Home is . . .

My writing teacher in her blog (http://www.roselle-angwin.blogspot.com/) suggested writing on the theme of home without mentioning where one lives or any of the places in which one has lived. As ever, she stimulated a flurry of thoughts, the first of which - having had a migraine on Saturday – was:

v     Home is what I feel when the pain of a migraine is so bad that I let go.

I could add to that:

v     Home is what I feel at the end of a migraine when my life is clear of all irrelevancies and I understand again what is important.

Some other thoughts:

      Home is . . .

v     writing

v     walking in the countryside

v     getting into bed at the end of the day

v     being away from home and all responsibilities

v     an ecstatic puppy scrabbling all over me when all I want is the wine bottle and the fridge

v     the ‘Welcome to Devon’ sign on the motorway

v     waking to birdsong

v     listening to rain on the conservatory roof

v     watching the sun set behind the hill on a winter’s afternoon by the fire.

And the place where I’ve felt most at home, but is the furthest from my homeland:

v     Australia.

But of course, most importantly, and without wishing to be sentimental, home is:

v     anywhere, with Frog.*

* I asked Frog if he minded me putting this and he said, ‘Daft bat’. I think that’s an OK.

Thursday

Apologies for my long absence. I was typing up something for the blog on Thursday when my screen went blank and the computer started beeping. I didn’t dare turn it on again till Sunday when Frog was around to help in case of another crisis.

    Here is what I was typing.

Mysteries of life

• Why is varnish never the same colour on toenails as it is in the bottle?

• Has anyone ever watched to the end of one of those pop-ups on the computer that promise you a flat stomach?

• Why did God invent puppies?

• Will the world really end next year and if it does will we notice?

• Why do cats hide worming pills in their cheeks and then spit them out when you’re not looking?

• Is the News a deliberate plot to keep us afraid or just an accidental one?

Silly, I know, but fun to do.

Also on Thursday we went for a pub lunch and a walk by the sea. I saw this dog at an upstairs window of the pub and couldn’t resist taking a photograph of her. Do you think she is waiting for her Romeo?

Another pome

The Monster in the Attic

I wake at night

And think of you

My other self

My Mr Hyde.

Like Dorian Gray

I present to the world

An incomplete version

Of myself.

But in the attic

The monster grows.

And one day, I hope,

He’ll come down

And set me free.

Pome

As I have a few days’ break between modules 5 and 6 of the novel-writing course I’m doing (www.fire-in-the-head.co.uk) I’ve been tackling those jobs that keep sinking to the bottom of the list such as – gasp of pain – filing.

    In the process however, given that my files date back several decades and my filing tray at least a year, I’ve uncovered some interesting bits and pieces, interesting to me at least, including a folder of my poems.

    I’ve never published them, but here's one now. Be kind, please.

The difference between cats and humans

As I lie

on my back

on the bed,

the cat curls in my armpit.

She purrs,

her head drops,

her eyes close.

She is completely happy.

I have to wake her up to write this down.

‘Meat, Ma’am. You’ve been feeding him meat.’

Because our garden used to be an apple orchard (a long time ago, way before we came on the scene), it is enclosed by proper Devon hedgerow. This is probably many centuries old, if not a fragment of ancient woodland, and is rich in flora and fauna. One thing it’s not good at however is containing a determined puppy.

    When Ellie arrived, Adrian from the village (who has laid the hedge for us beautifully in previous years) came over and put up a gate for us as well as fencing to cover gaps in the hedge. Since then Frog has covered other gaps with fencing and we’ve plugged yet others with prickly cuttings. Still she absconds.

    I’ve always believed that the more you walk a dog, the quieter they will be at home. Frog however (who is not a keen walker himself unless tempted with a pub meal en route) believes the opposite. The more you walk a dog the fitter they become and the more they want to walk.
    He is wont to quote Dickens at me, the Beadle in Oliver Twist in reply to the undertakers when they complain that the orphan they’ve acquired in order to work to death is not behaving properly. ‘Meat Ma’am. You’ve been feeding him meat,’ says the Beadle, instead of the gruel which would keep him weak and servile.

    On Sunday I took the dog for two walks, nearly three hours in total. After the second walk, and giving her supper, I left the kitchen door open so that she could potter round the garden if she wanted to. Two minutes later she had vanished and we heard the children next door calling her name.

    ‘Your turn,’ said Frog, who was making pizza dough and had his hands covered with flour.

    When I arrived next door Ellie was running in and out of the house with pieces of packaging in her mouth, obviously filched from a bin somewhere. She wasn’t in the least tired. What she was, was over-excited. What I should have done after the walk was shut her in her crate so that she could calm down.

    Maybe Frog is right after all, at least partly.

    And maybe it’s me who needs the walks in order to keep calm.