Sunday 31 October 2010

Hedgeblog #3

It’s Hallowe’en tonight, of course.  I thought Tiggs might like to share in the fun so I’ve made him a little card. It's on the radiator shelf by his cage. 

I think I’ve noticed something – when he turns around, it’s always to the left.  I wonder why.  Is it a hedgehog thing or a Tiggs thing ? 

I’ve always picked him up gently, without gloves, careful not to bruise underneath or clutch tightly, and this seems to suit him. His spines are still really soft.  He is quiet when being handled, and doesn’t flinch like he did at first when approached, provided he already knows you’re there.

As for your cleaning bucket, now that does worry me. I don’t trust the handle, and dread getting halfway across your spotless living room carpet and it parting company with the bucket.  So tomorrow I bring my own.
I wonder about when he’s out in the wild again. I bet he walks for a while and keeps thinking  “I’ll get to the cage wall in a minute”.

Was in the pantry, getting another tin of puppy food.  Looked down at your bucket, and the handle fell off.  Told you. It was only waiting until I was watching.

Tiggs has the same response this morning as last night – walk pointedly to the corner of the red crate and squeeze in a little nap while he’s waiting.  Food has been thoroughly trashed as usual, and there are enough clues to tell me all his bodily functions are in perfect working order. 

Tonight while I cleaned the cage floor, he explored his escape route from the red crate, standing on his hind legs. He was just about to start the ascent when I encouraged him down again – just seeing my hand appear was enough.  Saw how big his feet are getting, and his face is definitely larger.  I think two things will strike you when you get back – one is how much he will have grown, and the other is that Tiggs, the fish and the cats are all operating in a different time zone.
The only thing he didn’t get tonight was the Sudoku in the newspaper.  Cleaner’s perks, I thought, tearing it out.

Thank you Chen for the technics

I am speechless with happiness. I have winnowed the wheat from the chaff of help forums and found an html solution to my Can't Reply to Own Blog Comments Problem. "This will be a little complicated" said Chen. No actually it wasn't. It was fine. THANK YOU CHEN. I will be emailing you. Half the explanations were in Chinese but the English bit was perfect. Bless your cotton socks.

http://blog.thisischen.com/2009/04/how-do-i-reply-to-comment-on-blogger.html  
if anybody needs it.

Blogger was bogger for that issue, as it was when searching for an answer to my current unstoppable error box on stats page. Needs five OK clicks to get rid of the bloody box. 'Help for known issues' doesn't recognise its own error code. Even though I've been told for three weeks that their Best People Are Working On It. So it's not exactly news to them. Does anybody else get bX-avfhl9 every time they look at stats page ? 

Anyway, now I have replied to SpiralSkies where it should have been, although we did email at the time. 
So I won't seem bad-mannered any more.
Gosh I feel better now. 

Current mathematical state of affairs

@ 1 pm GMT
Empty wine glasses by bed  9 – astonishing, even by my standards. Am sure some invisible person is sharing house.
Clean wine glasses in cupboard  0
Empty cups various locations  4
Pheasants in garden  2
Number of times my mother’s right slipper has fallen off under table  3
Hours behind schedule  3
Number of times I've given my mother breakfast and forgotten to put in the weetabix  1
Cups of coffee by lunchtime  4
Number of times I've gone upstairs and forgotten what for  2
Rabbits in garden  1 – something wrong with this. No such thing as one rabbit.
Number of times mother’s asked me what time it is  4
Number of times mother’s asked me what day it is  0  –  amazingly
Number of times I’ve lifted empty coffee cup to drink it  3
Sightings of Ratty today  0 1
Number of sherries my mother's had already  2  3 so have to make lunch really soon but we did get up very late
Number of times I've gone to clean Chocolate’s litter tray but been mysteriously diverted to another task  4
Number of times I’ve wondered whether we should go to mother’s tomorrow morning instead of tonight  52 and counting, but we can’t because her tarmac’s being done tomorrow and we won’t get in. Would have to be Wednesday. Hmmm. Having a Think.

Saturday 30 October 2010

In mitigation (# 43.3 recurring) a bit of serious

Been worrying all night about that last posting, thinking it sounded like I’m making sport of my mother. Which I’m not. Please know I’m not. But it's not going to be removed because it’s daily life reality at the moment. My brother would tell you.
She knows she’s lost some of her wits, along with her short term memory. Says she has ‘gaps’ in her head. Which is absolutely normal for her age, let's face it. We just pray she’s not incipient Alzheimer’s. She has all the symptoms but not all at the same time.  I keep jollying her along and telling her how amazingly she’s doing, even if she can’t see or hear or think properly, or walk more than a few yards – and that’s clinging to her wheeled trolley.

So when it comes to the news, which keeps her connected to the world, and which she likes to hear every hour because she can’t remember what it said on the last one, it’s got to be the radio. She forgets that my portable telly is too small for her – she can’t see what’s going on or follow the speech. So she only gets mad and thumps the table. If we can find a reasonably slow bulletin like Radio 3 or 4, that’s better and she can sit with head bent, concentrating furiously. And I’ll fill in the gaps. And again, after the next one, and so on and so on. 
She has an amazing scanning mouse with a scart connection into the telly, (you can get one with a usb connection, and have b/w or colour) to sit scanning the newspaper or the post, reading it on the screen 200 x enlarged. But it's hard work. The individual letters still keep jumping about. She gives up after a line or two. And it doesn’t work on my telly. Only on a new one like hers.

There’s been no time to do anything other than look after her and write myself into a different space when she’s napping. You lot out there are my support network, whether you know it or not.
Haven't played the piano for her cos I'm scared. So out of practice she'll shout at me. Need to practise before her next visit. No sewing, no shopping, no library, except an occasional dive down to the corner shop (8 miles away) if she promises not to forget I’ve gone out for half an hour. Last time I went out while she was napping, I came back to find her in a rare old panic, hollering up the stairs. She'd mistaken an earlier shopping bag for hen corn or vice versa, thought I was back from shops but not answering. Another time she woke up having completely forgotten I was out getting her prescription, and was scared stiff.
We only get her out when it’s not raining. Or windy. Or cold. Not as much as I’d like to do with her. It’s better in summer. I got a carer to sit with her for three hours the other week, someone she knew and was comfortable with. In the middle of my shopping/prescriptions/library stuff I sat in wonderful autumn sunshine eating a huge sausage roll in the carpark behind the town hall, idling away half an hour, completely vacant, just because I could.

I’m not sorry for myself. Might sound like a whinge, but when I said it was a privilege to look after her, I meant it. She deserves it. But sometimes she says life in a care home would be interesting. A nearby place had been recommended to me so I investigated recently and found it really good – lively atmosphere, good smell, decent ratio of carers to clients etc etc. Lots of people to talk to and places to visit. They even did a pub lunch once a week. They would take her to church on Sunday if she was up to it. Being only a few miles from my Out in the Sticks, I could visit her all the time. Manager seemed excellent. Mother could even have her morning sherry and evening vermouth, no questions asked. In fact she wouldn't be alone in that. Great.

We were invited for lunch there next day. Halfway through it she looked away at the big bay window, then as she turned back a huge shudder hit her. I asked what was the matter. Tell you later, she said in a low voice. 
Our visit wasn’t helped by
a) it was the Manager’s day off ( we hadn’t been told beforehand) and there wasn’t anyone else for mother to talk to as they were all busy chasing around, it being mealtime,
b) people having lunch in their rooms were pressing their buzzers which automatically repeated LOUDLY every twenty seconds until switched off, and
c) there were two others at our table, one deaf and the other uncommunicative, and everybody else was at one long table having a very nasty argument, atmosphere deadly. I was horrified.

Driving away, I asked how she felt about it all. (And she hadn’t heard the Argument behind her.) She hesitated, said it would take a minute to find the words. So I said
Shall I tell you what I think, then?
Yes please.
I think you’re not ready for that.
Oh Thank God you said that.
And asking her about the shudder, she replied that for a moment she’d thought This Is It. This is My Life Now. And it had been a horrible feeling. Says it all.

So we’re all agreed she would have to be a whole lot worse than she is, to be in a home. Even a nice one.
But she goes home tomorrow for a fortnight, now we’ve set up evening carers to put her safely to bed (one day I’ll tell you why she’s never to be trusted to do her own medicines any more) and do the commode, eye drops, teeth cleaning, turn electric blanket off etc etc. I'm also working on the companionship aspect while she's there, someone to pop in and talk to her, but she's always sceptical about this idea. I think she'd rather nap, and have quiet times on her own schedule. Isn't even convinced of the necessity of the evening carer, but we family will not allow her home without one, so that's that.

I shall sleep for two days then do a mad tidy up and then perhaps I’ll actually do some sewing. Will catch up on Wallander videos (the real one, not our upstart Kenneth). Might even drink more wine than is good for me. Might even get ratted one night. Might even play the piano. 
No wonder I think Ratty looks cute.

Friday 29 October 2010

Conversations with mother (# 43.3 recurring)

You know how it is with old biddies talking.

Is it Wednesday?
No. Not her. She got married.
No that was the butcher’s shop.
Anyway I think it's Friday.
She was keeping goats, you know. In the bathroom.
And it rained every day for a month.
That Mrs.Berry. She wouldn’t use a walking stick.
It was his socks that did it in the end.
Going down like ninepins they were, her legs.
My son says it always rains on Fridays.
And of course his cat didn't like it.
etc etc

But in my kitchen it goes like this ........

Is the news on Channel 5?

Yes but I think you mean the tv. That’s the radio you’ve got there.

Because this is a daily event, the turning on of the radio to watch the telly at 5 o’clock.

Must be United, then. On a Wednesday.     Manchester United?

Can I help?

She’s pressing each button in turn and swivelling knobs and muttering.

Realise I might as well be talking to myself.

Do you want me to put Radio 4 on at 5 o’clock?

Not really. Still pressing buttons.

YOU HAVEN’T SWITCHED IT ON.

Realise she’s taken out her hearing aids sometime in the last hour. And has forgotten she’s done it.

I was trying so hard to keep my mouth shut until required. While quietly walking around the wheelchair and switching on the radio for her and jumping out of my skin because it’s on FULL VOLUME.   WAGNER.
God help us.

Wind in the Willows

First of all I had Mole. Well the lawn had moles. Both now deceased, as you know.

Then I had Toad. He lives near the back door and made it through the back lobby as far as the downstairs bathroom when I wasn't paying attention. Left a perfect poop on the floor. It was the loo after all. Think his home is under the oil tank.

Now I've got Ratty. Oh yes. Proper big brown Ratty, hoovering up leftover corn, fat as a little pig (pregnant? - don't think so, not lumpy) scurrying backwards and forwards across the patio bold as brass. Actually quite good looking. Face like a cutie pie squirrel, not like a weaselly rat.

You're probably thinking it's time I got out more. And I think you're probably right.

Not My Chickens

My non–existent chickens are on the kitchen doorstep, banging their non–existent beaks on the glass doors, wanting their non–existent breakfast. Because I Don’t Have Chickens, like I said. They are a figment of somebody’s imagination.
That would be the same somebody who took pity on a pretty little bantam hen from next door which, earlier this year, had lost two tiny chicks to next door’s cat and still had 9 more to look after, and was spotted in my upper garden surrounded by a moving cheeping cloud, and was sensibly taking up residence in my bushes. And developed a liking for Chocolate’s left–over catfood when the doors were open, which was all day long, and somehow or other it ended up with the kitchen being sort of imprinted on them.  As my neighbour told me later – everything up to 12 weeks old. Fixed in concrete. Oh. 

And during the winter I’d taped over the kitchen doors cos it was blizzarding and you could see daylight through the gap. And some of the tape was still left on when I took this –

A dependable source of interesting sustinence, they thought. A safe doormat to sit on afterwards and cuddle up together in the sunshine. A cat who had been trained not to attack. (I am so, so proud of him. He sits two feet away from the tiny chicks and doesn’t move a muscle, whether I’m there or not.) He knows what would happen if he did. One spring day he’d been under the rose bush and so were chickens. There was an almighty squawk, a hen shot out one side and Chocolate shot out the other.
He understands, now, the difference between ‘out there wild and flying about = fair game’, and ‘being deliberately fed = off limits’, that they’re house–friends and protegés just like him. (Landlord has just gone a funny purpley puce.)  

Anyway, one of them’s higher than the cat. And the cat is big, but this bird has a very large wicked beak. The bird in question is a cockerel.  Called Geronimo. 
Why ? Well just so I can give myself a laugh standing on the doorstep shouting GERONIMMOOOOHH……  And he comes running, clucking and chattering and telling me what a lovely morning he’s having, and thank you for this corn and isn’t life brilliant? And is this all for me ? and the suet sprinkles ? He runs in circles round my feet with one wing extended down. This means I’m his property and he’s protecting me.
And Geronimo because he has that sort of invincible pride about him. The Great Warrior.

Geronimo was dumped.
That is, some kindly–thinking people walking the countryside (benefit of the doubt, here) saw my neighbour’s flock and thought Here are nice People Who Have Hens. They will know What To Do. We will bring Our Hens here and they can Join In and Be Looked After.

What they didn’t see was that the flock had other ideas. Who the hell are you?  Piss off. This is our food, our tree, our car to sit under, our everything. Doesn’t matter what you look at, it’s not yours. You can’t have any. Etc etc. Was getting quite violent. Actually there was another identical cockerel dumped at the same time, but he soon fell into the jaws of somebody’s dog–being–walked–but–running–out–of–control, and that was that. So the one remaining Big Boy (far too big for the little ladies next door, health–and–safety–speaking) found refuge in my garden, to the relief of neighbour. He found his own tree, a nice thick cosy conifer near the boat. He slept up there every night. And still does. Well he would if somebody would admit he exists, that is. (Landlord has just had a stroke.) 
Well it says somewhere in the lease that livestock should not be allowed in the garden. Try stopping them. They fly. They stand on top of the gate shouting Look at Meeeee. I can go anywhere I bloody well want. And anyway the landlord's dogs are absent. Big dogs, hundreds of miles absent. And now I have a cat who's scared of hens.

And then Geronimo fell in love with the little bantam.  I texted neighbour:
<<Geronimo has captured the heart of the Fair Griselda (aka Honeybun, depending what mood I’m in).  He leaves her alone, which might be why she enjoys his patronage! Any trouble for her, I’ll call you for some sort of segregation ideas.>>

It was true. He didn’t pester her. The next–door cockerels did, all the time. But he and she were inseparable. Young love. I did guess they were probably married when one of next door’s jumped on to Griselda and in a split second Geronimo swiped him off. Off he went, our hero, chasing the intruder, running round the boat, out of one gate and in at the other, Keystone Cops I kid you not, and Honeybun was just standing there, blinking and breathless with wonder, her little chicks gaping in admiration at New Daddy.  He escorts her everywhere, fussing and checking everything’s in order. He makes sure she gets to the food, and the chicks – well he hasn’t stood on one since that first day when he flattened it with his big feet and I forgot to breathe, and the chick sort of stood up and wobbled a bit and was absolutely fine.  
She was a brilliant mother – picking out the tiniest morsels from the bowl and carefully placing the bits in front of the chicks. Chopping up bigger bits with her beak for them. 

Why is she the Fair Griselda? No idea whatsoever. These things just happen. She’s like something from Hans Andersen.

Her chicks have grown into proper young hens, and yes they still think the kitchen is their spiritual home, but they don’t get in any more. She had started pecking at them every mealtime, telling them to sod off, basically, that they were big boys and girls now. Find your own food. And I got tired of cleaning up little parcels, and disinfecting the floor.  (Landlord is now getting triple bypass.)

And now, so late in the year, she suddenly has two more teeny chicks, and I foresee – well you know what I foresee, and with winter coming …   shall I make some sort of shelter, a straw–filled little roost with proper bars to snooze on? Just like the first lot used to do under the kitchen chairs?  But they’ll be bigger by then, big enough to get into a tree. They are the exact right size just now, where wing power is bigger than weight, so they fly really well! Brilliant to watch. And weird. Chicks flying about four feet. Effortless, a bit like bouncing sparrows.  I mean sparrows bouncing, not me bouncing them.

When Geronimo goes to roost at night, he walks up and down past the conifer hedge, sizing it up, then suddenly takes a flying leap into a hole about four feet up. Then you can watch the outside branches wobbling, as he slowly makes his way further out of fox–reach.

He loves company. He loves to talk. But he doesn't do this now. He's too busy to stop in and chat.
That tail's pathetic. Think it was spring moult time.

And he doesn't get to do this any more either.

People who know about all this will see he had his spurs removed by somebody's vet. That means somebody cared, once.

If they were digging up the plants, it would be different. If they were scratching up the lawn, it would be awful and I’d feel terrible. But they don’t.  The only places they scratch are the gravel or bark covered bits, and I call that weeding, really. And slug clearance. The gardener will vouch for me. They eat good corn from the mill–over–the–hill in Yorkshire, and they behave themselves. I even find the occasional egg under the kitchen window.
Landlord is now in intensive care, recovering slowly.
And besides, I’d love to buy this house, if and when. Then none of this would matter, would it?
Landlord feeling a whole lot better, all of a sudden.


Thursday 28 October 2010

Hedgeblog #2


500 grams !!!! 
This is brilliant. Couldn’t wait to weigh him as I was so sure he’d grown.  Even though 100 grams doesn’t look like much under all those prickles. He’d eaten all his food overnight – including all the hedgehog food and the dried banana. It was quite neat and tidy! No mad parties last night, then. The newspaper was wet and there were two perfect poops left considerately in one corner under the green roof.
Charlie stays in her basket while I’m there, curling herself into a sleeping ball.  Both food dishes are almost empty, and Archie is nowhere to be seen. Naturally.

Around 4 pm I jump up on impulse to find Archie.  Unseen since yesterday morning, it was bothering me.  Archie is reclining (the only word for it) on the low bench thing behind the woodpile. We exchange long, both-eye blinks, catspeak for Life’s a Beach!  Good.

Evg.
Tiggs is fine.  He’d had some food during the day and was still sleepy when I went in - fell asleep straight away when I put him into the red crate. 
Back in his cage, he stuck his nose into the puppy food, said Fine thank you, and went straight back to bed.
Where is the large fish in the living room tank? Bit of a panic. I have a good look and can’t see him anywhere. Eventually spot him, upright against the glass, suckered on behind the water pipe. Apparently eating algae. Or cleaning the glass for you.

Remembered to put Tiggs' new weight on to the wall calendar. Borrowing your ‘phone glasses’, tried to read your notes so far. I can make out most of it except the bit which looks like he’s Not Snoring, or possibly Not Smoking.

Wednesday 27 October 2010

Tiggs #1 there will be more

I am looking after next door’s hedgehog. They found him first in the corner of their greenhouse and watched him toddling off down the garden. Then realised he (she? – I will say he for short)(argue amongst yourselves about centuries–old diminution of females)(don’t get me started, not right now) was far too small to survive hibernation just yet. So, after some research,  they’ve gone and bought a huge guinea–pig cage (biggest they could find short of monkey cage which wasn’t available at pet shop) and collected leaves for him to sleep in. So he’s in their dining room but they’ve had to go on a holiday pre–booked before this emergency. So I’m caretaker. He’s called Tiggs, in honour of Tiggywinkles website where they got most of their advice. 
They also have three cats, two of whom are home but the third is epileptic and is in special kennels for the duration. Oh and they have tropical fish. This is a huge responsibility for me. They adore their fish. I know naff all about keeping them. I am trying to remember every little detail about their welfare. And so I’ve started this diary for my neighbours to read when they get back from an isolated cottage on the west coast of Scotland. And you might as well share it!
Hedgeblog, why not.

October 26th

Get your text message about the tv plugs (about half an hour after you sent it) and go round to unplug them straight away. No problem.
Find note to say a parcel has been left for you in the greenhouse. Turns out to be a pair of parcels in silver wrapping, carefully stuffed under the bottom shelf in the far corner. Back in the kitchen, Charlie is asleep on a chair, and Archie is absent as usual.

As part of the current mega-task, sorting out my blue room, spend hours throwing out newspapers for the paper bank. I keep some back for Tiggs, and he’s going to be ever so excited when he gets the Herald Tribune tomorrow morning, so he can have a New-York-style Sunday-type lie-in reading it and singing “How do you like your eggs in the morning ……?”   It’s out of date of course, but I doubt he’ll mind.
In the evening, I do all the feeds, and feel as though I’m underfeeding the fish, which probably means I’ve got it about right. Tiggs is quiet, and his paper underneath is dry, so I leave it.
He gets some food on the top of the inside green shelter, and a few bits of dry hedgehog food, plus some dried banana which fell out of the packet. The rest of the fresh bowl and fresh water I put into the same corners he’s used to, and when I pop back at 9 pm to check on him, some food on the ground floor has been eaten, so I’m happy.
By the way, he had eaten nearly all the food you’d left him – just some smeared crumbs left in the dish. (That puppy food does mash up nicely with water, doesn’t it ?)
This afternoon I collected decent quality leaves in my garden, and have them drying off in a bucket, the beginnings of a serious collection for him.
And Archie spent his afternoon sitting on the garage roof, and the last time I saw Charlie she was staring at me from the other side of the cat flap, waiting politely for me to leave the premises.

As for the fish, they swam around and tried to look busy, but they don’t fool me. I know as soon as my back’s turned they revert to their lazy “just hangin” mode. Huh.

October 27th

Charlie was in her basket when I went in this morning, and immediately went out. Archie came to stand silently on the fence and stare at me, while I righted pots which had blown over in the wind last night, and opened the right hand greenhouse door a couple of inches, as it’s going to be a nice day (and for the same reason, I’ve drawn the dining room curtains to protect second fish tank). Archie did get stroked for a minute, which was nice.
Charlie was undecided, sitting two feet away from me on the back door bench, and eventually walked off down the garden.

Into the dining room.
Glory be, what a mess. Very reassuring, in fact, after he was so quiet yesterday. Not only had he eaten all his food except a tiny bit in the upstairs dish, but he’d been PARTYING.  He must have had all his friends round because it is impossible for one hedgehog to relocate so much food in so little time. Bowls shoved around, food from upstairs dragged downstairs, food from downstairs daubed up the steps, and believe or not food hurled at the wall at the height of the fun.  He’d even had some of his dried banana. I put him into the red side–crate and put some shredded paper over him, in the manner of a comfort blanket. While I took the green roof thing to the sink to wash and dry it thoroughly, he amused himself pretending to be a pile of paper walking round in circles.

After he was all put back, he had a sip of water and went to bed, and all was quiet again. I’m sure he’s bigger than the other night.

I kicked the catlitter tray, and a handful of litter flew across the floor.  Couldn’t see a dustpan (except outside) so went for the other solution. Now that is what I call a vacuum.  Like driving Space Lab.  (I’ve been to the NASA place in Washington DC so I consider myself an authority on these things.) It took until today to realise that I didn’t need to find white plastic bags under the sink, and that you’d left everything I could possibly want in the dining room …. wally.  I keep the opened puppy food in the pantry behind a closed door, so there’s no danger of Charlie getting hold of any, allergic and all as she is to wet food.

So all is well.
Tiny Tiggs and my neighbour

Dear John Lewis

House near the River
Out in the Sticks
Derbyshire
27 October 2010

Numpty Dept.
John Lewis Partnership

Dear John Lewis

Your attention should be drawn to the advert you’re doing on the radio.

I think you may find this difficult to live up to, were you given half a chance, (i.e. the H&S monsters might deserve to win a point, for once). Not to mention very easily undersold. Insurance companies would be queueing up for this one, if we were daft enough to pay for it.

You’ve just promised me that if my home is rendered unfit to live in, by flooding for example, you will find me a similar house to live in.  Kind of like–for–like policy, isn’t it?

Ooohhh no. I don’t think so.

First, the sound effect of teaspoon going round favourite teacup, in my new home, is fine. But while I’m trying not to gag on the smell of sewage swirling round my wellies? While I’m trying to sit on a chair which keeps floating off? And you mention a similar hotel as an option. Ah. That would be the one where they’ve had to close the kitchens and, more to the point, the bar?

Second, which thicko did you pay for this? As someone said, if he was any more stupid he’d have to be watered twice a week.

Third, and I hate to admit this, a) I live by a river and b) have my insurance with you lot. Makes me wonder if I’m as big a prat as you are.

Lordy lordy. Do sort it out, before you do any damage.

Tuesday 26 October 2010

Dear Wingnut

Dear              [tick preference box] 

Andrew

Mr Marr

Wingnut


(Well I once had a cat who was a dead ringer for you, except he was much fluffier, and his name was meant as affectionately as yours. And some people actually burst out laughing when they saw him, poor mite. His official name was Goonhilly Number 6. Sorry. Satellite dish joke. But you can see why Wingnut was easier. Also sounded better when yelling it from back doorstep.)

As I arrive late to this blogging lark, I am very out of the loop to the recent buzz which surrounds the medium. (There you are – for absolutely no reward I’ve given you a sentence you can pick holes in all day. Unwieldy, possibly ungrammatical, not witty, not pertaining to anything of any interest to anybody, and devoid of comment on what an arse this government’s making of its job, which is your area of expertise, and I leave you to it.)  

I hadn’t even read a blog until a couple of months ago. It was only because of favourite Squirrel’s book that I fell into this whole big puddle of delight. I wasn’t wearing wellies, so you can see how immediately I was soaked to the skin. I’ll even get some photos organised soon. Be a proper blogger.

I didn’t know about the furore until a few days ago, long after the catfight had died down. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there are such cauliflower–nosed ranters, pissed and bored, with easy access to a keyboard. Free speech and all that. I could even be one when I grow up. Why were you reading it, then?    Right, now we’ve got that out of the way….

They are absolutely irrelevant to me, your scathing remarks, as they probably are to hundreds of others who have little interest in Fleet Street, what’s left of it, or Wapping. Or the Daily Star, National Enquirer or Fox News. Those are the people whose bed you have to share, my poor friend. I am not a writer, nor a budding writer, nor do I have any pretensions to journalism. I absolutely abhor the idea of asking people questions which are none of my business. I do not want to know who they slept with, or who does their make–up, or where they are going on holiday and who’s paying for it, as long as it’s not bribery on my taxes. That’s your forté, so that’s why the likes of me pay the likes of you. 

I subscribe to the philosophy that if you are meant to find out about something, crazy or serious, it will be plonked in front of you somehow. It’s worked well for me so far. Meanwhile I sew, stroke the cat, play the piano, drink red wine, watch Wallander and think about next month's rent. And have the privilege of looking after the Matriarchal Crone*, much as one would look after the family silver – with care, not polishing too hard in case you hurt her tender shins putting the cream on. There you are – ending a sentence with a preposition. Don’t you just love it? I might even drop in a spelling mistake later if it keeps you happy. But don’t hold your breath, because generally speaking I am anatomically unable to complete such a task deliberately, tempting as it is. When I tell you more about my father one day, you will understand why. It would be easier to leave a typo for you, because tons of them erupt spontaneously, but even those I find impossible to ignore. You’d have to remove the backspace key and I just couldn’t let you do that. There’s only me allowed to fuck up my keyboard, remember?

So. This blog is quite simply to get it all out of my head, if and as and when. There is no theme. I am a wall full of pigeon holes, every one of which is still struggling to get its label printed.  There exists a RAFT of diaries, some on old CDs , some on flash drives, and two cardboard boxes full of lovely notebooks. When there is a visceral need to scribble, it’s the choiceless choice. So it’s a matter of not just getting some of this stuff extracted from my ponderous overloaded brain, or even out from under the stairs, but out there where somebody else can look after it for a change. And yes I suspect there will be plenty of stuff from when–I–this and when–I–that. (There’s a weird one in the pipeline right now.) But it’s MY stuff, so there. And, in the process, some of it may come very close to bending, but never actually defying, the Official Secrets Act which I have signed four or five times in my life. (Wouldn't you think once was enough? Isn't everything pretty much covered the first time?) Just in case you were wondering if you could get me on that. Nothing you couldn’t learn from public record or listening to maritime radio or from visiting any RN ship on Open Day or a Coastguard station Operations Room any day of the week. Remind me to tell you about HMS Cornwall one day. A right howler, that was. And, once again, nothing you couldn’t find in Jane’s International Defence Review if you knew where to look.

I’m a serious little soul, really. Even when I was little. Strange daughter, says my mother dreamily. I did have three older brothers, so she didn’t have daughters to compare me with. (Hurray! Managed to do another ending–preposition for you.) My point is (though laboured it may well be) I’m not trying to be a pertinent commentator on the Zeitgeist, or the funniest wittiest blog on the circuit. Or on any circuit in particular at all. If it strikes someone a certain way, great. I’m not trying to be anything. There’s enough of me already without trying to tinker away at the internal gubbins. And it’s too tightly packed. It would certainly explode on contact.

The blog was primarily intended for family and friends – more of whom later but not today. Suffice it for now that they are scattered widely across the globe, and we have already used Picasa. But emails are difficult because they pertain to different subgroups (Shetland, Cambodia, Geneva, Phillipines, Nepal, Maine etc) and, anyway, really personal stuff is really personal stuff. Divorces, Alzheimer’s, all that. We had thought about a communal website for us all, the World Wide Wood family, but the update mechanisms were just too complicated to share across continents. I am already gobsmacked at the stats telling me there is somebody in Morocco, Russia, China, Greece, Thailand, and the other countries which pop up regularly. For you, Andrew the Household Name, this is normal. For me, it is awesome.  

Getting an email from someone who’s read me is wonderful, frankly. I have done the usual thing and added a few blogs to my sidebar who are definitely my kind of bees–knees, and a few other sites I follow for various reasons, usually map or weather–related. And that’s it. End of. 

When I have something to share, out it will go into the ether.

Now I’ve had my little rant, which should satisfy your original argument no end.

So see you soon, Andrew, or not, as the case may be.

As they say in telex–speak,

Bibi for now.

PS  Did you spot it? Did you? I’m so proud of myself for committing a spelling crime, for once. It’s a long, long time since I did that, to my knowledge at least. The policeman coming down the path may have other ideas. 

* As in Wise One, Oldest Living Family Member, Fairy Godmother to all.



Thursday 21 October 2010

Almost Martian

0230. In the middle of a quiet night at Shetland Coastguard.
Phone rings in Ops Room. I hit button to answer. Man speaks.

I think there’s a large fire.

He has my full attention. I sit up straight and start typing. (Continuous log of everything everybody says to everybody else. It’s supposed to match the taped recordings going on in the corner.)

Where?

I don’t know.

Where are you?

I don’t know.  I mean I was in the guardhouse and then I took the dog for a bit of a walk and there’s this huge fire – well it must be – there’s a really bright glow just over the hill. But there’s another hill after that. So I don’t know what’s on fire. Could be some houses, or a factory or something. I was told to call your number on the wall here if we needed help. And I don’t want to wake up the Sergeant and everybody in case it’s not a fire, but it really does look like a big one. It’s flickering, not like town lights.

OK. Don't worry. So where are you? (Keep pushing – without a location you have nothing, not a hope in hell.)

Oh, sorry. I’m in the RAF.

On Unst?

Beg your pardon?

Are you on Unst?

I’m on duty.  In the guardhouse.

And where is the guardhouse?

Oh. At the RAF station. Haven’t got the name yet. I just arrived a few hours ago.

Right then. He’s probably at RAF Saxavord which is on Unst and miles from big habitation except Baltasound, the little town there. And that’s down the hill from him. But their lights won’t be visible from him anyway. And he might not be at Saxavord. There might be other places where the RAF do stuff which I’m not aware of. But I can hardly believe he doesn’t know the name of where he is.

So what direction is the fire in?

I don’t know.

And you don’t know the area at all?

No, sorry. Not a clue.

Do you have any idea what direction you came in from ? You know – North, South, that kind of thing?

No. Sorry.

You couldn’t make it up. You really couldn’t.
OK. Let me get this straight.  I have a First Informant who doesn't know where he is or how he got there. It is at this point that I twig what I’m dealing with. The original Man from Mars. My very own real-life Alien. I might be famous! I am being tested! This little green man has been dropped in at the dead of night but the Martians forgot to tell him to look out for little bits of wood sticking out of the ground with words on them. We use them a lot.

Did you see the terrain you came through – back roads, moorland, big aerials, hills, big roads etc? Villages, maybe? Did you notice which side the sea was on? (All sides probably, but I don’t say so. He’ll only confuse both of us.)

No. I was in the back of a jeep for a bit. And it was nearly dark. And before that I was on a plane.

Well there is no other way if you didn’t come by car ferry. Wuzzock. (If you’d been on the ferry you would have arrived about 7.30 this morning and had time to get your bearings.) But I don’t say so. Actually I’m intrigued, and he sounds like a Nice Person. Not at all wuzzocky. And I'm being mean. He obviously doesn’t know about the ferry. He was only trying to explain. It’s not completely his fault they said Stand there and do Guard Duty. Don’t ask questions. Need–to–know and all that. But for heaven's sake...... How could he NOT know? And I just don't get why there isn't a big fat sign saying RAF Saxavord on it (actually there is, but maybe it's down the road from his guardhouse), or a header on a bit of paper on the guardhouse desk. Something. But I'm not going to put words in his mouth, not yet. And I remember the Golden Rule. Do Not Assume ANYTHING.

Did you have a map to look at while you were getting here? Or do you have a map in the guardhouse?

Yes.

Hurray !! We’re getting there. I’m enjoying this.

Which map is it?  Going to be a road map, so I can discuss some twists and turns over the phone and find out where this fire is, exactly. I have a road map in my car. There might even be one on the shelf here. Somewhere.

It’s the local aero map.

Oh. OK. We have one or two of them.

I dig around in the chart drawers and come up with said map. I open it out fully on the chart table and my heart sinks. I have the tip of Scotland, Orkney, Norway, a bit of Sweden and Denmark, the Faeroes, and Iceland. Shetland is an inch long. I give him the bad news.

And if you think I’m being maddeningly blasé about this inferno just down the road from him, it’s because I have been slowly developing A Hunch. 
And there are a few other things. The first is that I’m fairly certain this is not a very bored coastguard somewhere else, winding me up, nor is it some mad bastard insomniac down at Headquarters with a sick sense of humour trying to find out whether we are a) awake, b) up to the job of directing a Martian with very little assistance, or c) any good at having our patience tried when the rest of the world would have lost it. The second is that, by now, if there was a fire of any substance, the phones in here would be red hot, ha ha. 999 lines and police lines and what all. (Yes we are not the fire brigade but we have oodles of manpower and resources on tap at a moment’s notice for anybody wot needs it.) Plus people know we're here, and if they can't get through to one service they'll try another. Plus there are twice as many incoming public lines as there are bums on seats.  (Including my mate on his mealbreak in the rest room, within shouting distance.) And all lines are silent. Not a peep.

I try again. I am indomitable. I am in the Hot Seat. Although I’m 99% sure this is not a fire, the 1% error margin is what disasters are made of, presumably. Not on My Watch, no way. 'D' Watch has a reputation to keep. And I had made up my own little motto for dilemmas like this: “Think of the Public Enquiry and work backwards”.  That usually answers my question.

Is it cloudy where you are?

Yes.   No help from the constellations then, for the north/south thing. Or big fat Orion, which is always useful.

Is there ANYTHING you can see which might help me? Other large buildings? Any other lights of any significance whatsoever….. even ships, maybe?

No. Nothing apart from that glow over the hill. (Pause.) Well there is one little light. It’s blinking.

What direction is this blinking light from you?

Don’t know. Sort of in front of me.

Well I walked right into that one.

Can you give me the direction of the blinking light compared to the glow?

No because I can’t see the glow from here. It was only when I went up the hill a bit.

OK. Have you got a watch?

Yes.

Can you count the seconds of the blinks and the not–blinkings?

Hang on a mo.      

A short time passes. He comes back to the phone.

It seems to blink once about every ten seconds.

Great, (hurriedly grabbing my handy List of Lights to see if I’m right) while asking

If you imagine you're in the middle of a compass, and the hill and the glow were somewhere between south and southwest, where is the blinking light now in relation to you?

Um. Yeah. Southeast.

Good.  My new fame as Alien–discoverer is beginning to fade. Never mind. Think this is probably the better option. Not really into Martians. Thanks to one little blinking light, I know exactly where he is. Definite.

OK. I think I know what this is. I’m going to make another call and get back to you – 
and if I'm wrong, I am going to be the biggest wuzzock in Coastguard history.
I note the number of his guardhouse, then call the duty night watch at Sullom Voe Oil Terminal. Roughly to the southwest of the RAF base. More than 30 miles away. So far that I’d really begun to doubt My Hunch.

Are your gas flares particularly bright tonight?

Yes they are. I was just saying to my colleague when we came on watch……  never seen them as big as this.

Bingo. Result!! Thank fuck for that.
So I can put the poor bloke’s mind at rest. And mine. And any other little green men who get dropped on Shetland without warning in the middle of the night.
I say goodnight to our friend in his booth, thank him for his concern etc, finish typing up the conversation so far, close it and label it FIRE – FAWGI, which is a kind, sympathetic title for these events.  False alarm with good intent. Nice man, really?
Now I've had time to think about it ......   Sorry. Definitely wuzzock.