I'm on Medication but You should Be

A couple of days ago, after a hastily prepared breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I donned a dark blue coat, wrapped a purple scarf around my neck, and located my purse and house keys. Locking the front door behind me, I headed down the steps to the street. The laurel hedge lay in wait for me as usual, a reminder of my past discretions. I almost vanquished it the previous November, cutting it from eight foot in height right down to eighteen inches, a knee-jerk reaction after the break-in at our house. The hedge provided a very dense curtain behind which potential thieves could hide and it had to go. So I hacked at it over several evenings while the torrential rain poured, getting to know a few bemused neighbours in the process.

The lady in the bungalow opposite us came over with her equally inquisitive white Scottie dog and asked if everything was alright. I looked at her dog poking round my muddied shoes, smiled grimly and said that the laurel hedge and I could not co-exist. She looked at me pityingly and dragged Scottie away.

The following day, Gigi from next door brought over a plate of specially baked Portuguese doughnuts.
“This will give you strength to fight the hedge!” she whispered knowingly. “Your husband, he is sick, no? " I shook my head. “He no help you with the cut cut?”Again I shook my head. My other half would have nothing to do with the massacre of the laurel hedge, which was totally ok by me. “That is a disgrace”, she muttered, and left.

Now the stark roughly cut branches reared up out of the ground, with hardly a leaf in sight. I made a mental note that serious landscaping was needed come the spring as I trundled down the road towards the sky train. My job was in the city centre. I walked quickly and within a few minutes arrived at the station. There was obviously a cull on free loaders, as a uniformed inspector firmly asked for my ticket before I could get on to the platform.

It was seven thirty and still dark. The lights of a distant train were visible, becoming ever brighter as it approached the station. The train came to a halt, and I walked on board. The cars were mostly full, with standing room only for newcomers. I stood, eyeing the adverts on the inside of the car as the train moved away from the platform. There were a few common themes: pregnancy tests, educational courses and the ubiquitous ad for those sinking into financial catastrophe.

“If you are facing bankruptcy, we can help!” blared the ad with a picture of a man who managed to look terribly handsome and terribly worried at the same time. Next to it was another advert telling us how we could all become chartered accountants in just three years and we did not have to quit our day jobs. While the thought of changing jobs was appealing, the idea of becoming a chartered accountant was even less so.

I looked around me. We had an assorted crowd today – some asleep, some gazing blindly off into space, others half way through reading the latest bestseller. The faint smell of nicotine emanated from the young women in a green coat next to me. I tried to ignore the incessant drum beat from the not so silent headphones of the rap music fan standing to the other side of her.

On commutes such as these, I considered reading a book with an interesting title on the train just to get a reaction. How about “The Island of the Secret Love Nun” with the equally lurid cover, or that well loved pamphlet, “Lock Picking Simplified.” The problem was, with everyone wrapped up in their own world, I did not think anyone would notice.

Two stops after I got on, the train drew up to Hyde Street Station. A sizeable woman of about fifty edged her way into the compartment. She was professionally dressed in a maroon suit, and sported blond streaked wavy hair. At that moment I glanced down the other end of the train, which in retrospect, was a pity, because I missed the pivotal moment of the journey.

Immediately I heard a commotion to the side of me and I turned back to see the woman in the dark red suit being ejected from the train by a stockily built man. He had dark curly collar length hair, a black sports jacket, blue jeans and runners. This was no gentle nudge. I saw him use both hands to push her violently out of the train. She fell backwards on to the platform.
A moment later, the woman came barrelling back in to the train, spewing colourful invective and proceeded to kick the perpetrator. He responded by punching her.

In the meantime the incongruously cheerful jingle sounded to denote that the train was departing the station. The doors closed with the two warring parties very much on board and the train left the station, quickly picking up speed. The kicking, shoving and swearing continued, not six feet away from where I stood.

This was a packed train. About sixty people witnessed the scene. In the immediate aftermath, except for some shuffling of feet, there was a stunned silence. Nobody spoke and nobody moved; well apart from the two people apparently determined to beat the life out of each other. It became obvious that they weren’t about to stop anytime soon.

“You bastard,” she yelled repeatedly, “You threw me off the train”.
“You’re crazy,” he shouted. “Get off me.”

She slapped him round the side of the face, causing him to curse and wince. He shoved her backwards against the side of the car.

After the initial shock I was thinking of ways to intervene without risk to life and limb. These two individuals were not short of stature. A black belt in martial arts might be of assistance in situations like this. For a moment, I thought that someone needed to tell the driver and quickly. Then I remembered that on these computer operated trains, we had no driver. I imagined that I wasn’t the only one thinking about what to do next and how to stop this mayhem. Perhaps some of us were thinking about the incident in Narrowton a few weeks back when a bystander intervened in a fight in front of a restaurant and paid for it with her life. Whilst I was pondering the situation, a man next to me stepped into the breach. He was six foot tall, not a hair on his head, dressed in casual business clothes. He stepped towards them.

“Come on, now, you two, tone it down, tone it down,” he said.

The two of them, still punching and kicking each other, either did not hear or chose to ignore him, and carried on fighting. Sir Lancelot did not give up. He put himself between them, earning a swipe across the chest from the man, but he persisted and forced them apart. Arms flailed and legs swung, the swearing continued. He pulled the woman away from the man, talking firmly but calmly all the time.

“Tone it down; this isn’t the way to settle things.”

Separated from her attacker, the women, who had an Australian accent, tried to bait him.

“I’m on medication, but you should be.” she flung at him.

I thought that was an interesting choice of words. As if to say, she was crazy but what was his excuse?

He ignored her, looking the other way. Lancelot stayed between them, continually talking softly to the women, stopping her from starting the fracas again. An uneasy calm prevailed in the carriage.

A couple of stops later, the woman got off with the shining knight, and they left, all the while she complained about how terrible the other man had been, and that he should be arrested.
The train carried on towards Bognor Street. As it entered the station, the train stopped, and came to a complete stand still for about thirty seconds, the doors remaining shut. Three guards on the platform peered into each carriage. Clearly someone had pressed the silent alarm.

After a few moments the train moved forward again, coming to a halt. I looked at the man who had been in the fight. He looked small, insignificant somehow, blending in with the crowd. He stepped off the train at the same time that I did. No one pointed him out, and no one stopped him. The crowd flowed out of the platform and up the escalator. I watched him as he disappeared from sight, trying to retain his description in my mind.

I proceeded to the office, describing the incident to my colleagues. I was sure the story was relayed in dozens of workplaces across the city. In thirty minutes or less, I imagined over a thousand people knew about the fight, each with a different picture of the events earlier that morning. I wondered if Lancelot told the story with himself as the hero. I imagined not; he did not seem the type. Quiet, effective action appeared to be his mode of operation.

I thought about the incident frequently for the rest of the day. I wondered what the women had done to provoke such a violent reaction from a total stranger. Maybe she had bumped into him. It still did not explain the force of his reaction.

As I walked home that evening, I slowly walked along the footpath to my home. The laurel hedge, eighteen inches in height, lay in front of me again. I stood and stared at it. I contemplated that if sixty people in a crowd did nothing while a fight went on under their collective noses, what were the chances of anyone intervening if they saw someone trying to break into our home? Was all that cutting for nought? I silently apologized to the remains of the hedge as I slowly climbed the steps into the house.

The Life and Times of Flossie, Aged 9 1/2 weeks

At 2am the other morning I received a message on my answer machine. “This is the police. There has been an attempted theft of your vehicle. It has been towed for further investigation. Phone this number for more details.”Great way to wake up on a Monday morning. I’ve actually just changed vehicles and bought my first new car, and for a moment I had the slimmest hope that perhaps they were talking about Flossie the old car, bless her heart. Old Flossie was a rust bucket and no mistake. Frankly I’d be amazed, and secretly delighted, if someone tried to steal her. I raced downstairs to check if new Flossie was still parked where I left her the night before. Bad news. She was gone.

I phoned the police. They were less than helpful. “We don’t know anything, maybe call this number.” So I called the next number and no luck. It went on like that for a couple of hours. I had no idea where my vehicle was or what kind of condition she was in. Did I mention that this was my first new car? As in shiny new, without even a scratch. She had 16 kilometres on the clock when I took her home. She still had that new car smell. Now Flossie 2 was gone. I had visions of flat tyres, shattered windows, slashed seats and much worse.

Finally later in the day I got hold of someone who said the vehicle was being finger-printed. The person who looked after the police garage did not work that day. “So why don’t you just sit tight and phone back tomorrow after ten thirty?” Fume, mutter, mutter.

I called the GarageFuhrer the next morning. I was told that I could not see my vehicle as there was a police investigation underway. I asked what kind of shape she was in. “Don’t know, can’t tell you anything like that”. “Well, has it got four wheels?” I couldn’t actually say “she”; they’d think I was nuts.“Sorry can’t help you there.” He did say I could go and obtain a release form for the vehicle. So off I went to the police station to get the form. Again, I met with a fairly miserable official, but I did manage to work out where my vehicle was being impounded. The form also indicated that if I didn’t move my vehicle by the following week, they would charge me daily storage charges and if I didn’t move it in six weeks, it would be sold off. Well how charming can you get? I couldn’t even see the chariot, never mind move it, and here I was being served with notice about it being flogged off.

The bit between my teeth now, my friend and I drove over to a rather unsavoury part of town where you wouldn’t walk at night if you had any sense. The police pound was pretty inhospitable with barb wire fences and a control tower. The voice on the intercom asked if they could assist me. I explained about my car and somewhat to our surprise, we were let in. I scanned row after and row of vehicles in various states of disrepair. I winced as I thought I saw what used to be my vehicle but my good friend reminded me that my car had four doors not two. As soon as I got to the office, the manager took my release form and immediately said there was no way I could get to see my car as it was under investigation. “Come back tomorrow and talk to the officer who deals with that.” Fume. My good friend diverted my attention and persuaded me to go and have a cool beer.

Fast forward 24 hours and I was back at Stalag 17 with my release form. After waiting a good half hour the police van showed up and drove off to the far section of the prison camp. “You should follow him,” snapped the commandant. I trudged after the truck in the beating sun. As I approached the lot, I could see Flossie 2. She had four wheels, bless her cotton socks. Messy as hell, covered in soot and mud, but she looked to be in one piece. The police officer was rather friendly, which took me back a bit after all the hassle I’d been through in the previous three days. We checked out Floss in more detail. There was damage to the passenger window where someone had tried to break in, however she was drivable. I was hugely relieved. I eased her out of the pound and sought out the nearest car wash to give Floss the equivalent of a hot bath with smelling salts.

Next day an ominous looking letter arrived from the Attorney General’s office. It turned out that five people were arrested trying to steal my vehicle and were due in court the following week. I was invited to make a victim impact statement. Bring back the stocks, I decided, and I’ll chuck rotten cabbages at them. You know what though? I’m thinking these impact statements are intended so that punters like me can have a good rant, and spill out all our frustrations. That way we don’t clog up surgeries and inhabit padded cells after going out of our minds after all the fuss, especially dealing with the mind numbing officialdom. After calming down a bit and sipping a hot cup of Ovaltine, I wrote quite a civilised piece about the costs and emotional impact of this incident, and fired it off to the court. I’ll hear next week if they have been convicted and sentenced to wash and wax Flossie every Saturday for the rest of her natural life. On reflection, perhaps I should have left that sentence out of the impact statement.

You’ll be pleased to know that today Flossie has pretty much all her fingers and toes. She has one addition. She has a rather becoming florescent green Club wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I considered installing a Barry Manilow CD so that it started playing if anyone came within ten feet of her. However I’ve decided that it would be cruel and unusual punishment for poor Flossie, who has been through so much. Her frayed nerves just could not take that; she’d have a breakdown for sure.

NPR Tapes : President Kennedy

I got up early this morning. As I often do, I checked around the news and today came across the National Public Radio recordings of events of 22nd November 1963, which they have recently put up on their website. I listened for about ten minutes to the unedited tape of radio exchanges made during that day. The scratchy sounding exchanges are mainly of communications between the Situation Room at the White House and a flight between Honolulu and Japan containing six members of JFK’s cabinet and then later between the Situation Room, Andrews Air Force Base and the Air Force One plane which is bringing the president’s body back to Washington.
The voices relaying chilling news seem so calm to me but it must have been havoc and shock behind the scenes. First there is news that the president has been hit. The plane en route to Japan turns round and heads back to Honolulu. It is then directed to head straight back to Washington instead of to Dallas. Soon after, a very short stark message comes through from the Situation Room to say that the president is dead. No embellishment. He’s dead.
It seems almost like an afterthought on the radio message but someone on the plane comes on to ask where the Vice President is – he’s at Parkland Hospital in Dallas - and then a short time later he’s referred to as President Johnson. An air force general instructs the crew at Andrews Air force base to have a forklift ready to transport the casket to and from Air Force One. The man responds that they’ll have a forklift or a group of men to handle that. This is about the time that I decide not to listen any more. At least this isn’t the Zupruder film, they seem to show that over and over and I can’t watch that any more.
I’m not a big fan of Kennedy and his presidency, particularly his foreign policy. However he did seem to capture a spirit that no American president has done since. I recall as a child going to stay in my aunt’s house in the north of Ireland and I remember seeing a picture of JFK right up there on the wall next to the Pope.

Joy to the World, A Burglar Came

Ten days ago my other half and I were out at the local hardware store. I reckon we should just bite the bul1et and move in to the place. We’d set up a comfortable nook with our bed, my favourite pillow and a copy of “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil” resting on the bedside table. We seem to spend all our waking hours there. You see, a couple of months ago, we moved into our dream house. Lovely place. Not much to do to it, just move in. Hummph! There’s always stuff to be done, from shoring up the rotten wood on the garage roof to re-enforcing the glass sliding doors. Ah now there’s a story to those sliding doors.

Last Sunday we turned into our alley from yet another trip to your friendly store. The neighbour’s car was blocking the access to our parking spot and he approached us rather purposefully. His van had been broken into and an eagle-eyed neighbour had spotted a ne’er-do-well with a red woollen hat running away from the scene. It was not an early Santa Claus visitation. We commiserated and introduced ourselves to our two neighbours and chatted for a few minutes, catching up on the local gossip, particularly about Monica from up the street and her heart condition. Then I entered our back garden and noticed the shed door was open. Strange, but nothing seemed out of place there. I walked on to the deck to the sliding door at the back of our house. It was already wide open.

I went inside and heard the security alarm sounding. A voice called out from the front door – “Is anyone home? This is the police.” I checked around to see if anything in the kitchen was gone, but all looked ok. I started to go upstairs but the officer stopped me. He wasn’t sure if the intruder was still in the house. Oh G0d, I was thinking, and my panties are strewn all around the bedroom floor – what a way to impress the whippersnapper policeman. The very least the r0bber could have done was to phone ahead and tell us he was breaking in so I could have tidied away my dirty laundry.

All sorts of messages came over the police officer’s radio. Break-ins elsewhere and a multiple stabbing incident on Commercial Drive. “It’s been a killer of an afternoon,” Officer Jim complained. Rambo here (me) still wanted to bound upstairs and confront the intruder. Interesting thought: when your home has been invaded, often you don’t immediately think of personal safety. You’re just really angry that someone has stepped into your private space. Anyway Jimbo went upstairs hotly pursued by me and the equally angry OtherHalf. There was no sign of the intruder.

The bedroom was a mess. Yes, my underwear was scattered across the floor. I blamed OtherHalf. He dragged me to the hardware store with minimal notice. The cop smiled wryly when I suggested perhaps the intruder had a panty fetish. Bags were opened and the contents dumped on the floor. My expired passports lay next to the window. Drawers were open. It looked like someone had been searching in a hurry. I couldn’t see anything obvious missing. My prized possession, a button accordion, remained in place on the bed. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or not. It was worth a lot of money. I decided that our unfriendly burglar had no discerning musical taste whatsoever.

While the other two were downstairs checking out the rest of the house, I searched around. I had a faint suspicion that the burglar was still around so I checked under the bed and in a couple of secret hiding places. I’d obviously been watching too many detective mysteries. The intruder was well and truly gone. After a few minutes, I realized I couldn’t find my passport. I raced downstairs. On Jimbo’s radio we heard that a suspect had been apprehended at the local rail station, which was fifty yards down the road. I ran down the street to see if I could retrieve my documents.

People love an incident. Around fifty people were being kept back by police while a rather unkempt looking man – no red hat in sight - was being searched by two officers. I approached and identified myself. I scanned the man’s possessions which were laid out on the hood of the police cruiser. I was aware I was the centre of attention for the watching crowd. I didn’t need a placard with “Victim” in foot high letters. I looked for my documents amongst the five dollar bills, numerous syringes, folded silver foil and a strange looking Buddha necklace. I decided not to berate the young man for having the gall to ignore my button accordion. There was no sign of the passport. After a couple of minutes, I had the feeling that this individual had nothing to do with the incident. He seemed too spaced out to have broken in to our house. He happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Back at the house, a crowd had gathered outside, wanting to know what had happened. I got the impression that this was a quiet neighbourhood, so they were glad of some excitement. A couple of ten year olds animatedly told me about the man with a red bobble hat. Turned out they didn’t actually see him themselves. I was mightily upset about the passport and went back in and searched again. Thank heavens to Betsy, I found it at the back of the cupboard. Office Jimbo was not terribly happy about that. He wanted it to be found on the suspect, that way they could charge him with something. He let us know that there was insufficient evidence to keep the man in custody so they had let him go.

The police left, the security company called and were given copious details, the crowds subsided and then the two of us were left there, sitting in the living room in shock. The new house had been idyllic until then. We loved it. We kept saying that the previous owners were going to phone up and tell us that it was all a mistake and they wanted their home back. The break-in was a serious dose of reality. After knocking back a couple of beers, we made a few adjustments to the sliding doors to deter future intruders.

Meanwhile I am working on the strategic placement of a huge stone ball just above our bedroom doorway and six thousand venomous spiders are being trained to attack at will. In my deluded world, I am making sure that when BurglarBob comes back, he has to run the gauntlet to try to steal my accordion, as clearly by now he will have seen the error of his ways and now appreciates its true value. He will be back for sure. I’m ready for him, with bells on.

Bert Bent Wing and his friends

There’s a fir tree in clear sight from my friend’s apartment window. So what, I hear you say? Well what’s interesting about this particular tree are the habits of its transient inhabitants. I’m talking birds. We’ve been watching for several weeks, now, usually in the early evening, but now we’re so intrigued, we watch in the mornings too. Two main types of birds fly and visit this tree: crows and starlings.

The birds land on the upper most branches, sometimes so numerous that the branches are weighed down, and we contemplate what would be the critical mass that would cause the tree to just plain fall down. Not reached that critical; mass yet. Some kamikaze flyers perch on the highest branch, apparently defying gravity and I wonder how on earth they stay there without being dislodged as there is virtually nothing on which to perch.

An important question occurred to me. What happens when there are hundreds of birds, spaced no each of the branches, on top of each other. I mean, how they stop being spatter from above when Mother Nature kicks in? I’ve noticed that there are gaps between the birds; maybe they arrange it so that the occupant below does not get zapped. Maybe there is some signal – Watch out below there, buddy! Oh sorry, too late!” Somehow I doubt if they’re that careful.

Anyway one other observation for you while I’m at it. The crows definitely get occupancy privileges ahead of the starlings. The fir tree may be packed to the rafters with starlings. Suddenly you notice them depart on masse on some obviously prearranged signal. Then one crow comes along and takes occupancy. Sure enough with a minute or two, other crows start circling around and landing, and within minutes it’s the veritable Piccadilly Circus. I wonder if they are reporting their activities for the day to each other.“I blasted at least two MG sports cars today. Got the owners pretty darn good”“Ah, that’s noting, another would chip in.” Bert Bent Wing and I played 'Dare' on Highway 66 when we located the remains of a Big Mac. Too good to pass up, though Bert got his feathers rearranged yet again.”

The Dreaded Lilian

My partner and I are moving at the end of August. Negotiating our way through the potential minefield of lawyers, bankers, movers, real estate agents and other assorted characters can be a challenge but the whole process has been fairly smooth sailing so far. Except for the dreaded Lilian.

I’ve never met Lilian, maybe I won’t have to. I hope not. She is not coming to our house warming. She is not on my Christmas card list. Lilian is the public face of a local branch of a large insurance company. It all started out well enough. She spoke to my partner and took down all the details of our house. Then she went on holiday for a week and said she would deal with us when she returned.

I picked up the trail and phoned her when she got back from vacation. She had lost all the details we had previously given her. “Sorry about that, I hope you’re not inconvenienced.” Back to square one. I went through the list and made sure she was brought up to date again.

Lilian is one of those people who can only work at one pace. Instead of going through the application form and determining what is outstanding, and providing you with a list of questions, she asks for each piece of information separately, each constituting a different telephone call or e-mail. She’s really slow to return calls or e-mails; she always has some excuse about being busy with another client or that her colleague is sick. So what should have taken a couple of days at the outside to sort out, has taken upwards of three weeks.

Late breaking request, just one more piece of information, she said. “When were the heating, plumbing and electrical systems last upgraded?” Oh drat. I contacted the vendors via my realtor to their realtor. It took me half a day to get the details. When I finally got the answer, it turned out that Lilian had already spoken to the vendor’s agent the previous week and he had told her the exact same information. If you’ve seen the movie “Finding Nemo”, our Lilian is certainly channelling Dorie, the fish with no short term memory.

We’re moving at the end of this week Have we insurance yet? Well almost. Yesterday after answering a revolving door of questions, the dreaded Lilian said she was ready to fax over the completed application form for my signature. I fainted clean away in shock, but I told her to go ahead. Half an hour later the call came to say she couldn’t fax to my machine. I checked the machine and it was fine. I sent a test fax to the machine. It was fine. She tried again three times, no luck.

Meanwhile I had been sent excellent recommendations of two other insurance agents and their names were blazing on the page in front of me. Here I was, trying to get Lilian to use basic office equipment. I gave her my partner’s fax number. She called back to say that his machine wasn’t working either. I politely indicated that her machine might be the source of the difficulty, if you please, petal. She rang back to say she was going down the street to use another business’s fax machine. Well at least that was showing initiative. She called back to say the fax to my partner went fine.

My other half rang me and asked if we could throw the dice and whoever lost, had to deal with Lilian to complete the insurance. Muggins here got the short straw so BelovedPartner (memo to self: Partner = Doghouse) faxed me the application form. I signed it and faxed it off to Dreaded V. It went through like a shot. I called (twice) to ask Lilian to confirm that she has received it. No response. Now I knew for sure she had to be hiding under the desk.

Lilian called back four hours later after I have left work and left a message to report that all was sorted and that we had insurance, but could I come in and make arrangements to pay? Oh horror, I don’t think I can meet her, without attacking her. Calm down. I phoned her up this morning and paid by credit card and I hope to high heaven that we’re actually covered.

You may be wondering why we’d stuck with her and not gone elsewhere. Well we got a hefty discount in the first year because of our mortgage arrangements so it seemed like a good idea. I thought that having invested so much time trying to get the insurance policy sorted out, we thought we should finish the job with her. Very bad logic. We’re never doing that again. Next time we’ll cut our losses and move on.

You can be sure that come 28th August 2004 we will have switched our insurance to another company. I’m in deep therapy. I can’t deal with the Dreaded L any more. The kindly folks in the uniforms and the padded van are arriving any minute now

A Fishing Line and Bunch of Grapes

Last Sunday I got up at the ludicrously early time of 6:45am. I know, on a Sunday, what was I thinking? Well in a moment of weakness, I agreed to help a close friend hang pictures for her art exhibition which opened later in the day. The alarm screeched and I thought about the folly of it all, whilst trying to blast myself awake in the shower followed a few minutes later by gulps of some truly appalling Nabob coffee. Yes, I was suckered by the lure of a cheap sticker price. Memo to self: “Buy some fresh decent coffee and put that snazzy new unemployed coffee grinder to work. And turf the Nabob, turn it into compost”.

Back to the project on hand. Luckily the café, which doubled as an art gallery, was a couple of minutes walk from home and I dragged myself over there by 7:30am. As I arrived, my friend Freda, the artiste du jour, rolled up in her small red car which was packed to the gills with paintings. Also in the vehicle, somewhat obscured by picture frames, was her heavily bearded six foot something, spousal unit, Norman. The artwork was wonderful; mostly bold oil paintings of musicians, dancers and some still life. There was a picture of two banjo players in the pub, playing up a storm, with the inevitable half full beer glasses on the table beside them. A female Flamenco dancer taking the plaudits from the crowd at the end of her act. In the past I have been at festivals with Freda and she was always either taking photographs or sketching; getting ideas for her next artistic creation.

Back at the café, with the help of a couple of other friends, we carefully unloaded the car in short order and transported the booty into the café. Slightly bemused customers looked at us with interest and not a little suspicion as we took over the place with our paintings, and our concentrated frowns and the appearance, completely without foundation, that we actually knew what we were doing. Freda proceeded to drive home to get the other dozen paintings for the show, in particular the three or four that were "not quite dry.” She always worked well to a deadline, sometimes taking it to the limit. No doubt those last three were completed around 5am this morning. Meanwhile at the café the work crew were assembling, most of us, clearly caffeine deprived, wondering around in a fog like state, not unlike that morning’s weather.

Thankfully there was a floor plan of the café detailing where the paintings were to be hung. So “Flamenco”, “Cathedral” and “Plough Time” were moved below their allotted spots on the walls. I’d got to know many of these paintings very well over the last few years and I wasn’t at all sure we should be selling them to just anyone. I wanted to make sure they go to good homes. If you took “Cathedral” for example, a wonderful painting of Freda’s husband Norman walking their big brown shaggy dog, Skegness on a snow covered path in Lizard Park, with the huge fir trees looming behind them. You got the sense of quiet companionship between man and dog, and you could see their tracks in the snow trailing behind them. Skegness has long gone to that doggie paradise in the sky. How could Freda possibly part with that one? The answer was easy. Pictures in an artist’s studio did not contribute a cent towards the grocery bills. So the painting had to be sold.

When the café patrons started coming to look at what we were doing and reviewing the paintings, I vetted them as suitable purchasers. I must say I had my concerns about most of them, particularly the woman with purple hair and a noticeable nicotine problem, undoubtedly the owner of a tiny yapping doglike creature tied to a chair outside the cafe.

The next issue was actually hanging the beasts. Down came the wires and hooks from the previous art show. No wires for us. There was a ten second lesson from Norman on how to hang a picture using fishing line.

“So you hook it through there, and there, and knot it there; and then hey presto, you’re done.” He then added: “Use this line for twenty pounders and below and that line for the big fish.” I must admit I’d not thought of paintings in that fashion before and I experienced some anxiety as to what a big fish might actually look like. Still, there was work to be done. Two of us found a sturdy looking ladder down a dark narrow corridor at the back of the cafe and I was impressed that we transported it back into the main seating area and against the wall without decapitating any customers. My companion had forgotten his reading glasses which made threading fishing line through small hooks a bit of a challenge at the best of times but nigh on impossible at the crack of dawn on a Sunday with minimal sleep. So I was the one looping the line through the hooks while he waited impatiently giving me unwanted advice.

It took us about five paintings before we got the hang of it and a production line of sorts got going between stringers and hangers. I soon became a proud card carrying member of the stringers of the world. As if you’d see me on a ladder hanging paintings – “Yes, right, up an inch. No, down a bit. No, up another inch.” Not on your nellie. Somebody else was going to go hand, my feet were staying firmly on the floor.

Meanwhile, throughout these shenanigans, more early morning patrons started staggering in for their shots of caffeine. Some looked on with interest, checking out the paintings, most nodding appreciatively. Others completely ignored us as if we were wallpaper, which in a sense, we were. Eventually a woman came up to me and confidently told me she really liked my work but there was just one thing I needed to know. She lowered her voice a few decibels and said we’d got the arrangement all wrong. “All the dance pictures should be together and the musician pieces should be over there,” she whispered knowingly. After working for two hours on hanging the paintings, I believe I was well worthy of beatification when I smiled and simply told her we would consider her request. Oh, and yes, I did mention that I wasn’t the artist but would convey the information in double quick time. I mentally drew a picture of the woman stuffed by a taxidermist and mounted next to the east window.

Thirty two paintings later and they were all in place. We took extra special care with the piece called “Bowl of Fruit” because it turns out the grapes were still wet. I've a feeling they were probably apples earlier that morning. By 10:30 am the chain gang were beyond starving and Freda bought us all breakfast, and I lashed into some blueberry crepes.

The show opened later that day, accompanied by a group of Freda's musician friends in the corner. A few dozen friends and acquaintances came by. Wine and cheese were consumed in unequal measures and it was considered a roaring success. For myself, I still had a strong sense of impending loss over the paintings. The exhibition opened with one painting having a red dot on it, denoting that it was already sold. The thought of that picture disappearing with a stranger never to be seen again was too much. Three weeks later when the exhibition ended, one painting was brought to my house. I bought “Cathedral” on the first day of the exhibition and it has pride of place in my hallway.

Forget the Potter's Wheel, Let Me Paint

I've recently taken up the art of painting pots. Not creating pots, mind you, that's for my partner in crime. Seems too messy, sloppy, out of control for me. I can just see my piece of clay slipping drunkenly on the potter's wheel, diminishing from an object of elegant beauty to a brown blob of nothingness in thirty seconds or less. Or maybe I just want to paint them.

Not that painting pots is anything to turn your nose skyward. Yesterday's adventure involved drawing a tortoise on the pot. I saw the design on the cover of a Terry Pratchett novel, "Small Gods" and I thought, "Got to get that on to the next creation, and no mistake." (Oick, do I owe the illustrator a fee for artistic plagiarism? Ah that's litigation for another day in another life). So in haste, I drew the said tortoise, or what, to be honest, was the nearest depiction I could muster after two glasses of red wine. After many modifications, including severe adjustment of the tail piece, which originally looked like a fifth leg or worse, a passable tortoise emerged.

The next hurdle was the glaze. The best looking colours yesterday were pink and blue. Ok, who said anything about realism here? All the best tortoises are pink and blue. I was in a bit of a rush at this stage. You know when you get this bright idea, and it seems grand at first but then you feel like "hurry up and finish already"? Well I was like that. So I must admit some of the outer scales looked as if God did not pay too much attention on day seven. However at the end of an hour a very respectably painted tortoise swam into view in the middle of the oval pot. Well especially when you looked kindly from a distance.

Now as to what the heck it looks like when it comes out the kiln, that will have to wait until another day.

Gangsta Heron and Joey BlueJay

I chose my current apartment because of the view. Its not on the seafront but the powers that be have chosen not to develop over the underground parking lot opposite, for which I am truly grateful. So aside from apartment buildings to the far left and right, I have a relatively unrestricted view across Enfield Bay towards Point King in the far distance. Except today, that is not quite so.

A curious figure catches my eye, perching on one leg on the building opposite, a grey overcoat hunched up over the shoulders. In another situation I imagine a violin case and a thick cigar would not be out of place. We're not talking about gangsters here. It is the resident heron, a frequent visitor to this neighbourhood.

Now I'm confused. The heron's other leg seems to be reaching round to scratch his neck but scientifically that does not seem possible. It doesn't make sense, how could the heron bend it's leg like that ? On closer inspection with binoculars, it's clear that the wind is whipping up the feathers. I have no idea where the other leg is nor do I wish to ask. We now have a very passable imitation of the Penguin character in the Batman movies. Even down to the beak. Very clever indeed. The heron clearly knows that a hoard of apartment dwellers are watching its every move. Now it has contorted itself so that its neck and head look like an umbrella hanging off the side of the now headless overcoat. Pretty darn good, as impressions go. I give that a nine out of ten for artistic merit.

Oh darn, away it flies, off the building, like a prehistoric raptor. But things aren't so bad. Joey the Blue Jay has just arrived on my balcony, quivering with excitement, ready to bury yet another peanut in my plant pot.

Martha's Muse Blog : Help section,SubSection D

Some of the terms you will see in this blog!

SAD Store: The Spend Astronomical Dosh home hardware store, favourite place of Gregoire's; he would live there if he had the chance.

GREGOIRE: Beloved Other Half.

HEDGEROW HOUSE: this is a house down the road that gets rid of stuff - clothes, tents, anything - by leaving it strewn on the hedge in front of the house. I recently bumped into the owner, I'll call her Doris, and it turns out that she's been in the hedgerow giveaway business for over thirty years.

DOPPELGANGER URSULA: She is a fellow litter picker upper from the other side of the planet. A wise woman, she writes to me about plants, wind powered energy and all manner of subjects.

PARTY HOUSE: Rowdy house rented by young-uns just down the street. I'm probably doing them a disservice because recently I think we've had more parties than they have. But we don't leave beer bottles on the street outside the house. Well that's because I see five cents every time I see a bottle and that's not to be sniffed at.

BLOGTRAIN: Quite reliable rapid urban transit system. Now if they had just installed an automated mechanism for checking tickets and instant deportation for anyone yelling loudly into their cellphones, we'd all be away to the races.

So are you using a pinhole camera or what? Ok yes. Well not really.
A lot of the older blurry pictures have been taken by this toy camera, so no great shakes there. But better news, I have acquired a better (but still cheap) camera so future images will be sharper, but don't expect great photos.

So do you welcome comments on your blog?Absolutely, I'd delighted if you leave a comment.

So you do you welcome comments with links to my website promoting all the wonderful products I have to sell?Er no. Spam get nuked as soon as I see it.

I've had enough of this, take me back to Martha's HomePage and be quick about it.