Leave And Let Diet

Around the turn of the year She Of The Townhouse decided that it was time something was done.
Asbo, The Boy, and I, invariably plan and execute swift egress when this happens. Of course the Axeman has departed stage left and is now hiding out in the city of light. The rest of us, we return after the pubs have opened. Usually the whole thing has blown over. And although I digress, in some cases ‘blown over’ is the literal fate. There was that memorable incident with the gazebo on a windy October day…… Still, I can’t use up all my stories in one post so….
The thing is This time it has gone on a bit longer than usual. Two months, twenty one days and a few hours longer than usual in fact. And I tell you that Rosemary Canary woman has a lot to answer for.
We have to wait until she goes off to Capital City if we are even so much as to get a whiff of a fry up now.
Let alone a chip.
Times are lean people….times are very lean indeed.

Lost

More About Socks

Turning over the debris in my sock drawer the other day I was forced to confront a couple of unpleasantness’s (cor that word has a lot of s’s in it).
First I have an unseemly number of odd socks. Thirteen in fact. I mean its taking the mick.
Then I realised that there was a second problem. Quite a few of the partnerless hopefuls were not even mine. Foreign and I have to say distinctly female socks have invaded my drawer.
I quizzed She Of The Townhouse about the situation but she denied all knowledge whatsoever. Always a dangerous position for a woman to adopt as it immediately arouses suspicion.
Assuming though, just for a moment, that she has a case, and that the intruders are not belonging to she, then I am forced to look elsewhere.
I am forced to cast my mind back to all the other ladies that have…..I am going to have to put it delicately of course….used the Hallett’s Mountain bedroom. And now that I think about it this isn’t the first time I have had to tick them off about this kind of thing.
Ladies please….take more care…avoid the embarrassment that is bound to arise.
Oh and wash your own bloomin socks!

The Last Post

The thaw has at last set in here on Hallett’s Mountain. The snow is by no means gone, up against the mountain walls some of the drifts that surpassed the mountain boundary walls are still well over a metre deep, but the road up here is clear and has been for a couple of days now.
The post box at the end of the track is clear as well. This a little odd as the snow was still on the ground about it. Also on the bins. And the penny drops.
For the first time since the 18th of December the postman has been.
Thank you all for the lovely cards.

Dog Tired

This fine morning Asbo and I decided to follow the ridge line.
Do you know what? I am not sure that I am giving the dog too little credit here. I remember him looking back at me and giving the Paddington Bear stare when in fact it was I that took the decision to follow the ridge. He was rather committed by the fact that I held him to little choice on the end of a lead.
Anyway we followed the ridge and eventually stepped out on to the top up above Maen Penddu. The East wind bit in to both of us. Well it bit the dog more than me of course. I had dressed sensibly in the full awareness if the bitter cold. He, being less informed, wore just his old black coat.
The snow was up to my boot tops, and in hidden hollows where the wind had deposited more up to my knees. It was fun to push through the crust of hard snow on the top and through the deep powder below. Fun unless you were a dog scraping your …umm … parts.. through the deep freeze.
We stopped up by Maen Amor to share a coffee. Well again I may exaggerate the sharing aspect here. Asbo in fact gave me an almost baleful glare as I took of a glove and poured myself a coffee. He was right of course, I should have kept my glove on. My fingers were frozen despite the warmth of the drink. Goodness only knows how his paws must have felt.
Fortified, we turned the corner towards the path down. Particles of hard snow ripped from the surface stung our eyes. Thank goodness I had my hat and scarf pulled tight to my glasses. I was easily able to follow the hound and keep my eye on him as he tried to dodge from side to side.
An hour or so later I sat down to a superb breakfast. Eggs Benedict setting me up for the rest of the day. The dog, a complete lightweight in every regard, has flaked out in front of the fire.
I wonder if he needs worming……

On The Road To Nowhere

So then, realising that perhaps it wasn’t my last breath, I felt that discretion was the better part of valour, and retired to Hallett’s Mountain for the day instead of going to work.
Since Before Christmas there has been snow on the ground here. I may have drawn your attention to it already…. Anyway the thing is that this morning things got too cold.
Sometime during the night the small streamlet that runs beside the road froze up really badly. It managed to block itself in the ditch sufficiently to overflow and then run on down the road surface. By the time I got there in the comedy Landrover there was a sheet of ice covering the steepest part of the hill and some way up. In addition the salt bins had run out.
I contemplated this little rocket ride from the top end and as I paused for a moment I felt the whole shebang drifting sideways towards the larger deeper stream on the far side. Inch by inch. Parts of my anatomy pouted a bit as I selected reverse.
I called the council about the salt bins but it seems they were having problems with other things. They should have deliveries on the weekend.

The Big Top

Up before the world, Asbo and I tackled the North Face of Craig Celynin.
The thaw that had started yesterday afternoon was stopped as the temperature plummeted under last nights clear sky. As we walked over the fields towards the mountain gate footsteps crunched. Mine penetrating the crust and erupting soft powder. Asbo skittering around ungainly in a way left behind when he was a mere cautionary warning. Puzzled by the lack of friction he reverted to giant puppy.
Higher and higher we climbed and the snow grew deeper. Swinging round the shoulder of Tal-y-fan we turned up the final slope and I noticed that the waning moon was hanging full above the opposite slope of Maen Amor.
I am not sure what the dog made of it. I paused for a moment and thanked the Great Moo Moo for his blessing.
Later, much later, we came back down the mountain because I have to go to work in the morning.

Ho Bloomin' Ho

Last year we caught him red pawed. Though strictly speaking it was The Axeman who was to blame.
The Christmas turkey from the excellent butcher was left out for the evening you see. Left outside in fact and covered on a garden table until morning. Then it was due to be turned into a pie. It was a frosty night and fridge space was at a premium by then. It seemed like a good plan.
Asbo eyed the proceeding with interest and must have been slightly disappointed to find his customary egress blocked by a hitherto unlocked door.
When a befuddled Axeman (the guitar playing elder son of She Of The Townhouse) finally staggered home from the pub, he found the poor creature doing the doggy version of crossing his legs. Taking pity, and having little appreciation of Asbo’s subterfuge, he released the door and propped it ajar so that natures call could be answered. With this good deed done he sloped of to a well earned inebriates rest.

So it was that the next day, a puzzled She Of The Townhouse surveyed the full dog and the remnant of a very expensive turkey being picked over by Mel Next Door’s Owl.
This year we have all learned our lesson. Food is being stashed well out of reach.

Last night Axeman came home from the City Of Light bearing lovely gifts, one of which comprised a selection of Asbo’s favourite chocolates. Intended of course as a festive treat for She Of The Townhouse. These he placed carefully under the tree.

This morning he was surprised to find a dog full of soft centres.

Some people never learn.....

Happy Christmas all.

Dietary Requirement

How unkind we were back then. Amused at Karla taking the same ham salad every day. To shy to ask outside this personal safe zone.
And now here I am. Every day I have the same cheese and pickle sandwich with trimmings. One banana, one orange, and an apple. Week in month out, year after year.
Mind you, every now and then, just so that I can feel that I am walking near the edge of the line, I have corned beef instead. I don’t tell anyone though.

High

Well look at all the dust in here. It’s not that I don’t love everyone, just busy.
Anyway look at my lovely new picture.

Kayak

Sitting in my new red shiny I am gliding along the Shropshire Union Canal. I am as one with Ratty, there is nothing quite so fine on this sunny afternoon as simply messing about in a boat.
Between the occasional ripples generated by a passing barge swallows swoop and drink. Cows, bucolic cast casual enquiry as I drift by, paddles dipping to guide my progress. Between the spells of rural idyll little cottages spread the cloth of their manicured lawns down to the water, inviting thoughts of lazy afternoon picnics in dappled sunshine. Willows bend their branches, trailing their fingertips in the water. Bright wild flowers nod in quiet warm appreciation. A kingfisher flashes iridescent green and blue.
August is dusting of its summer raiment and across gentle breeze the insects murmur an appreciation. Nothing to disturb us dear friends. Not a note.
Unless of course you count She Of The Townhouse running her own version of Twitter as she splashes along behind. Still a couple of extra strokes and I think we can leave all that behind…….

Sleepy

The food and the company shared on Hallett’s Mountain this weekend were second to none. A party started on Friday evening and finished two days later, most of it under sunshine or moonshine. She Of The Townhouse contrived so many surprises.
There was live music, fireworks, bonfires, a drum and bass tent, a camping ground, cake and bottles of champagne, as well as most of a cow and a pig.
Tunes resounded off Garvie's Leap until we were finally sung to sleep for a couple of hours and then we got up and did it some more.
My sisters shared a drive up the Offa’s Dyke. My little brother blew bubbles in the garden. My uncle gave me a penknife.
The great Moo Moo looked down and smiled.

Frankie Says ......Louder

"I want", I explained to the young man in Maplins, "the sort of stereo that will disturb the neighbours"
And so now I have one.........
There is a bit of a party here on Hallett's Mountain this Saturday.
DJ Boo Boo will be in charge of the drum and bass tent.

(1000Wamp,2X400Wspeaker)

A Moment Of Light

I am sure that wherever you live in the world there are blessings, moments of extraordinary privilege that transcend.
For me, as people who have passed this way already know, I find these moments in the sunrise. I (honestly) quiver with excitement in anticipation of the moment that the sun breaks the horizon that Hallett’s Mountain gazes out upon. I mark the passage of my year as it daily creeps the seasons footsteps. In tune with an ancient understanding of the year I can tell you pretty much what day of the year it is without a calendar forced upon it.
On Saturday night I was gloomy for the prospect of mid summer sunrise. The evening was full of a warm drizzle and so midge ridden that, rather than be eaten alive at the old stone circle, I decided to tuck up in bed and set an alarm for 4:30.
As the cock crowed ( I really must change that alarm) I looked out of the bedroom window and was disappointed to see that the prospect was much the same as when I went to bed. Still I went down and made a cup of tea and got my camera ready in case.
As the appointed hour passed, I began to pack up when all at once I noted a short break in the cloud letting a pale yellow come through. I snapped a couple off for the record and was about to turn away again when this happened. For a few amazing seconds.
A moment of light.

If It’s Broke Fix It

More years ago than I care to remember…ah dear what a ridiculous affectation for a man of a mere my age to adopt. It was of course the early eighties, well the first half off them at least. I developed an imaginary school subject entitled ‘Car Studies’. I used this as a vehicle….heh heh …did you see what I did there?....I used this as a method of explaining to parents of prospective students why computer studies might not be a particularly suitable subject for the apple of their eye.
The mere title of the subject was enough to make a certain type of adolescent salivate at the prospect. Unfortunately, at the time, it involved a lot of pseudo machine code with the acronym ‘CECIL’ and far more history of Pascal, Liebnitz and Babbage than a committed games player was likely to be interested in.
For a few years the conversation went thus.
“Well you see Mr Hallett we bought him a computer because we knew it would help and he’s never off it. He knows everything!”
After exploring the fact that the real interest may be playing games on the ‘Speccy’ …this was in the years before the interwebby thing, I used ‘Car Studies’ as an example.
“Imagine Mrs Jones that you wanted your son (Other student genders were available but I seldom had the same problem with female students) …that your son wanted to do ‘Car Studies’. He might confuse the subject by thinking that he was going to be learning to drive fast cars in a safe manner and in fact find out that he was doing some mechanical work with a little bit of internal combustion theory thrown in for good measure..
Many of us see the value of learning to be a driver but few of us want to be mechanics. While Computer Studies has computer in the title I really think he may be mistaking …..”etc etc.
I am sure you get the drift. And I am equally sure it did little good even after you had got over how patronising I was.

Today someone did it back to me.
A therapist was trying to explain to me that the concept that failure was not bad or good in itself but that we invested the word with meaning.
“You wouldn’t for example pronounce that a car was ‘bad’ because it had failed its M.O.T….”
Leaving aside for a moment the degree to which people do anthropomorphise the inanimate I started down a new track…
Coming soon to all good academic bookshops. The Hallett Guide to Dialectical Behaviour Therapies and the Art of Car Maintenance.
….I am going to have to come up with a snappier title.

The picture. I was very pleased with the combination of a mist flowing down the river to the sea and the sunrise this morning. If you werent up early enough here it is.

Deadline

You can usually tell when She Of The Townhouse is multitasking. The smell of something burning in the kitchen is the standard giveaway, often accompanied by the chirpy little tone of the smoke alarm. You can guarantee that she has started cooking and then at some low point in the proceedings has remembered that her nails need filing somewhere else. Time once again for the boy and I to screw our courage to the sticking place and pronounce surprise and delight at the offering proffered, complimenting her on how stunningly it exceeds the representation on the box.
I may though have explored this theme in the past and so in order not to bore you gentle reader let me look at the spectacle that meets us today.
Today she leapt out of bed at the crack of a sparrows eyelid and larklike has single-womandly reorgainised a swathe of the acre. Weeding, pruning, watering, tending, erecting trellis work, potting on, transplanting, wheeling the wheelbarrow too and fro from the domen and generally tutting and cooing at her plants. The little woman knows no rest. The garden here has seldom seen such devotion and attention over such a sustained period. Even the busy little bees that visit the big sage bush have told her to take it easy. But she cant you see. If she breaks for a moment then she will have to address the essay from college that sits on the kitchen table

Lashings Of Ginger Beer

Things are afoot on Hallett’s Mountain. I suppose though I should say that things are ahoof rather than afoot as most of the occupants are quadrupeds, don’t wear shoes, and have cloven feet. But then they don’t have much part in the decision making process and so, like the people who ignored the European election this week, are rather disenfranchised. The sheep don’t get much say in what is going on. And anyway we eat them sometimes so perhaps it would be foolish to involve them, albeit as vegetarians, in the decision making process in relation to a barbecue. Crumbs, if the majority were to vote for ‘long pig’ it would be like a James Herbert novel with Terry Pratchett overtones around here.
Sorry? Ramble….yes you are right I need to focus a little.
The thing is I only get one shot at this, its here and then its gone and I have no strong conviction that there will be a second life. Even if there was I would be likely to be reincarnated as something far more transient an d hopefully less error prone. I mean the mistakes that I have made could fill a book and I…….
Huh? The point…. alright I am coming to that ..eventually.
The point is that it doesn’t always rain here in July. Even if it does I have a medium sized barn and a casual disregard for the state that carpets get into. There is loads of room to camp. I don’t mind getting a few extra rashers.
In less than four short weeks from today I shall reach, provided the great Moo Moo spares me, my half century. Coming the day before the Americans have a little celebration of their own. There very loose sort of plan going on to mark the Friday evening with a steak and kidney pie and a nice drop of red wine. Then the Saturday afternoon with whatever we can wave over a fire. It is the Saturday then that I wish to draw to your attention,though you are welcome earlier.
If you think that you might like to be here for an half hour or so, or if you see yourself overindulging and possibly passing out in a corner, all comers are welcome…..
Nay more than welcome, I should love to see you all and play the genial if slightly inebriate ‘mien host’ while She Of The Townhouse scurries around keeping the ship afloat.
You are all invited.
No really.
All of you.
And please bring your kids.
There we go, you have three weeks to get organised.

Seeing Red

We Saw red a lot round here today.
I was up at 5 to catch the sunrise.


Oh all right I confess, I was up at four and enjoyed the sunrise when it caught up with me.

The Redstart is nesting in my barn wall. A cheery summer resident who clears tha caterpillars from my vegetables and th ebeetles from the fruit trees.

JJ found a red bucket and lost no time getting stuck in. He will thank me for the pictures when he is eighteen.

A Red Kite soared overhead. That was rather special.

It was OK ...if you like that sort of thing

:-)

How You Play The Game

BMI…?
Here we all are again, all trying desperately to avoid eye contact. My knees bend and crack on the way down, on the way up they crack again. I seem to have developed old knees. Next to me the bloke in the yellow T-shirt mutters under his breath.
The minute passes and we move on clockwise to the intermediate steps. Red weights swing. For the many the swing counterpoints the step but as always my coordination nearly takes an eye out. The machines are easier.
On to the one that is a bit like rowing, only not on a river and not moving. Not so much fun really. I reflect on Dave’s advice. Maybe I should just stick to the bike on the lighter evenings……
“…..eleven….twelve…..”
Dammit I have just realised what he is up to. The bloke in the yellow T isn’t muttering to himself he is counting. And despite the fact that we are ‘non competitive in any way’ he is throwing down the gauntlet. What a cad. What a git.
Well I can go one better than that. My minute is up and with a clench of the fist I riposte with a clearly audible thirteen. Take that!
I catch him from the corner of my eye, he seems crestfallen.
More steps and the adrenaline rush seems to have improved my coordination. Step, swing, lower, step back. Faultless. I am one ahead and in tune with the rest of the room.
“..twelve…thirteen...fourteen….”
Unbelievable. The veins on his neck are pulsing and his breath catches but he is one ahead again.
So its step, swing, lower, step back again. At this rate I shall soon need new trousers for work. I am on fire!
On to the next machine, I pump out fifteen just before he gasps his own. A split second between us but it is my hand I think. Hah, and it’s the last, so he can’t make a comeback. Loser…LOSER….LOSER.
And then I notice that he has green weights rather than the red. He has been round the whole circuit with green weights….
I feel crushed. Defeated. Humbled. Despite his handicap there was no more than a gnats hair between us. He has stolen the moral victory.
As he swaggers down the corridor with a towel at a jaunty angle he mutters under his breath.
“Same time next week…..FATBOY.”

Run Fatboy Run

BMI 30.5
So there I am sat sitting there enjoying the baleful glare of the unfit and overweight. I haven’t been in a gym since I was seventeen dear God. And then it was only because Jane Jenkins, a pneumatic young lady, needed some support at the edge of the trampoline. How on earth has it come to all this
The major contributor was my premature death at the age of forty four. I haven’t really been as fit as I once was since that day. The day that my appendix burst and gave me peritonitis. The day when bits of me that shouldn’t; (fans of the semi colon should pause and admire for a half breath here) stopped and I had to have a hard reboot. An accomplice has been my lack of stern resolve.
Since coming out of hospital back then I have struggled to be as fit as I once was. Never a real racing snake mind you but I was able to walk upstairs without breathing heavily.
You may remember that I was trying to train a pair of daps to watch the television with me back in January.
Fellow mountaineers, I can tell you now that that was just the start of things. I subsequently went to my GP and enquired, knowing that these things go very slowly, about the referral scheme.
And so here we all are. Me and a bunch of fat blokes. Waiting. Waiting for the ‘Easyline’ trainer to turn up and put us through our paces. They nearly put me down for the ‘Over 50 Easyline’ you know but I was swift to point out that the form said 49 and ¾. Not 50. Oh no.
The fat bloke opposite seems to be managing about ten a minute and so it is easy to whup his arse. I press a little harder and do eleven. I hope his tears will obscure his perception of how pink I have become.
Afterwards I have to have a cheese pasty to recover in time for tea. In the shower later I also see that I still have a twelve pack. Oh well, Rome wasn’t sacked in a day. I guess I shall just have to go back next week and make some more of the fat boys cry………