Bloody Vermin!!

They have ridiculously long legs if you ever get to see them, they're "absolutely adorable" if you listen to the Queen of Night, and "riddled with disease" if you listen to anybody's Mother.  This one... has left a collection of turds all over my pantry floor around the big bag of cat biscuits.

Don't get me wrong.. I thought it was absolutely adorable too a couple of years ago when it started.  Little did I know that that was the thin end of the wedge.

"In summer when the nights are long..." I like to recline on the tattered old couch in what passes for our conservatory, in partial darkness, reading by the light of the bathroom window.  One night, though I had heard scratchings and crunchings previously, I heard a noise and looked over the edge of my book to see a tiny hedgehog pushing its way in through one of the diamond shaped holes in the trellis.  Entranced by the nearness of one nature's little miracles I sat there quietly and watched as, once through, the little darling circumnavigated the conservatory.  Never straying far from the wall, it ambled the longest possible route to the cat's dish. It then pulled itself by the rim of the dish on to tippy toes and poked it's nose down towards the alluring smell of the biscuits.

crunch crunch crack crunch crackle crunch.

Every night in summer the dear little thing would visit.  I got into the habit of leaving small handfuls of cat biscuits on the floor nearer the trellis for it so that it wouldn't have to walk too far. And often as I got up in the night to go to the toilet I would smile to myself  as I heard it through the wall at its dinner

crunch crunch crack crunch crackle crunch.

I remember the last night it came through the trellis too.  I was out reading on the couch again and heard the familiar scrape of spines.  I looked over to see my hedgehog had grown some, and was struggling to force itself through its customary hole like Pooh after eating too much of Rabbit's honey.  Its head and its forelegs were through, and the more it pulled the more balloon shaped the leftover hedgehog mass on the other side became.  Eventually it had to give up, but it soon found another way in now that its legs were long enough for it to climb up the edge of the garden.

Crunch crunch crack crunch crackle crunch.

When a hedgehog eats cat-biscuits it does it much louder than a cat does. It sounds like little shards of pottery breaking in its jaws.  That sound ceased at the end of summer, but returned the next along with my now respectable sized, full-grown hedgehog. My wife began to complain about the little black turds around the floor of the conservatory especially around the cat dish, and sometimes in it.  I had long stopped leaving extra biscuits around for it.

Crunch crunch crack crunch crackle crunch.

Well, summer came again and once again we are enjoying our conservatory.  These days I don't so often sit out there late however.  I'm often inside at the computer of an evening.  With the weather warm however it's easy to leave that door open until the final lockup when I go to bed.

We have two cats.  One for inside and one for outside. 

The inside one is a dainty tortoiseshell female who we have had fixed because we don't like the idea of having kittens. She gets fed in the kitchen in a nice clean pair of bowls and sleeps on the end of our bed keeping our feet warm as her way of saying thanks. The outside one is a longhaired ginger tom who we never got fixed, I guess because we don't mind the idea of other people having kittens if they want them.  He is wild and free and often quite inexplicably soaking wet.  He gets fed in the conservatory, shares with the hedgehog and leaves hair on the old couch there as his way of saying thanks.

Anyway as I was saying I haven't been sitting out late, but I've been inside and leaving the door open till I go to bed.  I've been hearing noises from the kitchen through the wall.  It's not uncommon for the outside cat to come in and investigate the contents of the rubbish bin, especially when we've had chicken for dinner.  So when I heard a scrabbling noise I thought nothing of it.  Poor fellow needs some perks.  Then I heard a familiar noise...

crunch crunch crack crunch CLUNK crunch crackle crunch.

... and I had to see.

I walked out to the kitchen to see an ENORMOUS hedgehog, far too big for its boots sitting in the inside-cat's tiny dish.  When it saw me it shot me a guilty look and leapt out of the biscuit dish and into the water bowl.  Then it gave up and sat there, regarding me.
Now I had no wish, at that time of night to go picking up a large, wet hedgehog. I'm told they're "riddled with disease". So I shooked my head, wagged my finger and left the room, hoping it would see sense and leave of its own accord.   A few minutes later I heard more scrabblings and crept out to see again only to find this enormous ravenous beast nosing its way around the rubbish bin and obviously heading for the bag of biscuits in the open pantry, leaving filthy wet footprints as it went.
This was too much!  I showed it my foot, at which it began curling itself up into a basketball.   Oh no you don't, I thought, and with my foot spun it round on the slippery lino then gingerly presented my toes to its rear.  That was all the encouragement it needed. Showing me the full length of it's ridiculous legs the monster skittered out the kitchen door and back into the night.

But I can tell it's been in since. When I have to wash the dirt out of the cats water bowl. And when I regard the pantry floor. And sometimes in the night I still hear it...

crunch crunch crack crunch crackle crunch.

Hiatus in creative activity

Big Sigh...

The days of me relying on my employer to keep me busy were cut short at the end of last year.  This doesn't mean I'm not busy.  When I saw it coming I got on the phone and rang a bunch of people I knew might have something for me to do and announced that I was worried.  Not one of them had anything for me. 

Shortly after that the phone started ringing... people I have painted or plastered for before (none of whom had any connection with the people I had called) or people who had got my name from someone else started calling.

"Would you have time to do a skimcoat for me?", "We're doing up another room, are you at all free", "that job I was hoping you would be able to do, can you do it on the twentieth?"

Obviously I do a good job. 

Now I have two houses to paint, a gibstopping job (which I might get to paint too) and a couple of tiny things to get through.  Work till the end of March at least...  The problem is the headaches, trying to work out if I can do all of this in time suitable to the people who want it done, organising in advance, talking people through their choice of colours.  Don't get me wrong, I like making people's houses look nice, but when the work floods in and you get a bottle-neck (three-jobs-that-should-take-a-fortnight-each-to-be-done-preferably-by-the-end-of-the-month) my heart rate increases semipermanently by twenty percent, my head aches, and I find I can't relax at all unless I'm up a ladder with a bush or a trowel in my hand.  Can't but very nice to live with huh? That's why I quite liked having an employer.

so... the prospects of my producing a poem each Sunday, or getting my hand near a piano look dim for the near future - at least until I can calm myself down.

Maybe I should announce to the world at large that I want a nice, quiet, desk job... perhaps the phone will start ringing a different tune if I do...

Love Tove Jansson

These paragraphs from "The Spring Tune" out of Tales from Moomin Valley get me every time:

"It's the right evening for a tune, Snufkin thought. A new tune, one part expectation, two parts spring sadness, and for the rest, just the great delight of walking alone and liking it.
He had kept this tune under his hat for several days, but hadn't quite dared to take it out yet. It had to grow into a kind of happy conviction. Then, he would simply have to put his lips to the mouth organ, and all the notes would jump instantly into their places.
If he released them too soon they might get stuck crossways and make only half a good tune, or he might lose them altogether and never be in the right mood to get hold of them again. Tunes are serious things, especially if they have to be jolly and sad at the same time.
But this evening Snufkin felt rather sure of his tune. It was there, waiting, nearly full grown - and it was going to be the best he ever made.
Then, when he arrived in Moominvalley, he'd sit on the bridge and play it, and Moomintroll would say at once:  That's a good one.  Really a good one."

Well, my trio of literary followers... do you feel like that when you write?

If you liked the image the rest of the story is even better. Get the book.  I've also always been fond of "The Fillyjonk who was afraid of Disasters", "A Tale of Horror" and... heck all the rest of the tales in it.

2010 read of the year

My favourite book this year would have to have been Jitterbug Perfume by Tom Robbins.

I know, I know I'm a bit behind the times. This book was first published in 1984.  But I often feel it's rude to chase after a book, and prefer to read them when they come to me.  This particular book was pressed into my hand, along with a bundle of others (which included my close-second best read for the year: The Wind-up Bird Chronicle, by Haruki Murakami), as the lender urged me to understand that these were her favourite books ever and I just had to read them.  Now... (private rant) there's nothing more rude when somebody presses a book in your hand in that manner than not to have read it by the time you next see them, or at least to have made a serious attempt to have done so.

The number of books that I might as well have given away in this way (it is rude to ask for them back if they haven't been read now, isn't it?) bah...! But I digress...

I'm a sucker for stories about immortality,  (I think watching The Highlander at an impressionable age set that off) and those that hint on some level just beneath reality where things are interconnected (the Murakami book I mentioned might have more to do with that comment). It's not that I necessarily want to live forever like the characters in these books, but the idea of in one existence witnessing any of a bunch of exciting moments in history appeals to me.  It's for that reason I also like John Masefield's Box of Delights, even though as a story it's a really odd shape. Imagine living to see Beethoven play and to see the Great Wall being used for what it was built. 

In Jitterbug Perfume the hero Alobar does neither of those things, but he and his partner discover a method for extending life which enables them to outlive civilisations.  In that time Alobar, an "eater of beets", among other things stays in a Tibetan monastery, lives in sixteenth(?) century Paris, and eventually moves to the New World taking time out on occasion to consort (my euphemism) with nymphs in the company of the god Pan.

It is the type of book which throws itself at you with the sort of force that makes you think it encompasses more than it actually does. It is a wild, fun and memorable ride, but I'd have to say one I'd only take once.  In the same way a ghost train in a visiting carnival is thrilling the first time, but on subsequent rides you start to notice the light bulb inside the skull or the rusty hinge on which the terrifying spectre swings, I wouldn't want to ruin the experience by putting myself into the position of seeing through anything.  I might read it again, but in a year or two, when the carnival next comes to town.

Before you go running out to read this because I said I liked it, take a wee pause and ask yourself "Am I a prude?"  If you think you might be, click on the link I've put in up top to the wikipedia article about the book.  You'll get a brief summary of the plot and its contents, and if you imagine the subject matter described written with a sort of puerile glee you might get a hint of what you could be getting yourself into.                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

If you like a story so wierd that it requires you to not just suspend, but completely discard disbelief for the duration of your reading, because you know you'll enjoy it all the more for it, ...go out and find a copy.    

Boxing Day

The Queen of Night is busy making her own incense sticks on the floor of her bedroom.  It's eleven o'clock and she should be trying to get to sleep, but since she is genetically incapable of directly following a given suggestion she's doing this instead.  She's happy, even though she's forgotten two things. Firstly, she really should have spread some newspaper on the carpet, and second, she nearly died today.

'Twas the day after Christmas,
we left the tree's lights-on,
packed up our towels,
and drove out to Bright-on...

:)

We got in the car at one-twentyseven, in a bit of a hurry, forgetting the boogie boards and the sunscreen, because we had arranged to meet Nana there at one-thirty.  It's always good to be on time for Nana because she grumbles if she is made to wait for anybody.
Nana was also bringing the Queen's togs because they had been left at her house Christmas day when we thought it might be hot enough for swimming.
"Can I text Nana and remind her about my togs?" said the Queen, eager for a chance to use her new cellphone.
"Already have," said Mum.
"Oh..." said the Queen. "...ok.  Thanks".
And so we drove, not hurrying but I had my eye on the clock.  We pulled up in the carpark at Brighton Beach at one-fortyseven. I made sure to park right up near the surf club, right beside the path to the beach so that Nana wouldn't have to wait for us any longer than was absolutely necessary.  As I pulled on the handbrake Mum's phone buzzed in her purse.
"Mum says - running late - just having lunch now so maybe three quarters hour - no schedule today" she read out.
"That's not fair!" cried the Queen "Now He'll be able to swim and I won't be."
I looked over at The Slug*, who had wrapped himself in two towels and was trying to manoeuvre his way into his togs without letting anyone see anything.
"It'll be ok.  Nana won't be that long.  You can still paddle and we'll be here a while." One of us said.

So we trudged down the path to the beach, our feet sinking in the dry sand which made for hard going.  I wished I'd remembered a book, and started to wonder if I should have worn shorts.  The tide was low and the rocks, usually a long way out, seemed scarily close. Still, there were people in the water.  The Slug dropped his towel and ran down to the water.  The Queen stood and looked at her mother and me, her hands on her hips.
"Nana won't be long."  we said.  "Go see what the water's like."
The Slug was already running back as the Queen headed down to meet the surf.
"Too coooold!" he said, and proceeded to curl himself up in a ball on the sand and cover himself completely with a towel - to avoid sunburn.  He would stay that way for most of the visit - until we lured him out with the promise of ice-cream.

After a while of lying on the sand enjoying the warmth of the sun, The Slug comfortably wrapped up in his towel, The Queen busy dancing the waves, as deep as she could possibly be without getting the short shorts she got for Christmas wet, I decided to explore the rocks.
The rocks at Dunedin's Brighton Beach look like the rotten, worm eaten remains of some vast, ancient tree. But they are hard, brittle, and nearly as sharp as glass. My feet, thanks to my North island habit of wandering around barefoot, have soles like leather. So, with my jeans rolled up I wandered down and along the water, took a small leap over a puddle of swirling water and began gingerly making my way around the base of the rock hill on the right hand side of the beach, gripping the hole-ridden surface with my toes. I reached a point where I had a choice of path.  I could follow the low ledge further around the base of the hill or start an easy climb upwards toward the top. The ledge sat roughly level with the incoming water.  If I went that way the waves washing across its surface would pull at my feet and send the thick kelp that lay across it swirling menacingly. 

"Hi Tim." 
I looked, and saw the Queen had materialised at my heel.
"Where are you going"
"Just having a wee explore." I said.  Now I had company I decided on the safer path. "Shall we climb to the top?"
"No." said the Queen, and began making her way around the ledge, the waves washing her feet.
I began making my way up the other path.  I watched the Queen hoping she would see me, and that her own trepidation might make her choose to come join me. When we were just far enough apart that I knew I couldn't do anything to save her if anything happened, I did a silly thing.
I have said that the Queen is genetically almost incapable of following a suggestion. So what I said was sort of calculated, and probably true.  I wanted her to decide herself to walk back my way and join me on the easy climb to the summit.

"The tide's coming in." I calmly said.  "A big wave might sweep you off of there."
She appeared to be ignoring me, then the next moment she turned to the worm-eaten rock wall and began climbing the near vertical face before her.  If she made the full ten feet she would come off on the path ahead of me.  The rough, craggy surface gave her plenty of hand-holds.

I stayed calm.  When I met the Queen and her brother, nearly eight years ago now, they were four and five years old.  They were climbers even then.  At that time they would start in the corner of the kitchen, pulling out the drawers to make a staircase and climb on to the bench.  Then they would walk the length of the bench jumping the kitchen sink and tip-toeing across the stove top, which usually wasn't going, to the windowsill.  Hanging on to the net curtains for support they would make their way along the sill 'til they could reach and open the pantry door.  Then they would scale the pantry shelves and then hook themselves onto the ledge above and crawl along to the end where they would lie grinning at you, eight feet up.  As long as nobody closed the pantry door they could reverse the process and climb down again quite safely.
I quickly learned the trick was to remain calm.  If, at any stage in the process, you were to panic, reach out and cry "Oh My goodness what are you doing?", they would look you in the eye, let go of everything, and fall.  The resultant impact would entail far worse drama than a bit of dust on the knees of their trousers and the inconvenience of the drawers being open.

So today I stayed still and watched the Queen climb. Five feet... Six feet... Seven...

Finally she was near the top.  She reached her hand for the last hand-hold and I began breathing again.  Then, the thin rock broke off in her hand and I closed my eyes on the image of her lurching backward, arms flailing.  I imagined a cracked skull... bright blood swirling in the surf.

Then I heard the beginnings of a thin gentle wailing.  I opened my eyes to see her scrabbling to the safety of the ledge and immediately began making my way towards her saying "Wow! That was a good save.  I thought you were going to die..."
She had given her shin a nasty scrape, blood winked brightly out of a couple of shallow puncture wounds.
"The rock broke off in my hand"  she sobbed.
"I saw." I said. "But gosh you did well. Those rocks are sharp. You must be glad you didn't fall."
I told her the best thing for her graze would be the salt water.  She assured me it would sting.  I helped her back to our base and we showed the injury to Mum.
"You know the best thing for that would be the salt water." said Mum after a consoling hug.
"I can't! It'll sting too bad..." Wailed the queen.  She sat on the sand, hugging her knees, determined not to enjoy the beach any more.  The Slug peeked out from under his towel, checked his forearm for sunburn.
Mum and I looked at each other.  We suggested ice-cream.

After a bit of coaxing we made it to the shop.  The Queen and her brother ran to the tip-top fridge, seeking out the most expensive items.
"Can we...?" they began.
I nodded, sighing, and turned to order a frosty-boy. I always get soft serve at the beach.  The Queen and the slug deposited their mega-magnum-supernut-trumpets on the bench  and then watched as the lady extruded my much cheaper, $2.50 soft-serve.
"Can we get one of those instead?" they both begged.
I sighed, nodding, and they ran back to return their mega-magnum-supernut-trumpets.
"Make that three" I signalled the lady.

After that the beach visit returned to normal.   Nana arrived with the togs, and within twenty minutes the Queen was chest deep in the surf, dancing at the outer edge of the swimmers. The Slug was once again safely curled up under his towel, still happy, but complaining his shoulders had burned in the ten minute walk to the shop.  Eventually, when the Queen was cold enough, and the Slug bored enough,  we trudged our way back to the carpark.

So sated with ice-cream
surf swimming, and foam,
We climbed in the car
and we made our way home.
                                           
The Queen of Night is busy making her own incense sticks on the floor of her bedroom.  It's eleven o'clock and she should be trying to get to sleep.  She's happy, even though she's forgotten two things. Firstly, she really should have spread some newspaper on the carpet, and second, she nearly died today.




*"The Slug" is the Queen's brother. We might meet him in more detail if these bulletins continue.  It's possibly an unfair name considering he can do a back flip from standing (which I can't), and once hit a six for the school cricket team (which I never did).