Sunday, 9 December 2018

I'm back - briefly

Hi all.

    Apologies for my absence but I've discovered just how difficult it is to work days, and nights at the same time.
    Not literally at the same time, but working days and nights, all in the same week is doing strange things to what others laughingly refer to as my brain. The problem is that it (my brain that is) just doesn't know what time it is anymore. I know what time it is, but on the days I'm working days, I go to bed and sleep isn't there. Come or so, just as I'm supposed to be getting up, I begin to feel tired and spend the rest of the day like a zombie. 

    When I work nights, and get home by about it's easy to have a leisurely breakfast and then got to bed for six hours of solid sleep before waking about three o'clock in the afternoon feeling strangely guilty about being in bed.

    Hopefully it will pass. I am getting old after all, according to she-who-must be-feared. But then she'd know, being older than me. (Sorry darling that just slipped out.)

    Here's (part of) the cover for a new novel I've been thinking of. As usual I paint the cover first to give me an inkling of what's to follow. It's my way of saving myself typing a hundred pages of of notes - most of which will be trashed when I actually begin writing.

    Yes, there is a bit of cloning there, but I'll repaint in my own style - if I keep it. But the face is purely my own creation and I'm quite proud of it. The hue of the eyes are essential to the plot.

Wednesday, 21 November 2018

My Baby's had a baby

My daughter is almost twenty five but she'll always be a baby to me.

    Here she is, Harper.

That's not me but the proud father.

    Typically of my family not everything went quite according to plan. The problem is my almost complete immunity to drugs of any kind. Sadly my daughter has caught the plague, which was why they didn't know the epidural hadn't worked until the knife broke the surface.

    Seconds later, partner thrown out, daughter under general, and here she is. All's well. Now, apart from being delighted, all I have to do is come to terms with being a grandad. I feel ancient already.

Sunday, 18 November 2018

Ellie's shrinking

Ellie and her new partner have moved to a new stable where they seem to be very happy. Mutant Shetland number two (Ela) is almost four feet tall and towers over Ellie. You'd think my daughter could come up with something a little different but as she's only one day short of giving birth to her first baby, she's probably got other things on her mind. The two nags seem to like each other and yesterday, in a display of equine solidarity, and in keeping with all the other brainlessness displayed about the yard, she tried to eat a bag of galvanised nails I was using to repair the fence. This was in a futile attempt to keep out the other two new occupants of the stables, who both seem to like eating hay as well.

    Living with them are two (is there a more expressive adjective than enormous?) rottweilers with a combined IQ in the low single digits. Both are enormouser than Ellie and could easily eat her if they chose. Providing, of course, they could either get to their feet without falling over or walking more than five feet without slamming straight into the nearest door. I'l try to get a shot of them next time if I can wake them up; and of Ela if I can get her out of the hawthorn bush in which she has decided to spend most of her days.

Wednesday, 31 October 2018

It's as cold as the arctic and the flowers have just bloomed

As always my front garden has its own micro climate. It's cold enough to freeze - well you can guess the rest, and yet this is the front of my house.


    As gardens go I know it's pretty pathetic but at least while the rest of the street looks like a wasteland, my front patch is brimming with colour.

   This is what it will look like by next week. Just when my new job is supposed to begin, and necessitating the use of my motorbikes to go to work. I shouldn't complain, after nearly three months of idleness because my arm decided to stop working, the bank balance has shrunk more than a little. If I don't begin earning a wage soon, those pretty front flowers will  make a nice stew.

Tuesday, 16 October 2018

Finally got my arm back...

Sort of.

    Due to the curious ramblings of the National Health Service, I first went for a CT scan. Nothing. Bugger all in fact after waiting for over an hour gaffer taped to a trolley.
    'Wear and tear," muttered the overworked doctor before shambling away to deal with another of the hundred cases he was working on simultaneously.

  Then I had an Xray.
    'Don't see nothing,' I was told in a version of English I didn't expect from a doctor.

    Then I had some physiotherapy which nearly killed me, and nearly  caused the death of the chief torturer, a pretty young woman with incredible strength belied by her slim arms and murderous glare in those cobalt eye.

    Last Friday I had to lie, motionless, for 6,384 seconds as the MRI screeched in my ears - the headphones had fallen off with my attempts not to writhe in agony as being immobile for so long.

    Tomorrow I'm going for a test to determine which if any of my nerves have been destroyed, but judging by the agony I'm still feeling, every one of the little buggers is alive and well.

    Next week I'm going for some more physiotherapy. I'll be prepared this time; I'm taking a cricket bat with me.

    Yet all that aside, I am feeling better enough to use my arm, even if it was only to salute the bloke who nearly ran me down yesterday while I was dangerously marauding down the pavement - almost ten feet from the road.

    The general consensus is that I've got one or more nerves trapped in my cervical spine (whatever that is). I've been doing some hideously painful exercises demonstrated by the doc and finally the pain is lessening. But if someone else tells me it's because I'm old, I'll demonstrate that I'm not some old codger by throwing them to the ground and doing a war dance on their head.

So to take my mind of it, I've done another painting. It's rubbish but at least some sensation other than agony has returned to my upper torso.

Friday, 14 September 2018

Don't need an excuse at the moment

 I think I've displayed my undying love for my daughter by donating one of my favourite possessions to her moving house fund.

    This won't mean anything to those that don't know or care about guitars, but I gave her my 70's Fender Stratocaster. The American model and not the Japanese. That's important to those who know such things; although not to me, really, since all I could ever get out of it were the aggrieved shrieks of a strangled cat. 

I haven't had to invent an excuse not to write for the past two weeks because my right arm doesn't work.

    I still believe that the National Health Service of Britain is a great thing but waiting three weeks for an orthopedic appointment does seem a little long - especially as I haven't had two hours uninterrupted sleep in all that time. My near total immunity to painkillers of any kind doesn't really help the situation either. The hospital gave me Tramadol, which everyone says would turn me into a zombie. I would have done better to beat myself senseless with the box for all the good they did. What has saved me from almost certain insanity is the hot water bottle which has lived for all that time on my shoulder. Roll on next week. If they don't find out what's wrong, or even better, fix it, I may have to take matters into my own hand.

    Another thing. Using a mouse with my left hand is really difficult - and I'm left handed.

Friday, 24 August 2018

just a way of avoiding writing.

I don't know why I keep painting such terrible dross. Well actually I do. It's to avoid writing.

    That in itself is a mystery. I love writing. It's just that my next book keeps changing in my head. I know, it should keep changing on the MS. I think I'll let it roil around for a few more weeks before I put finger to keyboard (as it were). Maybe by then it will have sorted itself out and I'll be one of those mythical writers who can write the first draft and just send it off secure in the knowledge that it's perfect.

  Fat chance!!

    Notice how I messed up one of the layers I was so recklessly boasting about the other week.