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Browsing previous blog posts I realised that there is a member of our clan I have written little about. Our dog Max is very much a member of the Crofty team and indeed contributed greatly to our week away in the Lake District. It's perhaps relevant to my not mentioning him that, as I write, I wonder whether you will reflect with a wry smile - those of you that know me- that Max is rather like me. I am not so sure - he is Mrs C's dog, without a doubt. She is the one he adores and bends over backwards to please; I, on the other hand, am sometimes useful for walks, food and entertainment when all other options have first been exhausted.
All that said, he is an endearing little chap - a West Highland White Terrier, or Westie, as they are popularly known; but I do rather tire of people pointing out to me how cute he is. I am often stopped in the street by old ladies or primary school age girls to point out this fact. Max grins up at me as they pet and fuss him; the look he gives me tells me that he is laughing up his sleeve as I ponder on the fact that people really can not see the obvious factors in his breeding that belie the truth. It's there in the name: terrier; the same name that when attached to the words 'Staffordshire Bull' strike fear into those same cute loving folk - but the dogs are essentially from the same mould.
This explains why I am always pulling him out of situations that he throws himself into with careless abandon: flying, teeth bared, at much larger dogs for instance. It also explains why he is so stubborn and wilful - dog obedience for Max consists of doing only approximately what is asked, unless it is Mrs C doing the asking of course when he becomes pathetically eager to please. I on the other hand, must repeat my request five times in an increasingly loud voice. Similarly - and I do hope my neighbours read this, Max's breeding might explain some of my odder moments to them - if on setting out for a walk I stride out in the wrong direction, he simply sits down and waits for me to change direction to the one in which he wants to go. I, of course, refuse to be cowed by the dog (if you know what I mean) and will stand there arms folded until he loses patience and comes with me, this also, sometimes, involves a conversation between us. To date, in the eleven years we have had him, I have won on a very small number of times by dragging him after me up the street, claws scraping on the tarmac of the footpath. It isn't worth it - he still wins in the end.
A final breed feature worth mentioning is that, without being unkind, he is not very bright. An example of this was when in a popular outdoor shop in Keswick last week, shoppers turned and stared to see him square up to a much larger dog sat in the store. They were nose-to-nose, motionless waiting for the first move upon which fur would fly. What Max was not alive to was that, as he growled intently, people were laughing at him. Why? Because the dog he was squared up to was simply a life size stuffed toy placed there to encourage donations to the local Mountain Rescue Team. Bless.
Here is a five second video clip of him on my knee, on a boat trip on Lake Derwent. It is only five seconds long because he tried to leap from my knee over the side of the boat to catch drops of water thrown by the bow wave and was most put out when I stopped him.
He is cute though.
I wonder whether people who live in areas of outstanding natural beauty ever get sick of people wandering around with their mouths open, pointing and gasping. I only ask because that's what we spent most of last week doing: gasping with awe at the scale of Lakeland scenery and the wide open spaces of the Solway Firth. It's very difficult to write in any meaningful way that conveys the scale of the stuff that gave Wordsworth, Ruskin and, more recently, Wainwright their words; but striding out around Brothers Water, looking up at the bulk of Skiddaw or gazing across the shimmering reaches of the Firth I can imagine them wrestling with words, tearing up sheet after sheet of paper in exasperation saying
"No that's not it..."
And the wildlife was equally enchanting: we watched a Weasel ferreting (sorry!) around in undergrowth only feet from our feet; watched a Peregrine Falcon soaring across a Lakeland fellside where it was mobbed by Rooks and saw so many Treecreepers, Nutchatches and Woodpeckers that they became commonplace.
In all we had a lovely, lovely week which made it all the harder to come back to work (and earth).
I've added some photographs to a slideshow below that I hope give some idea of what it was like, but before I go I was reminded, on returning to work, of a colleagues comment recently that just about sums it up in typical Northern fashion, and I wonder if it mirrors the view of Lakeland dwellers who must grow tired of people telling them how lucky they are to live surrounded by all that majesty:
"What the Lake District be without the lakes eh?"
Reply: "The District".
Sat in Evuna - a pleasant Spanish Restaurant on Deansgate last night - I was pleased with the fact I'd actually arrived only thirty five minutes late for my colleagues retirement meal. Determined to enjoy what has become a rare night out I pitched myself headlong into the tapas and seafood paella with gusto. Similarly I quaffed the proffered wine with similar enthusiasm equally determined to face down the 'old man' image that seems to hover around me lately. Then in the Grapes I got stuck into fizzy lager beer, hurriedly washed it down in time to catch the nine o'clock train to Oldham.
Street cleaners in the subway from Oldham Mumps station would have cursed at the results of my later gastric incontinence this morning. Yes, I achieved the same results from a night out as either of my two sons do....I've not lost it yet!
I don't quite feel like the drive up to Keswick now though...me and Mrs C are going away for a week. By until next week when I promise to feel better.
A quarter used to be the standard period of time for bill-paying and such pleasures; but with the advent of direct debit, this chronological measurement has fallen into disrepute. Tonight though, as I strolled through Oldham Town Centre I happened to glance into Boots and was surprised to see a pair of legs apparently in mid-air. Closer examination revealed that they belonged to a young - presumably most junior - employee whose job, for the moment, was to stand atop a step ladder attaching something to the ceiling. Guess what it was? It was the first of Boots' Christmas decorations, for tonight - October 9th 2007 - is for Boots, when Christmas begins. This leaves us a quarter of a year until twelfth night in which to celebrate - thank you Boots for rescuing the quarter year.
Since returning to work after my extended absence I've struggled to balance writing with the demands of family and work life. Consequently my passion for music has taken a back seat - until now. The other Sunday our band had its first gig for a while which meant practising (what?... you didn't know about our band... oh, you do know... and yes, I know it's only the music group in church, but it's still rock and roll to me, OK?). Picking up my guitar I couldn't quite believe I'd left it so long; just the act of making music felt so good, it was almost therapy as all other cares drifted away with the fading of each chord and note (gosh, I must be good!).
But music is far more than that; and yesterday I picked up my other instrument, the source of endless hours of fun that can't fail to cheer up the dourest of countenances. I don't know what it is about the ukulele that gives it the power to transform fantastic classics into witty ditties at the strum of a four stringed chord. I love choosing the most unlikely song, as I sit playing with myself alone in the bedroom, and making into a cheesy creation fit to compete with Agadoo or the Birdy Song. Yesterday I took the rock standard Down Down, by Status Quo, added a swing rhythm and converted into something fit only for elevators; it was great. I'm currently working on the chords for Nessun Dorma - I bet Pavarotti has ditched his ethereal harp in favour of a ukulele and is having a whale/wail (you choose) of a time up there, taking the mick out of Puccini and Verdi.
Incidentally, while we are on the subject of ukuleles, my insertion of George Formby's Leaning on a Lampost into a CD selection of motivational music for an awards ceremony disappointingly passed without incident - not even a ticking off. I wish I'd added something off my Best of Billy Bragg CD now; hey ho perhaps next time.
Oh, and I know that George Formby played a banjulele, not a ukulele just to save you the trouble of telling me!
I was preparing a CD of mixed music this evening, for playing at a ceremony tomorrow at which will be many of the senior executives of our noble organisation. The music I chose was uplifting and inspiring; you know the sort of thing: Here Inside by M People, Lifted by Lighthouse Family, Let's Groove by Earth Wind and Fire, the list goes on. Then whilst browsing through the tracks on my computer I came across this and I couldn't help but ponder on what the reaction would be as it interrupted an otherwise life affirming collection of music. Whilst others may have been searching for the hero inside, I was suddenly possessed by the little devil inside. Perhaps it won't only be the music that gets burnt!... I'll let you know.
What is it about fame and celebrity that, no matter how we resist its allure, we still can't help crowing when we have famous friends. Take the other week, for example I learnt that only one floor away from me at work, was the bass player from the punk band Fast Cars who were nearly famous in the eighties; in fact Stuart has a photograph of himself and Paul Weller in his office. Listening to their tracks on MySpace I'd forgotten how much fun that thrash power pop stuff was; if you get chance have a listen by following the link above.
The thing is that despite the fact that I don't really know him, I now tell everyone about him. I like to think that it's something to do with being pleased that someone is creative because if it was simply that Stuart had been on Big Brother I certainly wouldn't bother, so in that vein - creativity - here are two other people I know who are remarkably creative (and also nearly famous...not that it matters, you understand).
Tony Ballantyne actually is famous, if you are in to science fiction. He is a real writer with real books on sale at Amazon; he was also nominated for the Phillip K Dick Award for science fiction this year and went to America for the ceremony. If you meet him ask him about the American sense of humour that simply drew blank looks at this snippet of conversation:
"Congratulations on your Dick, Tony"
"Yes, it's magnificent isn't it".
My other recent discovery was that someone I had
known for a while was actual a relatively well known local artist with things wrote about him by proper journalists on the web, not just us bloggers. Chris Maidens creates incredibly intricate artwork that defy description. They are little worlds of their own that, in one article, were described as doodles; but after you have experienced the way that his work draws you in with it's detail and challenges you to see more and more in it, 'doodles' just doesn't do it justice. I was hoping to put a picture of his here but the website that features Chris's work is a bit funny about copyright and all that so it wouldn't let me, follow the link above to see it; and in the meantime I'll have a word with him about displaying one of his pieces for you.(I asked him and added this one on 2nd October).
One day if I'm famous maybe someone will tell their friends about me; maybe they already do, but for all the wrong reasons...hmmm.
