Sprocket

Having focused attention on Jock the Westie in this blog quite a bit recently, it's only fair to redress the balance by posting a few snaps of Sprocket the Patterdale. Never heard of this breed? - neither had I before buying him. Apparently Patterdales are named after a village in the Lake District where the Lakeland terrier was crossbred with some other terrier mutt (probably a Staffordshire bull terrier, though it could have been a sabre-toothed tiger) to produce the perfect burrowing-animal killing machine. Basically, they're hunters. And enthusiastic diggers. And nearly always black - though Sprock's obviously brown (or red, as doggy experts define it). Far as I know, they're not recognised by Cruft's or the Kennel Club (or whatever the official governing dogs' body is). Unsurprisingly, they have an enthusiastic following with a few tribes of mental retards in the American backwoods (ever seen the film 'Deliverance'?) who keep gangs of them for poaching and (illicit?) badger hunting. Had I known all this beforehand, I may well not have have bought the brute. But I did. So that's it. Lumbered.

Unlike Jock he doesn't come across as being cute and cuddly, he's aggressive towards other dogs (but not bitches) so he has to be kept on a lead most of the time (he escaped once and beat the living daylights out of Tommy, the hamlet's 'boss' dog) and he has a horribly unattractive bald tail (the result of microscopic bugs buggering up his hair follicles as a pup at the run-down kennels where he was born). But despite all that I think he's fab. Absolutely adorable. And he's a bright spark. Damned intelligent. Coochie, coochie, coo.

Totally confused

Makes a pleasant change to have sunny evening dogwalks back again. Last couple of soirees we've hopped in the dogwagon and driven up the 'lightning tree' area to have an amble around and catch the sunsets before returning home for supper. There's a small herd of cattle up there. White ones. Five or six cows, one bull and about ten playful young 'uns. They're a timid bunch and mainly keep their distance. However, they're fascinated by Jock. Because he's white they seem to think he's one of their own so curiosity overcomes fear and one or two of the braver ones come right up to the fence to check him out. Totally confused. Similarly, Jock seems to think they're rather big Westies so, unlike Sprocket, he doesn't run away and start barking. Leads to some interesting confrontations.

Springing into action

Just read that Oscar Wilde apparently once opined "conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative". So, just to prove him right, I'll scribe once again about the meteorological conditions that have recently prevailed in our remote neck of the woods.

The snow appears to have disappeared. But this might just be temporary. Couple of years ago it reappeared at Easter. So I hesitate to say winter's over. Mind you, spring does seem to be kicking at the door. Snowdrops are out and daffs are budding. Also spotted some white violets round by the woodpile. Well, when I say 'woodpile' I really mean 'big empty space where the woodpile used to be'. Just a few logs remain and I'm hoping they'll see me through 'til the warm weather returns. But just to be on the safe side, I've ordered another half cord from neighbour Christian. That's roughly a couple of small vans-full. Costs about 70 quid. Damned expensive but it's a matter of life or death. Doesn't grow on trees y'know (an old joke, but I like it). For the first time in months the kitchen and lounge stoves are out. I'll re-light 'em tonight - the kitchen one for cooking and the lounge one for telly watching. Roll on when they don't have to be lit. It's like burning money.

Last couple of nights have been noticeably warmer (warmer than freezing, that is). Threw caution to the wind and slept without my sheepskin flying jacket. First time since about November or December. Even opened the boudoir windows and dangled out the duvet and pillow for a much needed airing. And, yesterday morning, I actually had a bath. First time this recently installed item has been used. Survived the ordeal relatively unscathed. Felt ridiculously clean afterwards. Quite unnatural for a bohemian recluse. Think I'll stick to showers though. More economical. Thinking about it, that's probably seven or eight showers and one bath in the last six months. Not bad for winter. (Er, just in case anyone starts tut-tutting about my apparent soaping infrequency, I'll have you know that I bath in the sink. So there. Bit tricky for a shortarse comme moi to get the old feet up so I stand one-footed on a brick.)

Washed and shampooed the dogs too. Did it outside with a couple of buckets. Been far too cold to do it over recent months. So they've been a bit whiffy (they probably say the same about moi). They both hate being washed, which I fully understand. And they both roll around in the dirt afterwards which rather defeats the object. Still, has to be done. Next, I'll attempt to give Jock (the Westie) a haircut. Off with his thick winter coat ready for spring. Luckily Sprocket (the Patterdale) has hair that doesn't need cutting. Just as well 'cos he goes for your jugular at the slightest opportunity. I risk death every time I wash the blighter.

Makes a pleasant change to go dogwalking without blizzard conditions. Don't miss all that sleet and snow one little bit. And it's nice wearing just a single fleece without a waterproof topcoat and a couple of sweaters. And ordinary shoes instead of Gore-Tex commando boots. Been going up the 'lightning tree' circuit again now it's not so muddy. Noticed the sun's creeping back up that horizon at sunset. So the evenings are getting longer. So too are the mornings. I've noticed it's almost light now when Jock wakes me up with a bark or seventeen to be let outside for a wee.

Went up there a few days back with the mutts for an evening stroll and, surprise, surprise, it was sunny. Brought out the colours for the first time in yonks. Blue sky, green grass, purple trees, pinkish earth. Thought about getting my paints out again after the winter lay-off. Been far too cold for painting outdoors. Next day was sunny too so I decided to give it a go. Set up the easel mid-afternoon and sploshed away for about three hours before sunset. Scene changed dramatically as shadows lengthened which drove me bonkers. And if that wasn't challenging enough, the intricate detail of the trees' bare branches almost forced me to wipe the whole thing out, pack up, go home in a huff and give up this ridiculous notion of becoming an artist, part-time or otherwise. The final straw was when the easel blew over. Just managed to stop it landing face down in dried up cow poo. Bugger this. Walked dogs and returned home.

Sunny the next day so went up there again to give it one last go. Had to be late afternoon though so the shadows were right. Set up canvas and easel, squeezed a few colours from battered paint tubes and... it immediately clouded over. Everything went grey. Dammit. Then the wind picked up. Easel blew over again. This time landing in cow poo. Now I was angry. But determined. Parked car right by the easel and opened rear hatch so it acted as a windbreak. Picked bits of straw, grass and dirt from painting and attacked again. Wiped out all the pernickity detail rubbish of my original interpretation of the trees and went for a more expressionistic approach. Nothing to lose. If it didn't work, I'd wipe the whole bastard lot out and give up completely. Forget about trying to be a camera, forget colours, ignore detail, put away those pathetic little brushes and pick up some bigger ones. Think van Gogh, Kokoschka and Rauschenberg. Now go for the essence of what's in front of you. Make the bloody thing come alive and dance.

Sploshed away in a blind fury for about an hour. Looked like a bleedin' dog's dinner. Crap. Would have rubbed the lot out with the little amount of dirty green turps that remained in the jar, had Jock not knocked it over. Swore at the little git for doing so. Which snapped me out of my creative trance. Gave the poor thing a cuddle, and Sprocket, then chucked the arty-farty gear in the car, gave 'em a well deserved walk round the open fields (in slight drizzle), went home, slung painting in the indoor shed, fed dogs, lit fire, poured scotch and prepared evening meal.

Looked at painting this morning. Better than it was. I'm on the right track. There's something there but I don't know what. Still a long way to go though. Should really have gone up there again this afternoon. 'Cos it was sunny. But couldn't be arsed. I'll go tomorrow. Weather permitting. (Rats. Can't go. Just remembered I have to do some proper illustration work for a publisher who must be desperate.)

Toady

Toad of Toad Hall would understand. And a few faded geriatrics with oil pumping through varicose veins. But nobody else. It's an affliction. Maybe an illness. And it's incurable. It's called classic car and bike-itis. Once you're hooked, that's it. You've had it. There's no way out.

The malady first hit me way back in the late '40s as a wee bairn watching my father ride in a motorcycle trial. Apparently a lump of mud landed on my ice cream cone which caused a few brief tears but did nothing to put me off my new found (and lifelong) fascination with the sounds and smells of two-wheeled, predominantly British, machinery. Then, just as soon as I could walk, while other kids were mucking around with Dinky toys and Meccano sets, I'd be spannering away in Dad's garage, secretly dismantling his prized Rudge motorcycle into thousands of component parts. Needless to say, Pater was not be amused.

The four-wheeled bug hit a bit later, out in Gibraltar (I was an army kid). Used to panic Mum by disappearing for hours on end. Eventually I'd be found sitting in the front seat of 'Uncle' Jock's Humber estate car (looked a bit like a Tudor cottage on wheels), going "brum, brum", totally immersed in the wonderful aroma of Axminster with leather and all the fascinating clocks and dials on the beautiful wooden dashboard. Somehow Dad's more contemporary Morris Oxford wasn't quite the same. Seemed boring in comparison. And it's been the same ever since. Modern stuff just doesn't do it for me. Old stuff does.

Being hooked on classics is illogical. They're unreliable, spares are like gold dust and they're utter rust buckets. Total rubbish, in other words. I know that. But, like all true classic buffs, I don't give a monkey's. Give me an open road, a sunny day and a choice between the latest Japanese rocket bike or an old British banger and I'll choose the banger every time. Mind you, when standing in a pool of oil blowing dirt out of a main jet or trying to coax a spark from a whiskered plug miles from anywhere, I might regret the folly of this decision. But then, that's the risk you take with classics. There's a far greater sense of achievement when you eventually reach your destination. Just ask Ted Simon who famously trundled off round the world on a battered old 500 Triumph (documented in 'Jupiter's Travels' - an excellent book). And then ask that actor fella Euan MacGregor and his sidekick who, even more famously, did the same thing but on flashy BMWs with a full support crew. See who has the biggest grin.

I digress.

Anyway, yes, it's a disease. And there is no cure. I've tried cold turkey. But that didn't work. Went without my regular fix of classic car and bike mags a few years back, hoping I'd break the habit. But then I'd spot an old Austin Seven in a car park, or an oily Velo Thruxton or Beeza Goldie parked outside a pub and that'd be it. I'd immediately start drooling. Worse still, I'd often start tampering with bits and poking about, then get caught in the act by a worried owner, ending up trying to think of some garbled explanation for my compromising situation (usually horizontal underneath the machine in question) which, with luck, would only just save me from being arrested as a suspected thief.

I was rather hoping that my move to France might do the trick. Certainly stopped me buying my regular mags. I could, of course, get them sent out by subscription but my iron will scotched that idea (ahem, somewhat mysteriously, Old Bike Mart continues to land in my letter box bi-monthly - old habits die hard). Trouble is, there's an abundance of French classic bike and car mags available at the local newsagent. Don't understand a word of what's in 'em but that doesn't stop me buying the odd one or two occasionally. Then, like addicts do, I feel guilty. And stupid too as I feverishly look up weird French words in the dictionary, like 'echappement' (exhaust), 'embrayage' (clutch), 'boite de vitesses' (gearbox) and 'chaine' (chain - I guessed that one). It's a good way to learn French though. One never knows when these words just might come in handy.

However, I didn't allow for the internet. Distancing oneself from British newsagents by emigrating is one thing, but resisting the temptation to look up British classic bike and car magazine sites, not mention the dreaded eBay, is quite another. My laptop 'favourites' list is peppered with hundreds of these damned things. They constantly beckon me. Like sirens luring ships onto rocks. It's a nightmare.

Take this morning for example. There I was, quietly minding my own business, when a splendid, 25,000 mile (yes, that's all!) P4 Rover 100 lept (leapt?) - er, jumped - out at me from cyberspace. Up for grabs at eight and a bit grand. Brilliant! Then a magnificent 250 Greeves Anglian reared its ugly (ugly? - you must be joking!) head. Yours, mine or anyone's for just 3.5k. And as if this wasn't enough, a delicious 500 AJS trials plonker suddenly appeared right before my very eyes. Priced at a very reasonable 4,750 quidlettes. Aaaarrrgh! It's all too much! This really is hell.

The only solution is to storm out of this cyberspace sweet shop, disappear into the garage, get out the spanners, connect up the newly charged battery and fire the dormant Beemer (a fab '88 R100GS) into life after its winter slumber. Then set about fettling the front forks of that scrumptious ex-works Greeves (an ex Mary Driver '63 TES - woohoo! lucky moi!) that's snoozing in the lounge (indoor shed, rather). A man has to learn to be satisfied with what he has. And so does a toad. Now where's me spanners...?

Just the two of us

So..., it was a week ago today (Sunday) we drove back from Lincoln. Had originally planned to fly back to France the next day, but Georgie suggested she take the Monday and Tuesday off work so we could spend a rare couple of days together. Seemed an excellent idea, despite the expense of extra kenneling.

Took things easy on the Monday. Just lazed around and nattered. Had a vague plan to take non-functioning Hoover and bedroom telly to the tip (Georgie and Don hate throwing stuff out so it's a job that never gets done) but laziness and dismal weather dictated otherwise. Also thought about re-arranging Georgie's room but decided it'd take at least a week. Eventually swung into action around mid-afternoon by leaping in the car and heading for one of the big electrical goods shops down the A3 to look at small tellys. Hit a huge A3 traffic jam near the Norbiton turning. Turned off and headed to Raynes Park. Traffic was jammed solid. Spent about an hour travelling a solitary mile. Turned right at Raynes Park to New Malden, hit the A3 again and headed back to Putney. Clear road going into town but still jammed going out. Living in the back of beyond for five years I'd forgotten just how bad UK traffic can get. Especially in rush hour. There must be roadworks or something. Can't possibly be this bad every day. Or can it?

Stopped off at the Asda supermarket at the bottom of Putney Hill. Used to be the site of a KLG spark plug factory in the good old days. Ambled around there for about an hour, chucking stuff in a trolley. Great fun. Georgie said it was way cheaper than the Putney Sainsbury's and Waitrose (e.g. Asda digestive bics only 35p). Trouble is, being a non-driver, she can only get there when someone else drives. And, of course, being little, there's a limit to the amount of stuff she can carry. Needless to say, we had a splendid nosh-up in front of the telly that night. Er, can't remember what it was but I do remember pudding was ginger sponge with custard. Yum.

Having lazed around for most of Monday we decided to have a proper day out on Tuesday. The world was our lobster. Trouble was, rubbish weather again. Amazing how meteorological inclemency dampens enthusiasm for doing anything. Well, it does with me anyway. Despite leanings towards inertia, we ambled off into the drizzling grey and headed for Putney station. Bought a train ticket for tomorrow's trip to Southampton airport (26 bleedin' quid!) and a couple of travelcards. Jumped on a train to Waterloo, hopped off at Vauxhall, caught a tube to Green Park, legged it up to the Royal Academy and joined the queue for the van Gogh letters exhibition.

Queued for an hour. Well worth it. Place was packed. Whizzed through most of his early stuff but really got stuck into his 1887-8 masterpieces. I love 'em. An absolute joy to get right up close and inspect every little brushstroke, knowing each one had been put there by his very own hand. And the colours! Brilliant! But how did he get to these places? I guess he must have walked. With all his kit. In the blazing sun. Then walked back again. Had a bit of a kip then set off again the next day. Seventy paintings in just seventy days, towards the end. Incredible. And how come none of them are smudged? From bitter experience I know it's virtually impossible to carry a bagful of kit, an easel and a wet painting without smudging the damned thing. And many's the time one of my paintings has fallen from the easel ending up face down in dry grass. And what if he was back here now? Right now. Looking at all these people ogling his work, regarding him as a genius? And what if someone were to tell him his 'Irises' just sold for 50-odd million smackeroonies? He'd probably have a fit. Rightfully miffed at the injustice of living as a pauper. Leaving someone else to profit from his sweat and torment.

Beautiful stuff. Proper art. And most of it done in just one or two short years. Then he goes and fires a bullet in his chest when out painting in a field.

How do you follow a van Gogh exhibition? The answer is, you can't. The logical thing is to head for home clutching a newly-purchased van Gogh book (I have an epic tome already but I fancied another). Intended to drop off into the HMV record store (or whatever such places are called nowadays) at Piccadilly Circus to buy the latest Camera Obscura cd. But the store's no longer there. Headed for the tube at Leicester Square. Funnily enough, we passed the newly located HMV shop on the way. Dropped in. Found the cd. Fifteen bloody quid! No way. I'll get it for a fiver or so off eBay. Then passed one of the big cinemas in Leicester Square. Noticed 'Avatar' was showing. And just about to start. Decided to watch it. First time we've been to the pictures in decades. Sat down with a huge bucket of popcorn wearing 3-D specs. Spent the next couple of hours totally gobsmacked by the wonder of the modern cinema. Absolutely terrific stuff. Mind boggling. Not much of a story and a bit like looking at a 'Yes' album cover in places but who cares. If you get a chance, go for it.

Next stop Waterloo, then Putney. Feet up, watch telly, early night then up at sparrow's fart and head for Southampton airport and France. All seems a long time ago now, but it's less than a week. Wonder what van Gogh would have made of 'Avatar'? Now there's a thought. Bizarre. Funny stuff, life.

Wedding day

Must have been exactly a week ago we drove up there. Last Friday. From Putney. To Lincoln. For the wedding. My niece's. Set off at about 3ish. Arrived about 9ish. Hit a snowstorm around Grantham. It blew over but for a moment I thought we might have to spend the night in a local hotel. Or get snowed in on the A1. Anyway, we eventually made it and checked in at the Berni Inn (or whatever it was) at the edge of town. Felt quite ill with the maroony/purple and cream colour scheme (who styles these places?!) but perked up after a couple of scotches in the bar. Clear night so nearly froze to death outside having a fag or two. Hit the sack just before midnight with Georgie and Don still trying to decide what to wear for the wedding the following day. Apparently they retired at about 2ish.

Saturday dawned sunny and frosty. Had a good old slap-up breakfast then headed for Kaye and Charlies' (the happy couple) at around mid-day. Couldn't find their street. Did a couple of laps of the village and eventually gave up. Phoned in for directions. Arrived about 1ish. Charlie was there with Rod (my bro-in-law). Had a quick run-down about feeding the cat and dogs (we'd be house-sitting Saturday night) then they both left for the hotel to get ready. Wedding scheduled for 3pm so it was all a bit rushed. Georgie and Don then set about getting ready while I watched a bit of the Everton/Man U match (Charlie and Kaye have Sky - whoopee!). At about 2ish, I dragged my crumpled white(ish) shirt from the depths of my rucksack and set off in search of an iron. Found one but no ironing board (discovered later that it was hiding behind the fridge). Ironed out most of the creases on the kitchen table and ironed in some catfood. Damn - no tie. Nicked one of Charlie's. Donned kilt, sporran, jacket etc. and was ready to go on the dot of 2.30. Went outside for a fag while Georgie and Don fine-tuned their warpaint. Left at about quarter to. Drove round the corner to the church. Arrived at ten to. Church bells clanging. Had another fag. Sister emerged from church to check if we'd arrived yet (everyone else was already inside). Poor thing hasn't seen me in a kilt since primary school. Got top marks for making the effort and pleasing Mum (she'd be looking down from above). Took up positions in the church pews. Lovely little church. Bride Kaye arrived bang on time, escorted by Rod. Sun shining through colourful leaded windows. A good do. Kaye's 18-month-old bairn Penny particularly enjoyed it, yelping with delight at all the hullaballoo. Not sure she really understood what mummy and daddy were up to. Still, she will one day.

Service over, the happy couple and various relatives posed for photos outside. Suddenly got a bit chillier so everyone was quite relieved to jump into cars and head off for the reception at the local hotel. Another cracking do. Excellent nosh-up (despite Kaye's insistence on a vegetarian menu), followed by speeches (surprise announcement that Kaye was expecting her second in September - Rod had hinted this a couple of weeks ago which stopped me spluttering a gobful of cabbagey stuff across the table), followed by a fag break and welcome bar attack. The evening could then have slowly fizzled out but the organising committee had an ace up their sleeve: an in-house casino soiree. This consisted of a pon-toon (dunno how it's spelt) table and a roulette table with everyone being given 75 quids' worth of chips (not real money of course). The person with the most winnings at 9.30pm would win a bottle of whatever tickles their fancy from the cellar. Splendid stuff. I was immediately tempted to put the lot on red, lose, then go outside for a few fags. But I took things easy. Captain Sensible. Nevertheless, within about ten minutes flat, I was down to my last chip. And we still had a couple of hours to go. When that went, I bummed a chip or ten off Georgie (so what's new?!) and switched to pon-toon.

Amazingly, at 9.29 I was still in possession of chips. Thousands of the buggers. I had piles of black ones, blue ones, red ones, all sorts. The winner would be between me and Charlie's dad (actually his mum - his dad had lost out ages ago but had taken over his wife's stash!). It all depended on the final hand. All in. He, or should I say she, won. Rats. So near and yet so far. But by now we'd all got to know each other (first time I'd met Charlie's gang) and a splendid time was had by all. Champagne all round. Outside for another quick fag then all back to the bar.

I don't know what time Georgie, Donnie and I left (I'm guessing about 11ish), but I do know it was a chilly mile walk back to the house (everyone else stayed at the hotel). Gave the dogs (a couple of bug-eyed, but perfectly behaved - compared to my/our mutts - King Charles spaniels) a run in the garden, then fed 'em, and the cat, had a coffee or two and went to bed. Knackered.

Woke up on Sunday to about six inches of snow. And it was still snowing. Thought it might mean we couldn't drive back. Luckily the snow stopped when sis, Rod, Charlie, Kaye and Penny arrived at about mid-day. Said our farewells at about 1.30 and headed south. Arrived Putney about six hours later, having stopped off for a mega Little Chef all-day breakfast on the way. Great to get home (well, second home) to a nice cup of tea (actually I went straight for the scotch). Shoes off. Mission accomplished.

Terrorist? Moi?

Assumed vertical at 5.20am yesterday (Wednesday). That's 4.20 in UK. Dark, cold and still snowy. Hit the road with the two mutts at 6.30 and headed off for Limoges airport via the kennels at Lauriere. Road seemed a bit wet. But it wasn't. Black ice. Had a couple of hairy slides on the way downhill. Lucky not to slide down the forested slopes, ending upside down and bereft of life in the river valley just a couple of minutes from home. Slowed down. Took things easy. Eventually arrived at Lauriere around 8.40. Dropped dogs off. Hate it when they look at you knowing they won't be seeing you for quite some time. Took off from Limoges at around 11 after usual probs with numerous metallic objects associated with kilt in that damned metal detector door thingy. I mean, if you're a terrorist would you wear a kilt?! Anyway, landed Stansted, bussed to Victoria, trained to Putney, legged it to flat, had kip and teas. Georgie and Donnie turned up at around 7.30ish after work. Georgie with baaaad chesty cough/cold. Could be the one Christian gave me a couple of weeks ago. And I passed on to Georgie on the way back from Scotland last week. Oh dear.

Awoke early ce matin. Convinced Georgie she was too ill to go to work. So she stayed in bed all day. Nipped out and stocked up on cough stuff, orange juice, bread and fruit. Put myself in charge of doing supper. Georgie suggested ready meals from the local Sainsbury's. Looked at the prices and decided agin it. Being a bohemian hermit recluse from the mist-shrouded hills of the Limousin backwoods, I've long lost the habit of convenience food. So, decided to knock up one of my spag Bols, followed by fresh fruit and accompanied by a cheeky little Cotes du Rhone. Bol now done. Spag awaiting arrival of Donnie after a hard day's slog.

Tomorrow morning, all being well, the three of us will be heading north in Don's wee Peugeot for Lincolnshire. Aiming to attend niece's wedding on Saturday. Should be a good 'do'.

Ooh, Don's just arrived. Better get that spag done.