Follow my posts by email

Friday, 22 December 2017

Christmas wreath and grief is the thing with spines




This is a Christmas sort of blog post featuring hedgehogs, cats and dogs and this beautiful bird picture which Chloe Coggin painted for me last Christmas.



Sad news on the hedgehog front though. The other week on one of those icy sub zero mornings (reminiscent of Antarctica - see later)(Not that I've ever been there.)I found a little hedgehog lying on the track. I picked it up intending to bury it and thought it had only just died as it hadn't stiffened up. It lay perfectly still but when I blew on it I could see tiny movement. I took it inside and rang the Hedgehog Preservation Society when they opened and they advised a hot water bottle wrapped in a towel in a box with some straw. They said it would have to be over 500grams to be able to hibernate and this little chap when I weighed him on my new digital scales (thank you Elinor -a present clearly useful not just for weighing sugar and flour.) was only 300g. He was very soft, his spines were like fur but when he began to warm up they hardened. I kept him warm all day and changed his hottie when it got cool. I went down at 2 in the morning to change it again but he had died. I think he was the same hedgehog I'd picked up on the track in the Autumn. He was very busy then and had no intention of hibernating. I guess he knew he only weighed 300 grams.

 I've nicked this photo off the internet - I'm probably not allowed to but it made me laugh and cheered me slightly after the hedgehog grief. This is a cat casting for a film.

Nancy said you'd never catch her on a lead.And she wouldn't want to be a film star anyway.

I'm still writing about a Cat myself and hope it'll be finished in the New Year -all news about it then. But I have just finished reading Mrs Chippy's Last Expedition by Caroline Alexander about the cat on Shackleton's boat The Endeavour which got frozen in the ice in Antarctica. What a lovely book - and beautifully written (see Tom Waits further down the page)I had forgotten what happened though. So moved by the little chap - even though it was over a hundred years ago I'm considering changing Pocket's name to Mrs Chippy. They look very similar in the photograph - I don't think Pocket will care too much - even like Mrs Chippy - being a boy.
 

Pocket quite confidence in his sex.




 I only hope my book will be as enjoyable. As Beezle and Tom Waits would say " The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering."


Pixie's very last interesting fact for 2017 is that Christmas Day is on Monday.




                                                 



                                                   Hope is the thing with feathers
                                                            by EmilyDickinson

                                 





                                     “Hope” is the thing with feathers -
                                 That perches in the soul -
                                 And sings the tune without the words -
                                 And never stops - at all -

                                And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
                                And sore must be the storm -
                                That could abash the little Bird
                                That kept so many warm -

                                I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
                                And on the strangest Sea -
                                Yet - never - in Extremity,
                                It asked a crumb - of me.


Monday, 27 November 2017

mini beasts and stripey cats



I have noticed recently that Pocket (quarter Bengal) has taken to sleeping on stripy things.


 Now this may be because most of our soft furnishings have stripes on them or because he is trying to hide himself. Camouflage is a useful device, he must have padded round the house choosing the best place to sleep undisturbed - I mean if you went into the bedroom you just wouldn't know he was there. I'm wondering if I leave the doors open if a zebra will find his way upstairs and do the same thing. But this is just silly, fanciful thinking. It would never manage to get up the stairs.

My mother who was in charge of soft furnishings at home, once made a pair of regency striped curtains which she hung in the dining room. When my father saw them he shook his head in dismay and asked her to take them down. He never cared how the house was furnished but he told us he couldn't live with them as they reminded him of Belsen where the prisoners had to wear striped pyjamas. Being a doctor with the army he was one of the first through the gates when liberation happened. He hardly ever spoke of his experiences in the war and of course now he has died I wish I'd asked him more.


 This beautiful butterfly has been living in the house for a few days and maybe thinking this card,drawn by my daughter Chloe is a friend or relative, landed on it. Perhaps another form of camouflage or just trying to draw some nectar. At least there were no chemicals sprayed on it.


 At last a group photo of nine of the ducks. (the other four are in the garden.) The beautiful little brown runner came from this year's eggs and has palled up with the big white female magpie.(centre front) They seem joined at the hip - er - wing and go everywhere together. Her mother hatched four  black ones with green feathers here and there, a couple of white ones with silly hats on and the trout coloured one. Quite an assortment - like a box of Green and Black's chocolates. This reminds me that Pixie has enjoyed helping herself to the odd mini bar of Green and Black's and this morning nicked my toast when I wasn't looking.

 Considering all but the magpie ducks were born here and have known me since birth they are still convinced I'm going to eat them. There is a great deal of quacking and  waddling and flying that goes on whenever I appear. I must try camouflage.


 But as Beezle and Goerthe would say "In the beginning is the deed."

 Pixie's very interesting fact this month is that there is a butterfly in Africa with enough poison in its body to kill six cats.  Perhaps that is why Pocket is in hiding.


The tulip bulbs have arrived and I've just potted them up. I don't want to appear to be wishing away the year but can hardly wait until spring when these beauties unfurl their petals and give both pleasure to us and nourishment to those mini beasts. I jut hope they don't attract that particular butterfly from Africa.


Two Butterflies went out at Noon
Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886
Two Butterflies went out at Noon-
And waltzed above a Farm—  
Then stepped straight through the Firmament
And rested on a Beam—   

  And then—together bore away
 Upon a shining Sea—
  Though never yet, in any Port—
  Their coming mentioned—be—

 If spoken by the distant Bird—
  If met in Ether Sea
By Frigate, or by Merchantman—
 No notice—was—to me—


Wednesday, 1 November 2017

ravens r us and a trip to the Tower


Last week, with enormous thanks to Chris, the RavenMaster at the Tower of London I got to talk raven.

Followers of this blog will know I am an enormous corvid fan and I was thrilled to spend so much time talking about them and getting up close. I will no doubt be writing about a raven after this Cat book I'm working on and the fox book which is waiting in the wings. Chris told me a chilling story of one female raven who led her two young suitors to the top of the Tower. She flew down, and the ravens who would follow her anywhere went after her and fell to their death. They had not yet mastered how to fly. Hence she was known as the Black Widow.(I can't help wondering if she knew they couldn't fly.)
Merlina the star raven - named when it was discovered she was not Merlin after all.

I three times rescued this little chap from the lane and the jaws of a dog. I made him a snug nest of straw somewhere safe but he definitely had his own agenda and eventually after trying to persuade him he might like to be with another of his kind I just let him be. I hope he is curled up somewhere warm.

We've had a pom pom making fest!

I had no idea that making pom poms could be so addictive. And I'm not the only one. I mentioned the pom poms to our blacksmith (I felt rather foolish when everyone else was talking about ploughing and jumping huge fences)- a young, handsome man in his leather apron and strong physique and was enthralled when he turned to me, Harry's large back hoof in his hand and told me he had a really good gadget for making them and that he and his wife and made hundreds of them. (we use the legs of a chair)



We made strings of them as festive garlands for outside but now the winter has come they are, like the hedgehog, nestled down in a box. I suppose they are a bit like coloured hedgehogs. I might have to join Pom Poms Anonymous.



As Beezle and ee.cummings would day " The world is doing its best, night and day to make you everybody else."

Pixie's interesting fact (which she didn't get from the Raven Master) is that all but one of the Tower Ravens died from stress during the Blitz. Is this right Chris?

A last rose showing it's beauty before the frosts


Pixie's usual greeting to anyone who comes to the door. She's scared a few delivery men.


The Raven - Poem by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
''Tis some visitor,' I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow- sorrow for the lost Lenore-
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me- filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'Sir,' said I, 'or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you'- here I opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 'Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, 'Lenore!'-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more.'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door-
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, 'other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never- nevermore'.'

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
'Wretch,' I cried, 'thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil!- prophet still, if bird or
devil!-
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there balm in Gilead?- tell me- tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil- prophet still, if bird or
devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us- by that God we both adore-
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

'Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend,' I shrieked,
upstarting-
'Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!'
Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore! 

Sunday, 24 September 2017

writing tips, panthers and other nonsense



There are just three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately no one knows what they are.

So said Somerset Maugham who in many ways started me writing.
When I was a child I penned avidly and on the suggestion of someone took up a pen name. On my parents book shelves were a handful of Dennis Wheatley's and a novel by the said Somerset. So I called myself M.M.Maugham. For some reason the M M stood for Maggoty Mouldy. I may still use this name if I get a publisher who wants me to change my name. I may even try and get these books published - including the spelling mistakes. There was a notty wind that made all the people koff. (I hope I didn't start the story with this - see later tip about not starting a book with the weather.) Decipher that if you can. A lot of my writings then where accompanied by crayon drawings of hedgehogs wearing shorts.


Apart from Never use the words "suddenly" or "when all hell broke loose." - 
with the help of some of our house guests I have made a short list of writing tips. When I visit schools to talk about writing I illustrate the five useful tips I selected with their photo opportunities. 

Tip 1.  Read as much as you can.


Tip 2. don't make phone calls and keep off Facebook.
Tip 3.  Listen to the way people speak.



Tip 4. Get a pet to keep your circulation going whilst you wait.
Tip 5. Just Wait.

This is a tip from the great American poet and writer Charles Bukowski who related an idea to a bug. You might swat it dead or make a friend of it. I have a few dead bugs in my bottom drawer.
I trawled through the internet looking for writing tips and there are plenty of good ones.
every character wants something even if it's only a glass of water
never use a long word when a short word will do.
and
Never open a book with the weather.
This is the opening of my book The Boy with the Tiger's Heart.
The snow falls heavily that night and in the morning lies in deep drifts ......

Oh well. Isn't there a saying that says never say never?




On the writing front I have just finished the first draft of a new story. There is a black panther in it and in doing some research I was lucky enough to go on set with one. I took this picture in a film studio - the green background enables a different backdrop to be substituted. More than likely a jungle which is where this panther should probably be- though this one is tame. I was amazed at how long their tails are - up close they are at least the length of their bodies.
Here is our own black panther - Nancy - who is sitting on her tail (and some socks)which is a good deal shorter.

Panthers are often referred to as the ghost of the forest  -as they are so silent - like they walk on vapours. The panther's trainer told me one could take a man sitting round a camp fire in the jungle and his companions would have no idea he had gone. I imagine he was not in mid conversation.


Writing can be a lonely business but as Beezle and Paulo Coelho would say "Blessed are those who do not fear solitude, who are not afraid of their own company, who are not always desperately looking for something to do."
   And Pixie's interesting fact is
Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. (she nicked this from Groucho Marx.)
   



Letter from a Reader

by Adam Zagajewski


Too much  about death,
too many shadows.
Write about life,
an average day,
the yearning for order.

Take the school bell
as your model
of moderation,
even scholarship.

Too much death,
too much
dark radiance.

Take a look,
crowds packed
in cramped stadiums
sing hymns of hatred.

Too much music,
too little harmony,peace
reason.

Write about those moments
when friendship's footbridges
seem more enduring
than despair.

Write about love.
long evenings,
the dawn,
the trees,
about the endless patience
of the light.