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On writing

The page is blank, words disappear, the hell of writing

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My Dog Puddles

A talk this morning with my dog ‘Puddles’ while I performed a shampoo and bubble bath for ‘her Highness’, followed by a warm drying with a hairdryer. “Now don’t move while I do your tale, no not that way, over here.” We proceeded to do her perennial overcoat shortened of course for our summer. It may have lost length but the vibrancy of the fur denotes her level of health, it is shiny, fulsome, and robust. Enough so that the dryer is flat out coping with her water drenched coat required of course to ensure anything underneath is clean. She sashayed around picking the parts she wanted to be dried instead of relying on me, being a Shih Tzu/Maltese cross, she is somewhat bossy or selective of her body, you choose. This, of course, interfered with the area I had allowed for this task, so I spent most of the time soaking up the water on my clothes as she tried to push me back for her escape. For nine years I have washed her each week, but each time her actions are the same. The next da

One way to wake up!

On a cold winters morning I was – of course off world, where I spend most of my waking hours –much to the chagrin of anybody trying to get any sense out of me. I wandered through the remains of an ancient civilisation looking for clues to the current conflagration now raging in this quadrant of the galaxy.  My boots were scuffing the crap lying about until a glimmer of something interesting caught my eye and as I bent down a ruddy great mouth fastened onto  my wrist and commenced trying to remove it in one bite. My mouth went into a rictus as my other hand came up to rip the offending beast from my hand when I suddenly came upright in bed with tiger wrapped around my hand and giving me the best view of a wild cat. As I sat on the side of the bed I managed to remove him by pushing him off (never in my presence harm an animal –for any reason) and as he turned around he meowed just as the kitten he is although he is a rather large cat for his age. Trying to stem th
Have you ever thought of where luck comes from; a big bucket, a particular ray of light, or that strange cloud that seems to be hovering and moves as we move . Some days can be triumphs or disasters. The people who look inside our heads tell us it is the power of suggestion. Sometimes you wonder as you tempt lady luck. Every day someone scratches a winning ticket, but I have never met one. Do you suppose they are taken away after they have screamed their heads off, and put into some kind of restraint? Or are they just trotted out each day so that ordinary mortals may feel the urge to try. I have stood in awe and watched sane men and women scratch their way through the ticket, the surface of the table and eventually the table. As if the glittering prize had slipped under several layers of plywood. The poor unfortunates gnash their teeth, frown at the clear sky, mumble something unintelligible as they shamble away knowing that the grocery money has been seriously depleted. O