Waiting for the Pups



Tink Just before the birth of her pups

Has the time come yet? I keep asking myself but I guess I will only know for sure when the puppies have arrived. So I just sat and waited, not allowed to move too far from Tink’s side as she nudges my hand to where she wants to be stroked. For days now this waiting game has been going on, ever since I had the scare. We were walking in the morning sunlight with a big teddy bear of a lab and his human, having a very pleasant time, when out of the corner of my eye I saw what looked like a sack hanging from Tink. Well I tried to encourage Tink to walk faster and in the direction of the car but she was defiantly not of the mind to do so.

            Like I said you only know for sure once it’s all over and you look back and only then can you see all the signs and forget all the ones you took heed over but never came to anything.

            I was playing the waiting game, ever ready and vigilant trying to be patient, as she paced always restless unless I was stroking her tummy or she was near my feet. This time nearly six years ago I was waiting for Angus to arrive so I marvel at what looked and felt like a bundle of rocks moving in her stretched tummy. I must say I’m very glad I only had one baby at a time.

            As the birds sang in the spring and dandelions scattered the yet to be cut lawn life bursting from every place you looked at and I must say I was missing our walks, you just can’t beat a good walk at this time of year.         

            I slept down stairs a couple of nights around her due date and contemplated taking her temperature every few hours so I could notice the change thus predicting the birth within twelve hours or so. Looking at Tink and thinking about how I felt about intervention when I was giving birth, I decided that it was best to look and listen to nature. So on the 26^th March I looked intently at a sprightly Tink before I went to bed. She took herself off to bed and went to sleep. Reassured I did the same. That Sunday morning I woke with a start, jumped out of bed and as soon as I opened the kitchen door Tink raced to her bed but didn’t get in. I took her bed to her favourite place in the living room and wheeled the little radiator (which I had got to keep the pups warm) in. She jumped in her bed, waited for my hand and then relaxed.

            I was there for the long haul, after all these things can take time. Not with Tink though within minutes she had given birth to the first pup. Her job she had looked at me and told me was done now it was my turn. I waited a while for her innate mothering instinct to kick in but nothing doing. So I broke the sack and presented the head of the pup to her and as though someone had switched on the power Tink took over. She swallowed the placenta giving the right distance between pup and where the cord should be cut. The cord was tough and as she chewed I held the pup ready to catch so it did not drop to the floor and between us we did an ok job. Tink was not happy with the jaded edges of the cord though. She looked at me and i at her and we both notted that we should do better next time. The little girl was a good size and soon found her mum’s milk.

           

 I rang Axl to get down and to wake the rest of the family up. I knew I could rely on him to have his phone by his ear even when sleeping. By the time they had got to us the second pup was on its way and with a serenity and reverence the little boy entered the world at 7.30. I was feeding Tink ice-cream not any ice-cream Oh no it was made with cornish clotted cream, that would give her strength and aid milk production. She lovingly looked on surprised and proud of her little brood. They were big strong pups but I thought there could be more so I was careful when she asked to go out side, running around with her on a load and boy did she run fast to get back to her pups!

I rang the vet to make sure I was doing the right thing in waiting and he was as excited as I was, reassuring me that everything sounded as if all was ok, just be vigilant and if she strains for any length of time or I felt in the least concerned then just ring back.

            All of us had a wonderful day just mesmerised by the wonder of it all and we still are, although now the pups have teeth, Tink has lost some of the wonder. The day after the birth I took her to the vets as I was expecting a lot more yucky stuff, she was given an x-ray to make sure she was clear (this is the only time Tink cried or got upset but as soon as she was back with the pups she was a happy mum again) and the pup’s the once over by a very excited vet. The vet and Tink cooed and kissed the pups making sure they were ok. I looked on with a huge smile on my face.

                       

I know Tink, you do the hard work and they just sleep on!

we all have puppy love in our house

Local Librarian All of aFlutter

Heather loved working at the library and was impressed with her little sleepy town for putting so much effort in to keeping it open. It had now been turned into a meet and greet centre with book clubs and local writing groups making good use of their conference rooms. She was also proud of her staff, nothing seemed to make them happier than indulging her in her bright ideas but she had to admit the colourful rainforest was a stroke of generous, even for her.

Neville had helped them get it right and even brought Burt in with his three colourful ladies, for that extra special flavour of the Brazilian habitat. Burt was Neville’s eighteen year old blue macaw that talked and loved to perform. They had entertained the children and the adults looked impressed too. It helped that the latest Disney film had been released and the plight of the birds within the pet industry had some how struck a cord of utter disgust in their little world. Perhaps it had more to do with the passion of Neville; he was a bit like Burt in many ways; a chatter box everyone wanted to listen to and the ladies loved him feathered or human. Once you had the mums hooked the children had to follow, Heather loved a cunning plan.

It was all packed away now just the central tree to tackle. A sleepy Sunday afternoon was the ideal time. Heather had made busy getting everything back to normal so when the quiet poet came on Monday he would have the tranquillity he needed. He got distracted easily and would worry at the slightest detail, a blank canvas was best for him. Though once on his feet and reading his poetry and answering questions he did command his audience. They were lucky enough to have him came twice a year and they were now charging five pounds, which included wine or coffee, making it more of an event. So that is why she took out the steps and found herself, in this perched position.

The branch that she was now sitting on was in-fact an old beam that had blended in well with the theme of a forest. It had been a little bothersome while she tackled cutting the straps that anchored the pretend branches to the trusted beam. Taking the main tree down in stages from the very top would be easier and a lot safer she had thought. Well it would have been if she hadn’t climbed on the beam and her leg had not got so excited that it pushed the ladder over.  

The likelihood of anyone coming in this afternoon was slim to zero and it had taken her an hour to ring round everyone she could think of to pick the ladder up. It would have been so simple if only she could get through to someone. She had even contemplated climbing down but would rather feel foolish about knocking a ladder down than breaking a leg. The mobile reception in the library was poor so was unable to through to anyone; eventually she knew she would have to try to make a call to the fire station. Failing that it would have to be a 999 call.

Her dad and brother were on the same shift at their local fire station and as it was dad’s last day and the end of his shift, she new she would never live it down. She could just picture the gathering around the Sunday roast telling the story of when Auntie Heather got stuck up a tree in the library on the day he retired. She took a deep breath as the phone rang out loud against the quiet of the still room. After briefly explaining her predicament they insisted that they could not just pop out to give her a hand Oh no! They were on duty. It had to be a full on emergency, think of the publicity they had said. They had put her on loud speaker too, she could hear everyone laughing.

She had been sitting there now for an hour and a half knowing they would have their network of family and friends getting all the people they could think of to make the most of this situation for the benefit of the community they would say but the enjoyment of finally catching her out would be their strongest prey drive!

The sirens were screaming out her embarrassment as closer and closer came their call. She could hear lots of people too. She could see the headline now ‘Local librarian all of a flutter’. Well if you’re going to be the main exhibit you might as well enjoy it, just think of Bert she told herself ruffle up those feathers the show must go on.

There had been applause and many laughs as she was ‘fireman lifted and man handled’ down from her perch in an un-ceremonial and truly embarrassing way. This was not helped by the very pretty blue dress she had worn, thank heavens she had put her thick leggings on.

The reporter concentrated on the mobile phone is a life saver that we rely on but when the signal is bad who ya guna call? A good angle Heather thought and very kind of him and went some way in making up for the Photos he made her pose for. He also gave a lot of much needed publicity for the library and the events they were going to hold in the next few weeks. This was worth the strife she would get for the next week or two. But it would never make up for the lifetime of grief from her ever loving family and had turned out to be a true retirement gift for her dad.

So what are Kilobytes Megabytes and Gigabytes

Can anyone explain whats going on with
the KB, MG, and GB

Here I sit yet again looking out of my goldfish bowl of relative safety into the ocean of life with all its wonders, fascinations and danger. In the last few weeks I have been keeping up with the world events through my laptop. The internet is convenient good to use and a joy and I most certainly feel more connected to people all over the world but what does it cost?

            I received my monthly internet bill and taking a closer look at my download/upload I was at first confused, what, I wondered were kb, mb and gb? And why was it so high. So with more than a little trepidation and in a state confuddlement I picked up the phone. Pleasantly surprised that the person on the other end spoke English, even so, I didn’t understand the words that he was using.

            I explained, the best I could the usage we have in our house for the four machines and that I was worried it was my pictures that I put on my blog that caused the rise in usage. He explained that for my privacy he couldn’t directly see what I was doing but he could get a more detailed print out of what bite usage I had used. I had no idea what this all meant so he explained. Bits turn into bytes. Ok I got that. He then explained a KB = killer_Byte  and is the smallest usage, then it’s MB = Mega_Byte then GB = Giga_Bite. I got stuck on why a Giga is bigger than Mega cos Mega is big! And why doesn’t the Killer kill them all by biting their heads off and that would be an end to it! Honestly why does everything have to be so confusing.

            I didn’t say that though, well not then. He said he would have a look and see what I was putting on my blog and see if he could explain things a little more for me. Now that’s what I call service.

            He rang back and he too was perplexed at the print out. My usage was the equivalent of 27 films downloaded. That’s when I plucked up enough courage to show my ignorance at the whole Mega thing. He had gone far beyond the call of duty and read a piece on my blog and found an analogy that I would be able to understand how the charges work.

            Are ya ready; this is most defiantly a Tilly Moment and who knows you may find it useful too, if not, it may make you smile.

            ‘Imagine you are travelling on a toll road’ he said. Well I was in my Pink vw of course with a flower on the side and the soft top down with my fairy next to me enjoying the ride, it was a sunny day. Are you there yet! Have you the image in your mind? Good. Just for fun I told him too, he took it with good humour.

‘Now you pay us to use the Toll road but you still have to get across and you need fuel for that and the faster you travel the more the fuel consumption and the more costly it becomes. Does this make sense so far?’

            Well my fairy and I were too busy enjoying the ride to really be bothered with the technical stuff but snapping my self of the daydream I asked

            ‘So the KB, MB and GB are the different fuels?’

            ‘If ya like’

            ‘So what you’re saying all this time my little pink convertible vw was taking me along at a steady KB speed reaching a MB speed occasionally but someone was sticking GB fuel in when I didn’t know. I was a little miffed at paying for something and not knowing or not being able to enjoy it.

            The worst thing of all you rarely know how many KB, MB or GB you are using as there is no fuel gage on your computer for you to see. As a consequence you may, like me be using the jet fuel and not realise it. Even worse if a download gets rejected and tries to download time after time the cost would reach giga proportions (this giga thing is not working for me mega is defiantly a better word).

            Anyhow I’m left with the image of a beautiful toll road with me and the fairy in the Pink vw in warped speed (in Tilly’s world this means travelling fast but thinking slow) with our faces a little distorted.

            Have managed to find that if you press Ctrl+shift+Esc go to networking then view press on Colum then add bytes, down load, upload  you can see your usage but it’s a monitor and you have to keep on and keep looking at, so not that user friendly. Then you have to use the Bytes to figure out how many kilobytes, megabytes, and gigabytes that you use. 1024 Byes = 1kb, 1024 kb = 1 mb, 1024 mb = 1 GB.

            Now off to swim for a while, its all got too much!

when a bitch is in pup and the bitch is a much loved pet you become the birthing partner



Tink likes to be by my feet while I work



So how is Tink doing? Oh she is fine it’s me that you need to worry about. There is a lot more to this birthing partner business than you would think.

There are some breeders that have to have full control, with scans and thermometers to predict how many puppies and as the body temperature drops this lets you know birth is going to take place fairly soon. Talking to the vet and reading a fair amount on the internet with everyone’s views duly considered I took the approach that my vet advised me, to have less intervention and closer bonding.

            Tink would not make a fuss at having a cold implement shoved where the sun don’t shine but I know she would sit down a lot while I tried to take her temperature and look round with the expression of ‘Honestly, you really going to do that again, what is your problem’. But I must admit that knowing how many puppies would be an advantage. But from my personal experience scans can only be a guide (I was carrying twins and they could not see the second twin, how on earth can they tell if there are five or six pups?). So the stress for us to have these procedures out weighs the possible gains.

            So, even more than ever I’m tuning into Tink's energy. It really is like the old fashioned radio, you know like the ones with the dials that you keep going back and forth feeling the vibrations until you know you have it right. I’m always on the look out for a change in her frequency.

            Well it came to last Tuesday night (8^th March 2011) just under seven weeks gestation and I noticed that Tink's posture had changed, not uncomfortable but more unwell. I looked at her gums and they looked paler, skin of a salmon, normally they would be a pink candy floss colour. Well I went straight to my laptop and googled, there were three possibilities. Low blood pressure (would go with pregnancy and due to give birth, though this was a little early) the reflux in her gums was good though (when pushed down they soon went back to original colour) so I ruled that out. Preeclampsia, due to too much calcium given in the diet, I was told by the vet to give her puppy food and cottage cheese, well there were a lot of scare stories on google etc. about how wrong this is. I took the view that dogs are as individual as people are and for some they may need this and some it may cause problems. It didn’t feel that this was the right explanation though. The third possibility was dehydration, this seemed more likely, so there I am on the floor at nine at night feeding a reluctant Tink ice cubes. Once she had taken the first one there was no stopping her and I knew I was on the right track.

            The Next day I bumped into the Owner of www.happydogdays.co.uk which I do quite often when out walking and asked her advice. She immediately put my mind at ease and gave me some advice on how to get Tink interested in food again. So I rushed home and made rice with broccoli to keep the iron in her diet but not the calcium. Not any old rice, oh no, not for my Tink ;-) but wild rice to give texture and aid digestion none the less. I gave a little home cooked chicken (so no added salt will be given) and pushed it into the rest of the food as Tink is partial to my lemon and garlic chicken. Kev was looking forward to his chicken sandwich which always follows a roast and was bitterly disappointed, he’ll get over it, eventually.

She warms my feet

             Well six very small meals later with ice each time and the colour has come back a little and Tink has a little of her old spring back; was going to say spring in her step but she can’t manage that due to being too big. Now everyone, animal or human is treated this way when they come into my care and for those of you that have kept up with my blog and know me as a writer or personally, will be waiting for the fluffy fairy bit as my flight of fancy takes off. So here it is.

             

            Well talking to two friends the other day who were asking how Tink was getting on, I thought I would have a little bit of a laugh, recounting some of the things I find myself doing from time to time for the welfare of my little fluffy pooch. There is nothing better than seeing friends laugh. I then recounted happenings of last year that I keep threatening Kev with, a dog’s buggy! Let me explain.

            We were walking along Felixstowe prom one summer last year when Kev did a double take and exclaimed some people take things too far. Looking around to see what caused this reaction. I saw a Pug sitting proudly in a blue dog’s buggy, with its owners like proud parents pushing it along. Taking in the full scene, I noted the couple were elderly and had three other small breed dogs trotting along with them. On closer inspection I saw the Pug was old but obviously getting a great deal of pleasure from sniffing the air and being out and about. I said nothing and just smiled.

            A little later we sat eating our ice creams when I told him I could see no wrong in having a buggy for a dog. His expression was priceless as a mixture of, you need a reality check and where oh where did that come from, burst from his face as he chocked on his ice-cream. Just when you think you know someone his eyes told me they go and say something outrageous.

            Look I said as the elderly couple went slowly past. The poor old pug would never be able to keep up with the others I explained, what choice do they have? Leave the old one home alone? Or put it in a buggy and just as I said this they took the Pug out and let it have a little wonder. It was everything a Tilly moment should be and will keep it as a little treasure to get out when we are old.

            ‘Well’ I said to my friends but they already knew what was coming.

‘Your not’ said Judith, Sue was looking at me giggling.

‘Well’ I said ‘it would make sense, wouldn’t like to leave the pups behind and Tink needs her walks.’ At this point I was joking but now I come to think of it until the pups are 12 weeks, they should not be put on the floor for the fear of them picking up Parvovirus disease before they can be vaccinated, but need good socialising. The children at Angus’s school would love to see her pups and Tink loves to see the children, so perhaps I should give this some thought and invest in a dog’s buggy, what do you think?



She is sooo worth it x



Contemplating marriage and bring up children do I have a right to be grumpy?

Contemplating marriage and bring up children after being told I was just full of frills on my puffed up fairy life and that I had no understanding of reality (I took this as a compliment I have to say) I watched the Richard Dimbleby Lectures given by Michael Morpugo (my hero of gentle thought) and was inspired. His ‘The Butterfly Lion’ gave me faith in how I look at things and as soon as I can I’m going to buy ‘The Kites are Flying’ that he based his lecture around. His books are written for children but defiantly have adults in mind.

I woke up grumpy one morning this week and by hook or by crook I want to stay grumpy. I deserved at least that, don’t I? I have a right to be how I feel, don’t I??  I feel surly and cantankerous, wizened and old and life-just don’t ever play fair!! My children are always saying this when they can’t get what they want and what is good for them is also good enough for me, so there!!! All I want is five minutes peace.

But my fairy just won’t let me be she fly’s around my thoughts and always lands at some point as a smile upon my face. You might say this is a good thing, that being grumpy is a bad thing to be but sometimes you need to vent and people definitely need to know you also have limits but The Fairy just don’t see it that way. My fairy is a beautiful flight of fancy with frills and a puffed up attitude to life, you just have to read some of my poems and stories to see that. She sees life in such a fanciful way with no basis in reality or that’s what I was told the other day. Is this true? Or is there a large dose of reality in her fluff and frills? So what was making me grumpy and why on earth did I want to stay in that state? Do you know, I can’t remember, so lost was I in another flight of fancy of Michael Morpurgo.

There are people right now starving, hiding from danger watching as others suffer so the rich can thrive. There will be many; who will be given bad news about a disease, that fighting will not cure. Some will be harmed through another’s hand. All these things have touched me and may others, indirectly or directly. For all of you out there that face these issues I pay homage to your tenacity to smile and your ability to hope.

I have no right to be grumpy, do I?

Able Mable and Anthony Dick

He knew all of her and she wanted to know and not just remember all of him, as she traced the falling crumbs down his bronzed and toned chest - right the way to his belt buckle and the promise beneath it. She noticed in the folds of his crouch that a little of the sandwich she had made had come to rest, sending her body into a downward spiral of pure desire and lust.

‘Mable’ came her grannies voice from the kitchen, ‘You remember Anthony Dick, don’t you; he was in your year I think.’

Mable put the Mills and Boon book down on her Grannies reading table.

            ‘Another Dick? Ye, sure. The only kid with a name worse than mine. Wow she thought. That was a name from the past. The memories came flooding back. ‘Gran you really ought to get out more’. She looked up from the book and was horrified.

            ‘Hi Able Mable’ Anthony Dick chuckled ‘good to see ya again. He came across the living room and shook her hand. Gone was the spotty teenager that she remembered and there stood a truly ‘fit’ (in every sense of the word) man.

She blinked hard a couple of times. The twinkle in her Gran’s eyes sparkled in the way that normally Mable would have smiled at but at this moment in time it only made her embarrassed and irritated.

            ‘I asked him round to give me a quote for a new house’ the amusement in her voice made Mable throw her a ‘now behave Gran’ sort of expression. She caught the delighted glee in Anthony’s face. He had always had a sense of fun.

            ‘What new house?’

            ‘On the land by the village pond’

Anthony filled her in ‘the one we used to hide in when we were kids being chased by Jimmy’

            Out of her memory banks lurked a picture. ‘The one with the beautiful barn?’ Gran nodded

            ‘Didn’t know you owned that Gran’ Mable still looked at Anthony transfixed by the transformation he had gone through. His gaze was as fixed and steady on her.        ‘Been waiting for the right time and person, to make the best of it; location and barn being what they are. Now you have had a couple of years to get to grips with architecture and Antony has had his own building business for eight years or so and knows what he’s doing. Well I thought, you would both do a good job together.’

            Mable was taken a back, she never realised her Gran had such big plans, though she had constantly encouraged her to become an architect, just like her Granddad had been. Now it seems, she was going to make full use of what she had nurtured.

            ‘Does mum know about this?’ She asked her Gran.

            ‘Not on your Nelly, she would have spent the money and put me in a home. So you have to keep it hush hush and no telling ya dad either, he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut.

            Here’s a sketch of how me and ya Granddad envisaged it. Anthony knows the land and the housing market around here. I wanted to be your first client that you have.’

            ‘You certainly will be; haven’t even moved into the office yet!’ Mable loved her Gran she was everything she wanted to be. Sharp, witty and kind but didn’t suffer fools or overbearing and spiteful pompous prigs (which is what she called her mother). A no nonsense woman that loved life and the people around her with one exception, Mable’s mum.

            Mable was given the ugliest name by her mother because she was the ugliest baby, she had been told. There was no denying she was the scrawniest, thick black haired baby with piecing ugly blue eyes you could ever imagine. But in spite of her mothers best efforts she turned into a good looking girl; a little late perhaps but as Gran had told her some of the best things in life are worth waiting for. Now in her twenties about to embark on her thirties she was elegantly tall and womanly, with a joyful disposition which was a miracle her Gran would say.

            ‘Well off you go then, have fun. Don’t forget these and take good care of her Tony my boy, she drinks heavily when she’s thinking’.

            ‘Gran’ Mable protested. But Gran pushed the young ones out of the house with genial contentment and they took their leave.

            Mable could see her Gran peaking at them through the curtains and turned and stuck out her tongue and smiled, as she always had done. It was good to be back in the village, now she could see her more often. She breathed deeply the crisp spring air and the new grass and buds. She turned to Anthony and asked

            ‘Do you prefer to be called Tony or Anthony?

            ‘He shrugged which ever you’re comfortable with. What about you, you happy with Mable?’

            ‘I go as May at work and to my friends’

            ‘So May it is. I’ll take you in my truck. Save you drinking and driving’

            ‘Why? Where we going?’

            ‘Your Gran gave me orders to take you out, wine and dine you, while I talk you through her plans.’

            ‘No need, we could go back to my office.’

            ‘Trying to get me killed? Or just wanting her to have my guts for garters?’

            ‘You know her that well? Lord we had better do as we’re told. Wouldn’t want a death by Gran; after you managed to escape from Jimmy’s efforts to kill you. Talking of the devil what does he do now?’

            ‘He works for me.’

            ‘You’re kidding me.’

            As they got in his impressive truck with his logo on the side, May tried to get her head around what she had just been told. Jimmy was the village bully that had relentlessly hounded Mable and Anthony. Some how, she would have to meet Jimmy again just to see how the dynamics of these two had turned out. She will have to grill Tony and get the lowdown.

            ‘So which pub are we off to?’

            ‘Your Gran booked it up. Never been there before, ‘Cat ‘n’ Mouse’ I think she said it was.’

            ‘Oh!’

            ‘Is it that bad?’

            ‘Oh you’ll have a good time. The food is great and the surroundings (not that you will notice) are beautifully understated and the atmosphere relaxed and warm.’

            ‘So why the “Oh”?’

            ‘Gran, I think is trying to write a ‘Mills and Boon’ romantic noval with us as the main characters’.

Tony looked across at May. Confused, he took in her words again by repeating them to himself. He mulled them over and then the meaning hit him. His smile was board while his eyes glistened like they always did when they were young.

            ‘I love your Gran’

May rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘As I remember it Tony, writing was not your strong point and romance was a definite no, no.’

            ‘Oh but I’ve grown up since then, I still can’t write but I can do romantic’

            ‘What ‘Mills and Boon’ romantic?’

            ‘You want ‘Mills and Boon’ I will give ya ‘Mills and Boon.’

            ‘From what I just read, could we just go with romantic?’ His laugh had not changed, it filled her with a fun bubble that had kept her sane through all the ugly years and still had the same effect. Yep! She thought, it was great to be back where she belonged.

             

Patience they say is a virtue?

After a couple of weeks of little frustrations, such as washing machine, tumble dryer and dishwasher deciding they had had enough and quit working (I couldn’t blame them). I replaced them only to find the replacements had issues going on and we had to wait for their replacements. Then the car decided to have moments likened to a toddler having a tantrum, deciding it was going no further at the most inconvenient time! I know no time is convenient but when I had three places to be at the same time, making the calls while a line of traffic built up, with a tractor driver offering to push the car to one side for me while the children where shouting questions of importance, can make you a little overwrought and jaded around the edges. They just needed to give me time but they all seemed unwilling. Finally the car calmed down and started and the tight country lane was in full flow again.

Imagine then, how happy I was on that Friday evening to finally open a bottle of wine, escape upstairs and enter my in-a-sanctum of my beautiful new en-suit. Scented candles gave a pleasant and relaxing ambiance of a tropical beach. So realistic was the mood that I was sure even before switching on the shower that I could feel the water lapping at my toes. Alas it was not my imagination, there really was water lapping at my toes. My in-a-sanctum is no more. Life can be full of events that test your patience to the limit!

In the two years since this happened despite many men coming to look and scratch their chins and two new doors replacing the old Leakey one. I still have no flooring down, due to the leak that still persists through the seam in the door. I had said right from the start that I thought it was a design fault. Three men looked around at me, the shower man; the plumber and my poor husband, they indulged my theory only two years later did they believe it!

Patience they say is a virtue that will be rewarded, what I would like to know is when!

Tink an up-date.

I’m no expert and I don’t want to go rummaging around to find out but if being off her food, not wanting to walk too far and her pacing me to the sofa at every given opportunity so that she can get herself comfortable on me is anything to go by, then yes, I think she is in pup!!

When I make a coffee at lunch time she wines at the living room door and when I open it so that she can go in, she stands at the door and looks deep within me and waits for me to understand. She considers it my duty to come and spend some time with her; after all it’s my fault she is in this predicament! I feel this vibe very strongly! Not normally stopping for lunch, it took me a couple of days to get the message but with her perseverance I have gained the enlightenment and I must say it has been a wonderful and therapeutic time for me.

I knew it was my duty to make sure that I have good homes for the pups, that I take every precaution to breed a healthy brood and I have. Meticulously going through every piece of advice ensuring that I understand it and when I’m given conflicting advice that I, think it through and do the best I can. What I had not anticipated was this strong feeling of empathy.

I hated being pregnant, it neither felt natural or comfortable and the sickness was not just in the mornings but 24/7. Tink is not just off her food but not eating at all!!!! I understand her reluctance to eat, I remember it well. I had this desperate craving for chocolate mouse, knowing it was going to resurface was none to pleasant either but the need to eat them was so strong I could not deny it. A few moments of pleasure for an hour or two of hell never seemed worth it but there, such is life. I have found a few ingenious ways to get her to eat a little and am hoping that soon her need to feed her growing pups, will take over and that her sickness will soon subside.

Then there is her effort to get up and bearing in mind the pups aren’t even showing yet and things are going to get worse is playing on my mind. I remember feeling my body had been taking over by an alien when I was first pregnant and the looks she gives me with those deep toffee eyes, I can see she feels the same, though much stronger as she has five/six little aliens growing inside her.

Taking time out of my day to fulfil her needs, looking at her changing ways and body, does give me a sense of wonder. Just by eye contact, looking at her demeanour, feeling the energy that pass between us and observing, it is surprising how much you can understand and communicate without words. This for me is the reason I love dogs so much, not the unconditional love they can give me but the way they make me look at life.

I feel this understanding would work with teenagers and toddlers alike. If we stopped looking at them as pre-programmable adults and just took time to breath deeply, observe and feel the energy that passes through us and them, perhaps our communication skills would be greatly improved along with our lives. It’s just a pity it doesn’t work with husbands, I have tried. Oh I can understand him and his needs but there is only one look he understands/takes notice of . I only have two types of energy apparently; angry or happy and nothing in-between gets noticed. Our communication is fine he would say, I understand him, what more do I want?

Someone to visit me in my goldfish bowl for a change?

The Battle of the Coat Hangers and Odd Socks

The fight between Clothes Hangers and Odd Socks Broke out this Morning

Yet Another Flight of Fancy

 by Tilly Moments for you to smile at J

The battle of the coat hangers, still persist in our house. I have come up with several cunning plans to draw up a cease-fire but the children, clothes hangers and odd socks always carry on the assault. Angus has now taken his big brothers habit of shoving socks down, behind and sometimes into cushions, behind chairs and in DVD cases…. mine is not to reason why, just do or die trying to pair up socks.

            For anyone who lives with more than one person in their house this is a constant battle – odd socks and coat hangers. In the time in which it takes me to wash, dry and sometimes iron the clothes I have to put the empty clothes hangers somewhere! But no matter how organised I try to be or which place I put them in, they escape or are released.

            Angus plays with them and they can become anything from Captain Hooks hook to a big bazooka that gives him full control over all he surveys, apart from me much to his bitter disappointment. He can be very inventive – after watching “Spy Kids” he set a trap for his sister. I fell over it in spectacular fashion that he would’ve been very proud of, but he was at school at the time. Health and safety in the home would say I should have a serious talk with him, but it was so inventive and impressive I hate to quash his talent. At least I found the missing cotton I got out to do a running mend, now the cotton reel is empty!

            The older ones create a pile in different places, which changes day to day hence the disarray. I try to gather them up the best I can, near the ironing board and laundry basket preferably, and often find an odd sock or two hanging desperately to the hook.

            Ella with her ordered thinking decided we had too many clothes hangers and odd socks so she started to throwing them out. When I pointed out that was due to the pile of washing (which nearly reaches the ceiling) not being beaten into submission yet, so were eventually going to need the hangers and the odd socks will eventually meet their partners! She was free to sort the pile out, then there would be no clothes hangers to annoy her. With this she turned on her disgruntled heal and stormed off. I stared after her, as most of the clothes were hers!

            Going on strike or working to rule is hard work! But short of constantly shouting and being in an agitated state to get my family helping with the daily chores, I find I have no option. My theory is – that the more you do the less they appreciate what it takes and think less of you too. I’m working to rule with some things and on strike with other motherly duties, which doesn’t bode well for the washing pile.

            When they needed their sports kit or their favourite thing to wear, they attack the pile with the ferocity of a mole, and wear it crumpled “see look it’s fine, what is all the fuss about” bemused I look on and do you know I’m really not sure why it does matter. Somehow it’s the way I show my love, care and an outward respect of self. Nothing smells more homely than the smell of freshly ironed washing and nothing looks more cared for than crease free clothes, giving a confidence to the wearer.

            As I set the ironing board up, I ponder on what must happen when I turn my back. I know I left a nice neat pile of hangers there, and the odd socks all place together waiting patiently for their partners to find them. However when I came back  the odd socks and the coat hangers are intermingled as though a full-blown battle had ensued and the debris a strewn all over my bedroom, maybe a fairy battle? Now that would be grand. I smile to myself, perhaps there is a story there, and start to write in my head as I iron.

            The children think fairies do the washing anyhow, after all no human in their right mind puts any effort into such a mundane silliness as ironing clothes, and pairing socks? You open a draw and there are the clothes all ready for you – right? Well children and men think this. Lets face it women have to oversee the chores because men are just incapable and certainly not made for the job of nurturing or teaching, a luxury of not shouting to get things done is all theirs.

            A loud booming voice broke off my sexist thoughts and made me jump, as I didn’t recognise it. There it went again; it came from a fluffy chin that had the hint of manhood about it. As I marvelled at this sprouting wishful beard, that had so many differing colour in it that deep call came again. Low and behold it was connected to that colourful chin. I realised it was my son’s chin and his voice. How did that happen? That ever-deepening boom had replaced the teenage trill of yesterday, and I marvelled at nature. Apparently he was looking for his favourite socks but any pair would do he said. ‘I’m on strike, I’m not doing demand service today’ I reminded him, still transfixed by the multi coloured beginnings of a goatee. He, disgruntled turned on his heal and left leaving the battlefield for me.

            When I get back from taking the children to school, I put in the second load of washing for the day, pick up the scattered hangers and unruly odd socks and being to think of my flight of fancy and her idea of writing. In-between loading, unloading folding sorting the washing I write my four novels, blog and short stories. I finish just in time to prepare the evening meal, and ready to pick up the children who will come home famished and needing to be fed. I stand there taking a breather and wonder why I never get anything finished.

            We all clamber out of the car and then the race is on, can I cook the meal before they empty the contents of the cupboards? To stave of the assault of carefully planed fare I had lined up for the week, I ask them all to go and get the washing in. Irritated teenagers followed by a buoyant and mischievous seven year old, I sigh at the struggle. All sorts of hollers and yells come from the garden, which I close my eyes and ears to, though I do notice my youngest son’s foot flying in the air around my whirly gig washing line. I try not to focus on how they are folding the washing and how many extra creases have been put into the clothes, which will take me twice as long to iron.

            My daughter comes in and disappears, I sigh, but soon she reappears and helps me in the kitchen. My little one gets the drinks and by the time the meal is on the plates, my husband is home and putting the them on the table. It’s like the Walton’s on the old TV show, happy, helpful and very respectful and I’m truly humbled and take it all in, case it never happens again.

            As I run the youngest bath, I try to put the clothes away and iron them while he plays contented, and this evening I brace myself for the fight. There on my bed are neat piles of carefully folded clothes that need very little ironing and inwardly I bloom. Axl at least has appreciated the struggle to have an ordered home. The clothes hangers neatly placed in their specially designed box and paired socks all in a neat row – my daughters ordered mind has wrestled them into submission. I feel valued and appreciation spring to my eyes in water droplets of joy. I know the same struggle will continue tomorrow children, clothes hangers and socks being what they are. Perhaps they are just tiny steps in my shoes but at least they took some time to walk with me in them.

A clothes hook was patented in 1869 by O.A. North of New Britain, Connecticut but it was Albert J Parkhouse in 1903, after co workers complained of not having enough coat hooks who bent a piece of wire into the shape we recognise today. This is the fact that I find so amusing though, he worked for Timberlake wire and Novelty Company, does this mean the humble clothes hanger is a novelty?

            Ever since the struggle with this particular not so novel novelty, has and forever will rage and enrage. In conclusion then, men’s inventions may solve a problem but inevitably create a different difficulty – mostly it has to be said for women.

So How is the Strike Going? You Might Well Ask!

Problem is I keep forgetting I’m on strike, well as I’ve said before I’m the facilitator! (say ‘the facilitator’ in your best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice it works better) It’s a innate thing, part of me and when it’s not taken advantage of, very enjoyable. But and it’s a big but, people never know what they have until it’s taken from them and they miss it - well that’s the theory I’m working on at the moment - so if I stop doing all those little things for them, they are bound to miss them and they will appreciate them and me a little more. RIGHT?

            Going on strike or working to rule should never be taken on lightly though! Not only is it extremely difficult for mothers to undertake and let’s face it, if I did go on strike, truly, truly on strike the only person that would notice would be me, also it can be depressing as the house spirals out of control.

            When I look around the house in the mornings and see the devastation that family life produces I do wonder how it all happens. The washing basket at last is empty and I rush to go and get a cloth to wipe the bottom and when I get back it’s full again. How does that happen? That fairy is to blame I’m convinced.

            Francis Xavier; it is told, came up with the quote ‘give me a child before seven and I will give you a man’ or something along those lines. I would like to have a few moments to put him right about this one. A man who lived on his own and had never been involved with the workings of a child’s mind and tantrums can theorise all he wants and we would all love to be able to believe in this simplistic view. I know for a fact he's wrong, otherwise I would’ve stopped telling my children to say please and thank you by now; something I've been doing before they could talk so by now, according to his teaching, this should be part of them. I find that they have minds and a debating ability all of their very own and even though it matters how I bring them up this is not by anymeans the only influence that has a profound effect on them, infact surprise surprise they are indervidual people not robots you can pre-program Saint Francis Xavier!! More's the pitty.

            Then there is the Angel-Devil effect. You know when your child is so angelic and you are so full of pride they then throw a mega wobbly out of the blue (reason un-known to them or you) and just as you get your head around this and put strategies to help get through it all, they change back to that Angelic creature of two seconds ago.

            So after the struggle with unruly belongings, washing and children do you really have the energy to say ‘No I can’t do that, I’m on strike remember!! By the time all that has happened I think your doing well to remember who you are.

Just Why Did I Want to be a Mum?

Just why did I want to be a mum?
I can’t quite recall.
Was it the love of sleepless-nights?
No time to one’s self at all,
With a head full of voices
That are not your own.
I thought of the times
Of stories and teddies,
Making tents,
Snuggling up after bath times.
With long walks
While having long convoluted talks.

I dismissed from my mind
The hazard of learning
Repetitive questions
Investigations of what really happened
Or bodily pooing functions
With wee’s and farts
Demonstrations given of their manufactured burps
At the local supermarket,
On pension day!

I thought of marshmallow cheeks
To kiss softly to sleep
Sweet slumber with loving sighs
I didn’t know anything of the nightmare cries
I’m a filing cabinet, that’s all!
A computer, a machine
From the moment I open my eyes it starts
Where did my wallet go?
Open file
Put in information for quarry
Last seen in husband's hand
Who was proceeding towards
The shower-room
Quarry shows possibilities
Left in pocket of trousers on the shower room floor,
In washing basket
Or on top of the loo,
"See!" He shouts
"I told you , you moved it!"

First child down the stairs
"Is it a school day mum?"
"No, but we have to be out by ten"
"Oh no! I hate being out
On Saturdays!"
Second child down the stairs
"How many elephants can you
Get on a pin head?"
"Fifteen I think the man said.
Now remember to write the
Card for the party,
It’s at two thirty"."What are you going to wear?"
"Out, out, let’s go.
See ya love."
"When will you be back, do you know?"
"Why?"
"I need a bit of a hand"
I look straight at him
With an open glare
Perhaps I misheard
For the list of jobs I have to do
Is rather absurd

I can see by his expression I didn’t mishear
But the look I gave was enough
To strike fear
And he'll not ask again.

Alone at last
House all quiet
Even the dog had gone.
A solitary bath
Luxury

Piping hot water
Fragrant and relaxing aromas
That turns the water blue
The bubbles sparkle and shimmer
And hold rainbow colours that dance.
Slipping into the bubbles
That cling like magical oysters
To my relaxing body
Holding a glass of wine to sip
I regain my inner being
My soul comes to life
And for this moment
I become truly me

For ages I dreamily float
On a cloud of bubbled soap
And soak away the trauma
Of trying so hard to be what
Does not come naturally
A good mother.

Many lessons I have to learn
That will last my whole life long
As my Gran once said
"Your father though retired
Is a worry to me
Is he happy?
Is he fed?

A long time a mother, no turning back,
For even when they're not with you
Your heart is not your own".

I’m dry now
House still quiet
Sexy undies
To keep hold of the woman
That is part of me.

Time to pick them up,
Will he remember where they are?
Should I ring?

I miss their loud antics
The dust they make
Sounds of laughter
And in my mind’s eye
I see their smiles
The way they talk,
Hear their questions
The looks they give each other
And the ones they keep
Just for me.

I begin to understand a little
Of what my Gran once said
They will never be
Out of my heart or my head.

My innate sense of time
Rings aloud an alarm
Time they were here at home
Safe, with me!
Phone in my hand
I punch the numbers,
As methodically I go through
All the sensible and horrific Scenarios.

The door bursts open
And life breathes in
The quiet house gone again
As a home kick starts into action
Flowers thrust into my arms
Closely followed by a take-away.
Smiles and love fills
Every space of the quiet house
Making it our home

As my family sit contented
Watching the latest DVD,
Inwardly I bloom.

It’s not quite what I expected
Being a mum.
But sitting on the family sofa
Is a little like
Flying to the moon
In a beautiful sky blue
Jewel incrusted boat.
You just have to learn,
How to
Let it
All
Float!

The Erupting washing Machine

Alana enjoyed cleaning at Bruce’s house just a pity there was not enough to do. It was like a fantasy a designer life style at it’s best. He had split up from his wife about a year ago and employed her to clean and run errands. It was Friday and as Steve was having the kids this weekend she had asked Bruce if he wanted her to cook a meal and leave it for when he came home.

            The thought of cooking something with true taste excited her, cooking for children was plain and simple with predictability that sat heavy on her and there was no point cooking just for one. Now she could prep a good meal that she could leave him to enjoy, take hers home and enjoy it while having a quiet night with the telly and face book as company, bliss. They could both benefit from it, giving her something to clean up afterwards which intern made her feel better about taking his money.

            When she opened the door to his house though, there was something in the atmosphere that made it feel all wrong, a stress! Lord above, she thought was there a burglar in the house! What should she do, turn and run? Nar not her style, she got her pepper spray out.

            His orderly intelligence reeked through the shelves as she past them and the kitchen as clean as a new pin but the noise was getting louder and without thought she opened the door to the utility. She looked around not seeing it at first but there running from washing machine to sink was Bruce. Bruce, thought Alana, was a strong and practical name, saddly though not a bit like its owner. She walked over to the huge top loading beast (brought no doubt because it was the best and not for the purpose it was needed for; washing a few smalls on the odd occasion). She looked over to the fraught man. ‘Thank god Alana could you ring a good plumber for me?

 ‘Why?’

‘Have a problem with the washing machine. It keeps filling up and overflowing and I can’t stop it’ he said as he emptied yet another jug full of soapy water down the sink and rushed back to fill it again.

            Alana went over to the cupboard next to the beast and switched of the electric off, stopping the soap monster in its tracks. His fretful face turned into dismay at the simplistic solution to his predicament. She tried her best to stop the laugh from erupting and humming fantasia.

            In utter disbelief his stunned voice asked ‘Why didn’t I think of that! How simple, just why did I not think of that’

            Alana retrieved the mop and bucket from its hiding place and began to mop the spilled contents of the jug up. At least it gave her something to clean.

            ‘Quantum physics I can get my head around, switching off an over filling washing machine, far more difficult! Coffee?'

Mr Spring and the Jelly debate.

Mr Spring was a gamekeeper that I lived next to when I was growing up and I have written a few times about him in my blog (My Humble tribute and Twenty Men). He was tall, muscular and intimidating; as his blue eyes challenged you with a tinge of mockery.  When I grew to an age where the intimidation stopped being so threatening and became part of the fun of talking to him, we started debating issues that we both thought were fun.

Mr Spring’s wife had always kept a dog in the house but they always went to his shoots. Mr Spring thought that living in the house ruined the dog, made them soft and harder to work with. Amber was a boarder terrier of renown and as we sat there I felt rather indignant at this widely held belief throughout the shooting fraternity and thought he and they were wrong. We both agreed to blame it on the difference of the sexes.

Mr Springs very male approach to the matter was that if you gave too much of anything the clear rules and lines of acceptance are blurred any blurring makes the dog unable to focus on the job in the field. He said this as he was feeding Amber a jelly!

It now makes me smile at my arrogance, after all, I was living in London and had never fully trained a dog or wholly been responsible for one but I didn’t let this deter me. I gently reminded him that Amber had always been in the house and followed Mrs Spring everywhere and a better foxing dog could not be found. I could see in his eyes the dawning of this revelation. My thoughts were, that this was because a woman can give boundaries while in a home environment, men find this hard and I also thought that women can manage their feelings better. Its not the dogs fault the male handler finds it hard to love and discipline at the same time and I bet that the reason; on the whole, why after their dogs death a family find it hard to have another take its place, is because the men of the family can’t cope with the loss. Women are more able to grieve than men and so we are perceived weaker, when in reality we can grieve and move on better than our male counterparts. Anyhow I finished off, it may because you feed Amber too much jelly and she can’t move so well. He winked at me, as he fed her his biscuit of his plate.

In counter argument he announced with an even bigger twinkle in his crystal blue eyes (I brace myself for the battle of the sexes). When coming across a woman protester against blood sports shouting at him, he quietly and respectfully asked her whether she thought she was any better, stopping her in her tracks.

Not privy to the scene I quickly made a mental picture of it in my minds eye. Wooded area of idyllic tranquillity, beaters getting ready with their dogs Mr. Spring cap adorned and camouflage jacket and kaki waffle scarf protecting him from the bitter chill. Middle aged woman, towards retiring age stops car gets out ‘Skirt a swinging’ leaving five dogs in the back of the car barking excitedly while she was telling him how wrong he was.

When she asked him ‘what on earth do you mean by that? How could she in any way be likened to him and his antics’ (And at this point his broad smile could not get any bigger) He recounted to me what he had said. Five dogs in any car were too many but in a small car such as hers was fool hard for their safety and that of any other road user. ‘My dear lady’ I can hear his clear no nonsense voice still. Your dogs have been bread to chase pray. He had explained. The whippet for rabbits, your two Jack Russell’s for rats and such like, your lovely retriever, you are denying its right to retrieve and your two fox terriers for foxing. Apparently she was under the elution that because the terriers were small dogs that they didn’t need as much exercise as big dogs, so only took the small ones out occasionally. She was soon put straight by Mr Spring who went into great detail of why terriers are so revered by the shooting community. Their stamina and tenacity coupled with their daredevil approach to life, they most certainly needed a good five mile walk a day as they were kept at the heel of the farmer or ran and kept up with the horse and hounds. I asked him what she had said in reply, he laughed aloud and said they had spent a happy lunchtime talking about dogs and she viewed them a little differently, the dogs he hastened to add ‘not me you understand’ he winked at me ‘I’m still a barbarian’. We both laughed at that.

As we sat by the side of his fire, warm and cosy with Amber now on my lap I had enjoyed immensely the telling of the story and I asked him if he also told her that they can make good fireside companions. On cue Amber went back to her master and liked his face.

This poem is to all of us who have loved our pets.

The day I Lost my Shadow

I lost my shadow to-day

I noticed when I hung out the washing

A void that will not be filled

A presence so soft

A nudge so gentle

I noticed again when I walked

As I have walked

A million or more times before

A flicker of my shadow

I thought I saw

But my shadow

Bless her, is no more

My constant companion

Our linked and entwined soles

Shared space

Moments of peace

Solace in madness

She calmed my day

A wet cold nose

Meant time to sit and cose

At night when our home is quiet

Meant my shadow was waiting

A coffee for me

A bone for her

She would watch the kettle with interest

And concern if I walked away

A whimper ment she had waited too long

My shadow would pace me

To the sofa

Our rightful place

Though the void seems endless

The day my shadow

Laid down and to me was lost

I knew

I had truly been

Blessed

X