For animal lovers everywhere, a lovely tale to brighten your day, with maybe a little tear!
Of course, I know about the “Rainbow Bridge.” It’s a cute story that is supposed to cheer us up when we lose a furry friend, but until today I didn’t know there was a second part. The second part is for rescued animals and rescuers.
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I’m sure you’ll enjoy the twist in this tale from “Funsie”. Well worth a read.
My nature of job required me to be away for months, and sometimes even years. I met Clare on board my ship. It was love at first sight. Few months later, we were married. However, one month after our marriage, I was called on board to replace Jake, my best friend who called in sick.
Although I was reluctant to part with my newly wedded bride, I had a duty to fulfil. Every passing days felt like years. I missed her so much. The only comfort I had, was to gaze at the stars every night knowing that we were looking at the same sky wherever we were.
After several months on the sea, I was finally back in town. I could not wait to see Clare. My heart was thumping with excitement. My footsteps were as light as feathers. It did not take very long for me to reach…
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You may want to kill Ward Clever after having read this superb piece. That is if you haven’t died laughing!
Warning: Reading this story will cause mental anguish and distress, blindness and rage. Consult a doctor before reading it.
Shelly Holeinfence had just changed her name from something ridiculous. She did this to win the affections of the object of her desire, or one of his friends. It didn’t work, so she moved deep into the Blue Ridge Mountains. Not, like, under them or anything, you moron, but a fair distance from any civilization.
And that’s when she saw the elves.
She saw them out her window one day, dancing in a fire. And a few seconds later, jumping around and howling in pain as the brighter elves danced around the fire while EMTs (elven medical technicians) attended to the burns. She tried to stay hidden from the elves, but they knew she was there, because it was difficult to hide a cabin in the middle of the mountains.
Over…
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https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handfasting_(Neopaganism)
Handfasting was very prevalent in the Hebrides, the Inner, and Outer, islands off the west coast of Scotland.
I had the unique privilege of living on St Kilda, a remote archipelago, some 45 miles West North West of North Uist, for several periods, mostly 6 weeks at a time. Stays sometimes proved to be longer, because access is always determined by the weather! In total, I spent some 8 months of my life there.
St Kilda has a strange hold on all who set foot there, rather akin to desert fever for anyone who has experienced true desert.
I follow a page, https://www.facebook.com/groups/St.KildaHebrides/ , on Facebook, dedicated to St Kilda, and, as part of advice being offered to a would be visitor, came across this poem written by Andrew Lane in 2009.
I do not know Andrew but, from what I’ve seen and read, feel that we would get on very well. He is a musician, so this may well have been written to perform. In any case, I hope that you find the poem at least a little interesting, especially those who may know nothing about the Scots, or their unique language.
Andrew has a lovely “lived in” face, and someone commented that it was obviously the result of someone’s advice:
“Smile a lot when you are young so that when you grow older, your wrinkles will all be in the right place”
THE HAND-FASTING
Oh, lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.
Bring the lassies from the wheel
To spin themselves a proper reel.
Bring the laddies from the loom
To weave a dance beside the groom.
Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.
Bring the stoddart from the braes
And leave the hoggie to its ways.
Bring the fisher from the shore;
This man will be a boy no more.
Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.
Set your creels upon the ling
And bow the fiddles till they sing.
Take the whistle from your poke
And pipe a tune for dancing folk.
Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.
Set the bellyrive aboot,
And spread the meat upon the cloot.
Place the whisky pig beside
And you shall see the hand-fast tied.
Lassie, place your hand on mine, and Alastair will fetch the twine
And bind us at the wrist for aye, for this shall be our wedding day.
Stoddart – a herdsman. Hoggie – a young sheep. Bellyrive – a feast.
Cloot – cloth. Whisky pig – a whisky jar.
©Andrew Lane July 2009
Anyone not in the UK will probably be totally bemused by this article. However, I felt that it is entirely appropriate to re blog this on the day that we are deciding who should form our government for the next 5 years.
This is not a recipe. I wrote this as a series of tweets today and readers asked for it as a blog post, so here it is. Our politics may differ, so feel free to skip straight back to the recipes if that’s what you’re here for.
WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT DIANE ABBOTT.
Right one of us political writer people needs to do this and it looks like it’s me. Grab a seat. I wanna talk about Diane.
Diane was first elected as an MP in 1987, the year before I was born. She has been dedicated to serving the British public for longer than I have even been alive. Hold that thought. Understand it.
Diane was the first black woman to have a seat in the House of Commons. She MADE HISTORY. Her father was welder, her mother a nurse. How many working class kids do we have…
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Read this fantastic story of Scouting of yesteryear told by John. He is now retired, both from stealing from the Tuck Shop, and from his legal duties. He can still sing the old scouting songs though!
It must have been the summer of 1961. Certainly before the Beatles. The music that year was all Dean Martin and the Drifters, or itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini.* And I recall being in love with a girl in the 4th form at Queens’s school in Rheindalen, Carol, and constantly singing a song to her called “Oh Carol”.** And there was Elvis of course. Anyway, I was in the boy scouts then. Moved on I had from the cubs, left behind all that Akela and dib dib, dib, dob, dob, dob stuff. Cubs had sixers in charge. I had been a sixer when a cub. Born to command I was. Now, in that summer of ’61, I had graduated to the scouts and I was quickly made a Patrol leader. Sometimes I even wore long trousers.
They would meet once a week, Wednesday evening…
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For any parent whose children have yet to reach 10 years old you NEED to read this, and commit it to memory for later use.
Each of my children, during their teenage angst years, once told me they hated me. There was a five year age gap between them. It was two separate occasions with years dividing the incidents. So it wasn’t as if I was bombarded. And each time I could see it approaching.
They didn’t mean it.
Though they were pretty vehement in their expression at the time, I knew better.
I knew they felt like they had no control.
I knew they felt like I had all of the control.
And I knew what to do. I was ready. Prepared. I had this one.
I had read a story, long before this point in my life, about a parent who’s child had constantly said “I hate you”. So when it was my turn, I borrowed from that wise parent.
When it happened I reacted with great calm.
When each child in their own…
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A lovely tale here from Jack Fussell. There’s plenty more where this came from. Go have a look!
A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell. He painted a sign advertising the 4 pups, and set about nailing it to a post on the edge of his yard.
As he was driving the last nail into the post, he felt tug on his overalls.
He looked down into the eyes of a little boy.
“Mister,” he said, “I want to buy one of your puppies.”
“Well,” said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat of the back of his neck, “these puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money.”
The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his pocket,
he pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer. “I’ve
got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?”
“Sure,” said the farmer. And with that he let out a whistle. “Here Dolly!” he…
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Another absolute gem from Colleen. Small, quiet, acts can work wonders, and they do! It does not take money, or lots of time, or complicated skills, to make a difference. This story clearly shows that!
No one really knew her.
She was unassuming. Alone. And quiet.
She lived quietly in a small house she moved to after her father died. He died eight years after her mother. She cared for them both while working full time. Her life was all about providing. Providing them comfort and care, providing for herself financially. When they were both gone she sold the house she had lived in with them. And moved to a quiet street, in the small house. An alley ran behind her house, a stream ran on the other side of the alley.
Her interactions with others was limited to work, or shopping or banking. People were pleasant enough to her, even if they thought her a little odd. It’s not that people avoided her, nor did she avoid people. She and they, they just didn’t make an effort to connect. So connections…
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I love to just happen across something that makes me laugh out loud and frighten the cat. This short story is just brilliant, and funny, and clever, and did I mention brilliant? Don’t take my word for it, read it for yourself, and then discover the other delights that nest in babbitman’s blog.
There’s been a lot of talk recently about the dangers of artificial intelligence with luminaries such as Stephen Hawking, Bill Gates and Elon Musk warning that AI could be “more dangerous than nuclear weapons”. Science-fiction has been banging this particular drum for decades: from HAL 9000 to Skynet in the Terminator movies, there are dozens of examples of artificial intelligence going rogue. Which is why it probably comes as a shock to learn that the first truly self-aware artificial construct was an overhead electronic variable message sign on the northbound A46, a few miles outside Nottingham.
It wasn’t particularly planned to happen; there was no over-arching project, no great fanfare. In fact, nobody actually recognised what had really occurred.
Variable Message Sign 4427A was installed on the new A46 dual carriageway just north-east of the Stragglethorpe interchange. It wasn’t particularly special, even though it towered over the road and surrounding…
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Living: All Day Every Day: Then Chattering About It
Navigating the second half of my life
Trying to write books I'd want to read.
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a light hearted look at caravanning through the eyes of a couple of grey nomads.
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You Might Have the Better Claim But I Have the Bigger Army
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