Phrase for Today.

History, despite it's

wrenching pain,

Cannot be unlived, but if

faced with courage, need not be

lived again.

Mayo Angelou (b 1928) US writer. Read at the inauguration of President Bill Clinton.

' On the Pulse of the Morning' (January 20,, 1993.)

Box Office Banter.

ME: Don't look at me I'm having a bad hair day.

Work Colleague: How can you tell?

I've never warmed to that boy.

Legend in the Dining Room.

I'm a bit of a John Denver fan on the quiet. I get it from my dad who played Country/Easy Listening as I grew up. We attended many of his concerts whenever he was in the U.K. and I even managed to see him when I was working on a summer camp in Maine over in the U.S. A girl I had become friends with, (I forget her name,) borrowed someones pick-up truck and we drove out to Orchard Park for an open air event. I was amazed by how relaxed the audience were sitting on their picnic rugs scoffing sandwiches while he stood on stage doing his thing and couldn't resist blagging my way to the front under the pretence of having travelled there especially for his show.

We had a blast, well as much as you can to his kind of music.

One of dad's favourite songs (and mine too) is 'The Wings That Fly Us Home,' which comes from the album, 'Spirit'. He wants us to play it at his funeral and is only sorry that he won't be able to fully embrace the experience himself except from some far away place wherever that may be. Dad thinks he is John Denver whenever he picks up a guitar to have a strum or a singalong which he doesn't do so often these days because his fingers have become gnarled with age and arthritis.

I loved it when he played. He became someone else for a little while as he escaped into that other world of dreams that didn't involve face masks to protect against inhaling sawdust from the machines he worked on all day turning out kitchens we could never afford to buy. I'd watch his fingers picking the chords, his eyes closed,on stage somewhere with John by his side rather than on the turn-table in the dining room, until one of my sisters' begged him to turn it down. He even got together with a few others to form a group and went around the old folk's home at Christmas time. (I may have been persuaded to take the mic' myself on one or two occasions but that's another story.)

I received a parcel today from America which I have been waiting for. Inside was 'Spirit' on CD because like dad, I only had a vinyl copy which has long since been gathering dust in the loft. The memories came flooding back the minute I put it on to play. My children stood amazed as I embraced the moment and howled along with John at the top of my voice in my own dining room this time, lost in another world altogether until they begged me to turn it down.

Johnny-boy died in'97, the same year as Diana. My dad misses being in concert with him and I miss being in concert with my dad. Anyway, here he is, follow the link below, close your eyes, relax and enjoy.

http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=t-f66EO2D1U

Coming Home.

When I started this blog just over a year ago it was because it seemed an ideal, instant way of reaching people with my thoughts and muses on subjects close to my heart. It began with frustration over work issues and developed through into creative experiments, some that worked, some that didn't work and a few that have taken on a life of their own. I virtually met some very good people and have even spoken to a couple of them by phone which has been wonderful. One of those lovely people suggested, after reading through the whole blog, (poor love,) that perhaps I had lost my way. Having started off as myself, (naturally a very funny person, it's true!) the tone had dampened into something more serious, perhaps even sombre.



I have been thinking about this.



This morning I read the latest post on Don Merritt's website which you can find here. http://doniganmerritt.typepad.com/donigan_merritt/ entitled: 'Sage advice from a sage-less writer.'

It's worth reading for many reasons.

• It's well written and I would expect nothing less from a published writer.
• The advice is sound and based on years of experience.
• We have all found ourselves caught one time or another in the trap of trying to be someone other than ourselves when it comes to writing, myself included. Perhaps via flattery or for reasons best known to ourselves we adopt an approach which we tell ourselves feels right, a bit like buying a new pair of shoes that we really want and are willing to ignore blisters in order to wear.

I'm not sure that anything I write now or in the future will outlive me but I take great comfort from Don's final sentence because deep down I'm not too worried. It's been great just to be around and have the chance to chew the fat. If you got any more from my posts other than a smile, then that's a definite bonus.

Phrase for Today.

I have striven not to laugh at human actions, not to weep at them, nor to hate them, but to understand them.

(Baruch Spinoza 1632-77. Dutch philosopher and theologian.)

Windows and Doors.

We've been busy with home improvement the last week or so. After 18 years of living in a drafty house we have finally succumbed to the modern wonder that is double glazing. Our new front door is the smartest on the street - nay, the Shire, I kid you not. These days it's a pleasure to put the key in the door rather than a foot to it in order to gain access to our small kingdom. The kitchen window actually opens, don't even get me started on the bedroom and condensation is a thing of the past as are rotten flaky sills.

Those good fellows put their backs into it and within a couple of days the only home our family has ever known was transformed. A surgeon's knife could not have done better nipping and tucking to reveal a splendid new face to the world at large making us the envy of the neighbourhood to be sure. A dentist could not be prouder of the whiter than white frames gleaming proudly like newly fixed crowns you can't help but touch and explore. It's a new house without the hassle of moving and yet...

For all the beauty and comfort our recent investment brings, I miss the old front door. I miss the dirty hand prints permanently stuck to the paint which used to be white until we gave up trying to disguise years of frustration over swollen wood which never closed properly except with a good kick. I miss the tut-tutting of the postman as he struggled to push basic envelopes through the booby trapped letter box until we were forced to help the door deliver her unborn mail. I miss turning down the TV to listen to the neighbourhood on a Saturday night because the slightest noise became audible through the rickety panes of glass. But most of all I am sad for all the memories tossed into the back of the tradesman's van such as the very first time we brought our children home as tiny promises of what they would become.

So I guess we had better get busy creating new memories to befit our elevated position in the heady world of modern living; although I think our youngest read my thoughts and made a start by digging her nails into the wet seal around the bathroom window. Wait 'til I get my hands on that girl...

There is no other Love but you.

There is no other love but you

What on earth do you take me for?

Oh pass me those pots I've things to do,

Who left those clothes on the floor?

Yes, I know we have bills coming out of our ears

But we deserve better than this!

Don't you yearn to feel the wind in your hair?

No? - Must be just me then I guess?



I'm not bothered about watching telly tonight

It's only repeats anyway and

Actually I said I'd meet Sonia in town

I'm sure I mentioned that earlier today.

Well, I meant to, so sorry

If you didn't quite hear but now I need to get dressed.

IF EVER THE BATHROOM IS FREE OF COURSE.

Who left these towels in a mess!



I'm sick to death of picking things up

It's time you stepped up to the plate.

Now look what you have made me do

Rushing so much I'll be late.

Can you zip me up, careful please

Don't get it snagged in the seam.

What, this old thing, had it for years.

You've seen it yes - No I don't have the receipt.

God's teeth but are you still going on

What exactly have I done now?

Oh, the neighbour said she saw me at the gate

Chatting with whom? When? And how

Is it you believe her over me

When all is said and done - Ye of little faith

It cuts me to the core to think

You'd sabotage my fun.




Fuchsia Pink. Two Christmas's ago

You see I hardly spend anything at all.

And these shoes must be five years old

Can't remember when they last saw a dance floor.

Night-club? Me? Well, now you mention it

It's possible we could be late. I'll be sure

To let you know if our plans change

From drinks to a full blown date.



Did I say date? Just yanking your chain

The frown on your face was enough.

Now kiss me and tell me that we're OK

And stop looking so Billy-Goat gruff.

There are too many years between us my love

For you to start worrying now

About have I or haven't I cheated on us

Our marriage, our kids - Holy Cow!



Is that the time where are my keys?

Make sure they're in bed by nine.

The sandwiches are done your dinner too

Yes of course I'm going to be fine.

Thank you, I'm glad you noticed my scent

You bought it ages ago.

Do you remember where we were and what we did?

You rascal you must let me go.



Sonia called when? - But I was in the shower.

You lay there and watched me get dressed

Knowing all along that the evening was off

Why wait 'till now to confess?

You Dog! You Cad! You enjoyed the show,

I think a beating is long overdue.

Damn your eyes man I fail to comprehend why for me

There is no other Love but you.