I’ve tried various anti-spam filters for this blog, but none have really worked.

Until now.

I’ve installed a captcha thingy plugin that requires all would-be commenters to answer a (hopefully!) simple maths question to prove they’re a living, breathing human and not a bot. Since installation, it’s had a 100% success rate.

Love pigs, hate spam! (23 August 2008)

Anyway, the wee slip of a thing (younger, taller and slimmer than me – I want to hate her) suggested a change to my happy pills and after some discussion, I agreed. Unfortunately, changing one’s medication isn’t as simple as it sounds. First, you have to wean your body off the current lot, then stop taking them altogether so they can leave your system, and only then do you start all over again on the new ones.

The next three or four weeks are, I suspect, going to be slightly turbulent, but I’m hoping the benefits will eventually outweigh the fun that’s heading my way.

Obligatory steam train photo to illustrate the "all change" post title. Or was the title simply an excuse to use this photo? (30 September 2011)

In other news, the super-early spring is finally giving way to a more wintry weather. Typical, really, as I was starting to ponder the possibility of squeezing into my shorts. Turns out that the cold snap is a good thing, as I’m currently unable to fit into said shorts, no matter how much I squeeze. Methinks someone ate one too many (boxes of) mince pies last month!

It was neck and neck for a while but last week, thanks to some decent weather, several rather flimsy excuses to cycle into town on different days, and a few club rides, I managed to secure my lead by cycling no less than (in fact, a mile and bit more than) two hundred miles in seven days.

I confess I nearly fell off the sofa when I totalled things up towards the end of the week and damn near killed my legs on Sunday morning by making them stay out until I’d passed the 200 mile target, but was feeling horribly pleased with myself right up the moment when I had to ride into town yesterday for an appointment. It didn’t help that I’d forgotten to put my padded shorts on under my jeans, but I winced my way along the road and felt like crawling home.

Mind you, I think it only just about cancelled out the pudding I had on Saturday evening…

Chocolate brownies to die for... And to kill. (21 January 2012)

Diet? What diet?

No, I’m talking something much trickier. Like I said, we’ve got a social do that doesn’t involve tearing off around the countryside on two wheels. Nope, this is a proper, sit-down dinner. With cutlery and everything. I’m told that unintended consequences of innocently claiming that “I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on” can lead to a lot of raised eyebrows from non-cycling partners.

Socialising whilst cycling is a very different kettle of fish to sitting round a table. The dynamics are unequivocally different and – this is the crucial bit for me – if you don’t wish to continue the conversation, you are deprived the solution of speeding up or slowing down to escape.

The obvious solution is to plan beforehand and sit with people you feel most comfortable with … but there’s a twist! In order to get people mingling, after every course, half of each table will get up and sit elsewhere, a game of musical chairs that, in principle, is an excellent idea but fills someone like me with horror.

And so, the coming out. Of course, he was brilliant about it and I have high hopes of getting through the night without succumbing to a panic attack. I’ve done everything possible to manage the situation, now just got to see how it goes on the night and try to avoid thinking about it in the meantime. Gold star for me!

A different way of looking at things? (23 July 2011)

I actually didn’t mean to write so much about it, but rather on the process of coming out as Different. From the perspective of sexuality, the team you bat for has very little impact on the practicalities of events and day-to-day life. Well, so long as you’re not a practising homophobe, but that’s more your problem than anything else.

No, what I’m talking about are differences that DO have a practical effect. On one level, we’re all used to it. Who, for example, hasn’t offered first choice of chairs around the kitchen table to an elderly relative? With varying degrees of tolerance and acceptance, we’re learning to provide a more inclusive environment. Well, for the things you can see, anyhow.

Emotional crap is trickier, in that it’s harder to manage but is also harder (sometimes damn near impossible) to understand and therefore accommodate and how we go about doing that ranges from the excellently empathetic to fear and loathing. Which brings me back to where my mind started to meander when I initially had the idea for this post – whilst we like to be viewed as individuals, names and not numbers, people with our own identities, likes and dislikes, put us together in groups of more than, say, one, and we exude an irrational fear of Being Different, whether that’s being judged as different from the group, and therefore exiled from it, or dealing with the person who is different.

Actually, that’s as far as the thought went, as I was out cycling at the time and had to stop wool-gathering in order to negotiate a tricky junction and having successfully crossed the road (without any poultry attached to me or the bike), I completely forgot about the topic until I updated my ‘bookshelf’ page earlier and thought “oh, I’ve not blogged for a while. Better do something about that.”

So, erm, yes. There you go. Discuss.

Me and Snipe (13 August 2009)

Dogs!

Storm clouds over the Quantocks (2 January 2012)

However, midwinter BBQs now have my vote as a Most Excellent way to bid farewell to the festive season, even though I had to take the risk of melting my boots (they survived) by sitting with them underneath the fire wok in order to stave off frostbite.

The walk itself was great fun and even my amateur photography skills were able to make the most of the almost magical combination of low winter light, storm clouds creating the most amazing shadows and briefly parting to allow slivers of light through, slivers which lit up the dripping water and saturated ground in a shimmering sheen of gold, not forgetting the beautiful trees, barren yet proud of their age-old inhabitation of this part of Somerset.

As for the BBQ, well, talk about a feast. Sausages, burgers, bacon, lamb chops, Christmas cake, stollen, pancakes, chocolate, mulled wine, and hot chocolate, tea and coffee, all cooked/heated over two flaming “woks”. Snipe and Moss, my friend’s collie, had an equally good time, and although they were disappointed at not being invited to the feast, as soon as the food came out and the teepee (midwinter BBQs all require one) was (eventually) erected, they both stopped playing with the other dogs enjoying the bank holiday and started seeing them off instead. It seems that all Snipe requires to aid a transformation from a complete wimp to a protective guard dog is a roof over her human’s head (albeit a canvas one). Yes, you read that right. She and Moss worked as a team, but she saw the black Lab off herself, no questions asked. Clever dog.

If you’re ever invited to a winter BBQ, go for it. Just remember to take at least three pairs of socks. And plenty of sausages.

Was the canal wet, dear? (12 November 2011)

My landlords have got a dozen or so rams here for the winter and recently let them into the orchard to clear up the last of the apples and tackle the acres and acres of grass that, like much of Nature down here in the south west, has failed to get the message that’s it’s WINTER. (Seriously, daffodils are starting to creep up out of the earth and some trees are budding!)

Anyway, since the rams are (a) on my doorstep and (b) a friendly bunch, I thought I’d make the most of it and give Her Dogginess a reminder that sheep are to be Left Alone, lest she find herself at the wrong end of a farmer’s gun. So out into the orchard we went and she cowered, cringed and hid in the hedge. Nothing to do with the sheep. To stop the boys raiding the pheasant feeders, my landlord put up some electric fencing and Snipe took one look at the familiar white tape and ran for her life – and never mind that it’s not switched on.

I dragged her out of the hedge and, giving the evil fence a wide berth, went in search of the rams. The bravest two came up to see if I had any apples (lazy buggers) and the biggest of the pair objected to the dog’s presence. He stiffened his shoulders, flared his nostrils and stamped his front foot. Snipe’s eyes opened. He repeated the snorting/stamping routine and she hid behind my legs. Once more and she fled. He and I exchanged pleasantries, with him whiffling at my fingers while my other hand gave him a good old head scratch. Snipe tried to return but he stamped his foot again and that was that. Lesson learned.

Much to her relief, I whistled for her and walked off, and she bounced after me – and then past me. Overcome with joy at her narrow escape, she ran in circles and would have done cartwheels if she knew how. But then it all went wrong.

So delirious was she with aforementioned relief and joy that when she spotted a lone ram, sneakily finishing off a windfall apple that the others had missed, she couldn’t contain herself and the need to celebrate … and ran up to the ram, dancing in front of him, begging him to play and, when he stared in astonishment, too startled to stamp his foot, let alone run for the hills, she licked his nose!

Back to the drawing board…

For someone deprived of natural grace, elegance and the ability to walk in a straight line without tripping over my feet, I’ve – oh ye gods, don’t let me tempt fate – had surprisingly few x-rays in my life. A dislocated elbow, the incident with the garden chair that left me only with one and a half thumbs, a broken wrist following another incident with a quad bike, and this year’s teeth extraction. Not bad for three decades of clumsiness. And lest any of my friends object to this description, let me quickly inform you that I attempted to go into the bathroom in the wee (pun intended) hours of this morning through a closed door. The same door that’s been closed every night for three months now. (Tip: save on heating bills by closing doors in the winter.)

Year’s end

I’m feeling quite grumpy about the New Year, more so than I was about Christmas, which is unusual, even for me. 2011 hasn’t been my best year ever, but I said that about 2010 …

Another year, another load of water under the bridge - Montgomery Canal (12 November 2011)

Zzzzzzzzzzzz

I cannot think of a single thing to blog about that starts with the letter Z. On the plus side, this alphabet meme thingy has ended quite neatly on the last day of the year, so my blogging in 2012 will be back to normal. As in, I’m going to attempt to blog more often. Or maybe not. Sometimes I think about just packing it in, but I’m never sure if that’s the way forward or just my aforementioned gloom talking.

Almost everyone I know has a favourite season and they sigh with contentment and happiness when that time of year rolls around again, appreciating the sights, sounds and smells that ring that particular bell for them. The heat of summer, the colours of autumn, growth and renewal of spring.

Winter, however, with its dull, wet and short days, not to mention the threat of inconveniences such as snow and ice, gets a very bad press indeed. And that’s fair enough. British winters are generally dark and depressing, when the world is stagnant and we huddle up in our comfy jumpers, shut out the world behind thick curtains and resort to comfort food to keep us going until the daffodils poke their yellow heads above the parapets.

Me, I like winter. Well, not the bog-standard British winter as described above, but proper winters, with ground frosts and ice and cold blue skies. It’s the colours, you see. I find spring a disappointment, each and every year. You’re teased with snowdrops and bluebells, but then you realise that the trees are still bare, the grass is dull and the colours only seem vibrant because you’re so used to the tedium of a wet and miserable winter. By the time you get to May, the grass has perked up, the sky is so blue it’s alive and the trees are awake and their leaves have regrown – and that’s that until late autumn, even when it rains. But early spring? No thanks.

A snowy day in Somerset (18 December 2010)

Like I said, give me a proper cold winter instead, when the colours stand out because of their simplicity. Dull grass sparkles with frost and surfaces gleam under the sun. It’s cold, yes, but it’s a cold that can be conquered with warm clothing. You can venture out, cheeks glowing and eyes shining, your head and shoulders held high instead of hunched up against the dreary rain that seeps into your bones.

Only four months to go until the world cheers up again!

Using too many words? Moi? Well … yes, ok, you’ve got me, I confess. I blame being a student. How else was I meant to write a two thousand word essay on subjects such as The Modern Novel without a teeny bit of padding? By the time I graduated, I had it down to a fine art, with my own thoughts comprising one third, quotes from secondary sources another third and happily repeating myself until I hit the word limit. Incidentally, I got the idea from one of my lecturers who stated that essays should be structured with an introduction (say what you are going to say), the main content (say it) and a conclusion (say what you have already said). I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s not my remotely my fault. No, not at all…

View

Taken one evening in the summer when I was out and about on the bike:

Sunset over Somerset (2 August 2011)

I guess you can buy views like that, but they’re actually all around us. We just need to open our eyes and look.