement.

Ah those were the days.

How cruel some people are.

Recently I’ve heard some people say that I and others like me, are worthless. I have to say that this really hurts and it’s made me feel that my life is without meaning. Debased and cheapened - that’s how it makes me feel.

(Happy ending?)

But life can still be worth living sometimes! The special days and it doesn’t happen often (but when it does I am known to shine once more). The treasured moments when I hear those three or four magic words from a human.

‘Lets toss for it’ or ‘Toss a coin’.

Then I feel mighty powerful and pretty superior if I’m honest, because none of the Big Guys hold this Special Power of mine.

What is this power, you may ask?

I can change the course of events in a pretty big fashion.

Just ask me, for example:

Do things your way or mine?

Become a scary monster or a handsome prince?

Live this end of the street or the other?

Write a story or a song?

Sleep under the stars or in a palace?

Become a gambler or abstain altogether?

Move to Wales or to Scotland?

Stay alive and go to the pub or commit suicide?

(Serious stuff).

Just watch me as I flip……..

Heads or tails anyone?





**Footnote
The choices in the last section relating to the tossing of the coin were the ones mentioned in the work submitted by the other members of our writing group (so far). Sort of private joke really so that explains why they may seem a little obscure.