By the time this post is published, the working week will be officially over for most of you - welcome to the weekend! Got any plans? I've become a bit hermit-like lately, so it's nice to have been invited out this evening (even if it is for a dinner/planning meeting), and I intend to make yet more cupcakes in honour of the occasion. Seriously, I think I may have a baking addiction, which is rapidly expanding into an any-food-making-activity addiction. There are fourteen jars of marmalade on my kitchen table, half a lemon cake in the tin, and ingredients for several experimental party foods in the fridge - I tried some out on the hubby for a Valentine's feast :) So if anyone ever needs a party planner/chef, give me a call and I'll be there in a flash!
Food aside, tonight's final When You're Not Looking comes courtesy of my terrible history with plants, and the sneaking suspicion that they die just to spite me. I love gardening; as kids, my siblings and I had a patch each of the garden, and I spent hours drawing painstaking plans, buying bamboo arches for the sweetpeas and laying black plastic over the weeds. The strawberry plants ate up space voraciously and sprouted delicious berries, although I never quite mastered the art of keeping them safe from the birds. I dug tiny ditches for the flower bed edging, and bought several bags of woodchips which remained unused, as we ended up moving house before I could complete my landscaping masterpiece.
The one thing I didn't do, however, was talk to my plants. I thought about it once or twice, but as much as the idea appealed to me, it seemed too ridiculous (although even as a 'mature' 22-year-old, I still talk to my teddies). Thus I continue to struggle along, trying to keep my plants alive without any verbal communication. Who knows, maybe that's where I've been going wrong all along! What do you think - have these guys got it right?
When You're Not Looking...
...politicians tell The Truth. But only to their plants. I believe we have Prince Charles to thank for that one.
I personally own two plants - a very sad Christmas tree seedling, which grew when neglected and now won't grow when cared for, and a small cactus named Clint. Clint lives in a similarly small teracotta pot full of blue gravel, with his gold gift-ribbon still tied around him and the name tag my brother put on it for me.
I can understand the urge to confide in plants, especially for politicians. After all, your peonies can't call the local press to refer to your fellow MPs as 'rabid monkeys', can they? And even if you do have a half-hour rant at your desktop spider plant about the inefficiencies of such-and-such a minister's department, it can hardly be expected to be secretly wielding a tape recorder.
In my opinion, it's only trees you have to be wary of. In case they're Ents. Everything else you can prune or tie to a trellis and it won't bother you. An Ent could quite feasibly perform a citizen's arrest - that is, if it's sorted out its immigration papers from Middle Earth and can be considered a citizen.
Friday 18 February 2011
Thursday 17 February 2011
When You're Not Looking #3
Mystic Force? Trinity Warriors? Nah, I think I'll give it a miss... and I promptly change the channel. One of the joys of having Sky is that I now have so much to choose from, but then again, there's more rubbish to sift through - and even the programmes which seem promising can be off-puttingly badly made (Got To Dance. referenced above, is a pet hate right now). I'm beginning to see why my parents left the TV in the loft for much of my childhood. Entertainingly, we had three visits from the TV licensing people during that time to check that we weren't cheating on our payments, because they couldn't believe that anyone in their right mind wouldn't want television.
Personally, I don't feel like I missed out at all. I spent my summers out in the garden pretending to be a medicine woman in a Red Indian tribe, building teepees and creating disgusting-smelling concoctions involving dandelion petals and warm water. My siblings and I floated down imaginary rivers in a canoe made of old wooden school chairs, and swam in lakes that closely resembled a 6 by 4 paddling pool. In the evenings we read books and made up stories and songs, and the girls took it in turns to use the top bunk of the bunk bed as a stage for absurd performances (which included on one occasion a rendition of the baggy trousers song). Some days after school, the bunk bed doubled as a pirate ship. Moving on to my third 'When You're Not Looking', I can't help thinking that all this imagination play has fed into my adult life - why else would I be thinking of such stupid things on a train ride? You be the judge, of course.
When You're Not Looking...
...your reflection in the window waves at people. Sometimes it gets really cheeky and pulls faces. Of course if you're on a train, then most people are doing their best to studiously ignore their fellow passengers. You may have become used to this, but your reflection is fed up, and will employ whatever means necessary to gain someone's attention. Unfortunately it's not very smart, so it spends much of its time waving and gurning at trees, cows, and the odd squirrel.
It's when you fall asleep that the trouble really begins. Your reflection, noting your semi-recumbent position and dozy appearance, will begin to gesture frantically at the person in the seat opposite, and when, in awe and wonder, that individual recognises who he is being hailed by, your reflection will point at your silently snoring self, and laugh. Reflections also specialise is sticking their tongues out at small children (so if you ever find a small child with their tongue glued to the window, you know why).
Particularly adventurous reflections have been known to perform the ultimate freak-out - swapping places with somebody else's. This is most effective on drunks, as your average sober Brit will merely put the apparent illusion down to an overdue eye test. The moral of the story for the rest of you? DON'T fall asleep on trains. Or, do a Peter Pan and glue your reflection* to yourself with soap.
*Yes, I am aware that with Peter Pan it was his shadow. For insights on shadows, see a later episode...
Personally, I don't feel like I missed out at all. I spent my summers out in the garden pretending to be a medicine woman in a Red Indian tribe, building teepees and creating disgusting-smelling concoctions involving dandelion petals and warm water. My siblings and I floated down imaginary rivers in a canoe made of old wooden school chairs, and swam in lakes that closely resembled a 6 by 4 paddling pool. In the evenings we read books and made up stories and songs, and the girls took it in turns to use the top bunk of the bunk bed as a stage for absurd performances (which included on one occasion a rendition of the baggy trousers song). Some days after school, the bunk bed doubled as a pirate ship. Moving on to my third 'When You're Not Looking', I can't help thinking that all this imagination play has fed into my adult life - why else would I be thinking of such stupid things on a train ride? You be the judge, of course.
When You're Not Looking...
...your reflection in the window waves at people. Sometimes it gets really cheeky and pulls faces. Of course if you're on a train, then most people are doing their best to studiously ignore their fellow passengers. You may have become used to this, but your reflection is fed up, and will employ whatever means necessary to gain someone's attention. Unfortunately it's not very smart, so it spends much of its time waving and gurning at trees, cows, and the odd squirrel.
It's when you fall asleep that the trouble really begins. Your reflection, noting your semi-recumbent position and dozy appearance, will begin to gesture frantically at the person in the seat opposite, and when, in awe and wonder, that individual recognises who he is being hailed by, your reflection will point at your silently snoring self, and laugh. Reflections also specialise is sticking their tongues out at small children (so if you ever find a small child with their tongue glued to the window, you know why).
Particularly adventurous reflections have been known to perform the ultimate freak-out - swapping places with somebody else's. This is most effective on drunks, as your average sober Brit will merely put the apparent illusion down to an overdue eye test. The moral of the story for the rest of you? DON'T fall asleep on trains. Or, do a Peter Pan and glue your reflection* to yourself with soap.
*Yes, I am aware that with Peter Pan it was his shadow. For insights on shadows, see a later episode...
Wednesday 16 February 2011
When You're Not Looking #2
Happy Wednesday! This comes to you from my sofa, and a headachey me who's managed to rally enough to break out the laptop - you'd better appreciate my dedication! Only joking... (but really, flowers would be nice. Having said that, there's a rather lovely bunch of red roses on my coffee table, courtesy of the hubby).
When You're Not Looking episode two was inspired by the ever-changing aspect of the British skies, and several rainy train journeys. I may have stolen an idea or two from a favourite childhood story and its Disney film adaptation; does anyone remember A. A. Milne's Heffalump? I just loved that image of him floating through the air, spurting water everywhere...
When You're Not Looking...
...large grey elephants ride roughshod across the cobalt skies. Or skies which would be cobalt if you were near the equator, but I am referring strictly to English skies, for which description I have never found a particular shade of blue suitable. Anyway, these elephants parade triumphantly across the blue (whatever shade it might be), ears flapping and trunks curled, celebrating the freedom of their ethereal savannah.
When you are looking, the elephants cleverly shroud themselves in a dispersive fog, known to us as "cloud", which most definitely bears their distinctive grey colour. If these disguise mechanisms appear white, you can be certain that the elephant in question bathed that day, and is floating in a heady mix of cloud and talcum powder. Most often, however, the elephant-fog closely resembles its animal counterpart - large, grey, and heavy. Behind these mysterious veils, the elephants take great delight in racing one another, particularly over moors and large hill ranges where there are obvious markers for the track. They also engage in water fights on a frequent basis, having filled up their trunks over rivers, lakes, or the sea. The most popular air space for this activity seems to be Wales, which is unfortunate for the Welsh people who are frequently the victims of the elephants' over-enthusiasm.
In Autumn and Winter when the young elephants are restless, their parents send them off to battle camp, where they learn to fight against other elephant groups. The armoury consists mainly of water, a weapon for which childhood water fights have prepared them, and cannons which fire scatterings of hard ice crystals. Battles are often accompanied by loud and fierce trumpeting, a phenomenon known to the unsuspecting human as "thunder". When the King of the Sky Elephants (an ancient of the Heffalumpia tribe) considers things to be getting out of hand, he unleashes his pet dragon, Lumine Rex - a few flashes of fire seem to calm everyone down rapidly. After the excitement, the young elephants are flown high up into the Lake District nurseries to sleep, and the grown-ups continue their stately parade through the blue.
When You're Not Looking episode two was inspired by the ever-changing aspect of the British skies, and several rainy train journeys. I may have stolen an idea or two from a favourite childhood story and its Disney film adaptation; does anyone remember A. A. Milne's Heffalump? I just loved that image of him floating through the air, spurting water everywhere...
When You're Not Looking...
...large grey elephants ride roughshod across the cobalt skies. Or skies which would be cobalt if you were near the equator, but I am referring strictly to English skies, for which description I have never found a particular shade of blue suitable. Anyway, these elephants parade triumphantly across the blue (whatever shade it might be), ears flapping and trunks curled, celebrating the freedom of their ethereal savannah.
When you are looking, the elephants cleverly shroud themselves in a dispersive fog, known to us as "cloud", which most definitely bears their distinctive grey colour. If these disguise mechanisms appear white, you can be certain that the elephant in question bathed that day, and is floating in a heady mix of cloud and talcum powder. Most often, however, the elephant-fog closely resembles its animal counterpart - large, grey, and heavy. Behind these mysterious veils, the elephants take great delight in racing one another, particularly over moors and large hill ranges where there are obvious markers for the track. They also engage in water fights on a frequent basis, having filled up their trunks over rivers, lakes, or the sea. The most popular air space for this activity seems to be Wales, which is unfortunate for the Welsh people who are frequently the victims of the elephants' over-enthusiasm.
In Autumn and Winter when the young elephants are restless, their parents send them off to battle camp, where they learn to fight against other elephant groups. The armoury consists mainly of water, a weapon for which childhood water fights have prepared them, and cannons which fire scatterings of hard ice crystals. Battles are often accompanied by loud and fierce trumpeting, a phenomenon known to the unsuspecting human as "thunder". When the King of the Sky Elephants (an ancient of the Heffalumpia tribe) considers things to be getting out of hand, he unleashes his pet dragon, Lumine Rex - a few flashes of fire seem to calm everyone down rapidly. After the excitement, the young elephants are flown high up into the Lake District nurseries to sleep, and the grown-ups continue their stately parade through the blue.
Monday 14 February 2011
A Valentine
Hello, young lovers, wherever you are, to borrow a phrase from Frank - but this is for everyone, so being young and/or a lover is not really a requirement. I know I promised a series, and I will hold to it, but in honour of today, I thought a Valentine for you all would be more appropriate. I wrote the following poem and sketch-style prologue back in 2008, when out of sheer curiosity I decided to research the origins of St. Valentine's Day celebrations. While I always thought the sketch would be best performed, I've never had the occasion or opportunity - maybe you'd like to do it? All you need is a lyre, some bandages, and a pub...
A (Late) Valentine (I wrote it on Feb 20th!)
Prologue
A saint, an emperor, a young Roman woman and Geoffrey Chaucer walk into a bar. The saint spots the emperor and immediately goes and cowers in a corner. The emperor spots the saint and turns a deep shade of crimson. Chaucer and the woman regard the situation with interest.
"What are you doing here?" sputters Claudius II (for that man the emperor is).
"I could ask you the same question," replies the saint, his courage returning at seeing the emperor unarmed and rather ancient-looking.
At this point, Chaucer steps in. "Ekskews me if I be inne the wronge," he supplicates, "but maye it nat be that ye two be - dead?"
There is a long pause. The young woman notices that the saint has cuts all over his body, and his garments are smoky and charred. The emperor is no longer crimson but ashen, and his arms and legs are heavily bandaged.
"Why, my man," beams the saint, "you are right!"
He offers his hand to Chaucer.
"Valentine, late of the year 270, martyr to love."
"To love!" interjects the young woman. "How, indeed!" she scoffs, regarding his decrepit body with disdain.
"Not mine," the saint explains, "other people's."
"And I had you executed for it!" exclaims Claudius.
"Valentine..." muses Chaucer. "But, forre sure, I did ryte aboot ye!"
Chaucer strums a lyre he happens to have in his hand (he has taken it from the young woman) and sings:
"For this was on seynt valantynys day
When euery bryd comyth there to chese his mate."
The young woman puts her hands over her ears and adopts a pained expression, for, though Chaucer writes well, he cannot sing.
"Did you say 'Saint' Valentine?" queries the saint, scratching his head.
"But of corse!" exclaims Chaucer. "Why, euery febreury the fourteenth, we do celebrayte yore daye with feestyng and songes of love!"
Claudius sinks into a chair, his hands clasping his head, muttering, "Ye Gods, what have I done? Made a saint of him! Stupid man with his stupid insistence on performing marriages. All I wanted were single men for my army..."
Chaucer puts a sympathetic arm around the emperor and indicates for the young woman to fetch him a pint. She, however, is growing pinker, and refuses to do Chaucer's bidding.
"Why should I fetch a pint for you," she addressed the emperor, "when you never put a stop to our absurd February customs?"
The emperor looks up, confused.
"The festival of Lupercalia...?" she adds.
A dim light of recognition enters Claudius' face.
"Ah, yes! The ancient pagan custom! February 15th, when the dancing maidens were drawn at random by the bachelors. Fabulous custom; every man got a girl for a year, but didn't actually have to marry her. Ah, I only wish I..."
Claudius trails off as he sees the young woman again suffused pink.
"I didn't think it was quite so fabulous," she forces through compressed lips. "I ended up with - "
Chaucer sees this as the perfect time to cut in. He turns to the woman, gallantly declaring, "Lady! Come withe me, and be ye introdysed unto the Frenche coort, wither theye do go whom true loue seeke, and where since ay while ago they do holde the Cour Amoreuse, in which ye laydies judge poesie of loue, and golden crownes do gif unto the bolde man who writeth it beste."
The woman's face lights up. Chaucer gives her his arm, and the two walk out of the bar. Claudius is left with Valentine.
"Oh well," the emperor says, lifting his head. "Couldn't stop it. Probably shouldn't have tried. No one can really, it seems."
He offers his hand to Valentine.
"No hard feelings then?"
The saint hesitates, and then grasps Claudius' hand firmly.
"No hard feelings," he replies. "After all, what's a little martyrdom in the face of the enduring power of love?"
He breaks off, starry-eyed. Claudius groans.
"If you're going to carry on like that, at least fetch me a pint first."
"Sorry, emperor, I can't. I've got a meeting with Hallmark, and then a personal appearance to make - I'm chocolate-signing at Thornton's."
Valentine exits the bar, leaving Claudius II to get his own beer.
*********************************
Martyrs though we may forget
(Of death we've not bethought us yet)
And Emperors in robes of gold
Remain to us mere tales of old,
And France's court of lovers gay
Are flick'ring remnants in a day
Of chocolates fine and roses tall,
Mass manufactured Cards of Hall -
Forget not, love; love won't forget,
Amid the tales of Capulet,
Fair dancing maidens picked by boys
And teddies holding gimmick toys:
There's faith enough in Valentine
For me to smile and name you mine.
A (Late) Valentine (I wrote it on Feb 20th!)
Prologue
A saint, an emperor, a young Roman woman and Geoffrey Chaucer walk into a bar. The saint spots the emperor and immediately goes and cowers in a corner. The emperor spots the saint and turns a deep shade of crimson. Chaucer and the woman regard the situation with interest.
"What are you doing here?" sputters Claudius II (for that man the emperor is).
"I could ask you the same question," replies the saint, his courage returning at seeing the emperor unarmed and rather ancient-looking.
At this point, Chaucer steps in. "Ekskews me if I be inne the wronge," he supplicates, "but maye it nat be that ye two be - dead?"
There is a long pause. The young woman notices that the saint has cuts all over his body, and his garments are smoky and charred. The emperor is no longer crimson but ashen, and his arms and legs are heavily bandaged.
"Why, my man," beams the saint, "you are right!"
He offers his hand to Chaucer.
"Valentine, late of the year 270, martyr to love."
"To love!" interjects the young woman. "How, indeed!" she scoffs, regarding his decrepit body with disdain.
"Not mine," the saint explains, "other people's."
"And I had you executed for it!" exclaims Claudius.
"Valentine..." muses Chaucer. "But, forre sure, I did ryte aboot ye!"
Chaucer strums a lyre he happens to have in his hand (he has taken it from the young woman) and sings:
"For this was on seynt valantynys day
When euery bryd comyth there to chese his mate."
The young woman puts her hands over her ears and adopts a pained expression, for, though Chaucer writes well, he cannot sing.
"Did you say 'Saint' Valentine?" queries the saint, scratching his head.
"But of corse!" exclaims Chaucer. "Why, euery febreury the fourteenth, we do celebrayte yore daye with feestyng and songes of love!"
Claudius sinks into a chair, his hands clasping his head, muttering, "Ye Gods, what have I done? Made a saint of him! Stupid man with his stupid insistence on performing marriages. All I wanted were single men for my army..."
Chaucer puts a sympathetic arm around the emperor and indicates for the young woman to fetch him a pint. She, however, is growing pinker, and refuses to do Chaucer's bidding.
"Why should I fetch a pint for you," she addressed the emperor, "when you never put a stop to our absurd February customs?"
The emperor looks up, confused.
"The festival of Lupercalia...?" she adds.
A dim light of recognition enters Claudius' face.
"Ah, yes! The ancient pagan custom! February 15th, when the dancing maidens were drawn at random by the bachelors. Fabulous custom; every man got a girl for a year, but didn't actually have to marry her. Ah, I only wish I..."
Claudius trails off as he sees the young woman again suffused pink.
"I didn't think it was quite so fabulous," she forces through compressed lips. "I ended up with - "
Chaucer sees this as the perfect time to cut in. He turns to the woman, gallantly declaring, "Lady! Come withe me, and be ye introdysed unto the Frenche coort, wither theye do go whom true loue seeke, and where since ay while ago they do holde the Cour Amoreuse, in which ye laydies judge poesie of loue, and golden crownes do gif unto the bolde man who writeth it beste."
The woman's face lights up. Chaucer gives her his arm, and the two walk out of the bar. Claudius is left with Valentine.
"Oh well," the emperor says, lifting his head. "Couldn't stop it. Probably shouldn't have tried. No one can really, it seems."
He offers his hand to Valentine.
"No hard feelings then?"
The saint hesitates, and then grasps Claudius' hand firmly.
"No hard feelings," he replies. "After all, what's a little martyrdom in the face of the enduring power of love?"
He breaks off, starry-eyed. Claudius groans.
"If you're going to carry on like that, at least fetch me a pint first."
"Sorry, emperor, I can't. I've got a meeting with Hallmark, and then a personal appearance to make - I'm chocolate-signing at Thornton's."
Valentine exits the bar, leaving Claudius II to get his own beer.
*********************************
Martyrs though we may forget
(Of death we've not bethought us yet)
And Emperors in robes of gold
Remain to us mere tales of old,
And France's court of lovers gay
Are flick'ring remnants in a day
Of chocolates fine and roses tall,
Mass manufactured Cards of Hall -
Forget not, love; love won't forget,
Amid the tales of Capulet,
Fair dancing maidens picked by boys
And teddies holding gimmick toys:
There's faith enough in Valentine
For me to smile and name you mine.
Friday 11 February 2011
When You're Not Looking
Greetings, all! The second week of February is upon us, and every day I get more excited about the progress made by the tiny crocus plant sitting on my kitchen table. Stan doesn't really understand why I find it necessary to come bouncing in, clutching the purple tissue-papered pot in my hand, exclaiming 'Look! Look!' as he battles the forces of evil in the DC Universe... but he good-naturedly obliges, and peers at the growing yellow bulb. Okay, so it's not exactly a unique miracle; there are hundreds of the things up and down our road, hiding in the unmown grass of people's front lawns and sneaking up on kerbside patches of grass. But for some reason I can't explain, every Spring takes me delightfully by surprise, which is why when I went for a walk with my friend Anne last week, we ended up kicking leaves and giggling like a pair of schoolgirls because we found snowdrops in Jephson Gardens.
All this Spring, well, springing, got me thinking about the unexpected expected - the things we know will happen but which we fail to anticipate, and the things which we hope for or imagine which sometimes, just sometimes, fall into our laps. It's such a strange part of the human experience, that shock of recognition when the unexpected expected comes and hits us in the face and we don't know what to do with it. Usually I have a little crazy dance all by myself (this generally worked well when I was at university and had a room of my own, but on one occasion I was caught mid-leap by the friend who lived across the corridor, and it was a bit difficult to explain...). Lately I don't have so much space for dancing - it endangers the surrounding cables, bookcase, and marmalade jars - so if I have to bounce I do so in a strictly vertical direction, and add some singing if necessary. I know it's weird, but there has to be an outlet, and I'm not much for running... though I'm trying my hand (or legs) at it again. But I digress.
About this time two years ago I was spending a lot of my time on trains, visiting Stan (who had only attained boyfriend status at the time) and my family, so I observed a lot of the Spring landscape from the inside of a rapidly-moving metal tube. The swiftly-passing fields of sheep and marshy floodlands seemed like a metaphor for the stage of life I was in - nothing was static, and as each week opened new buds and blooms I was running to keep up to the standard set for me. I felt like if I closed my eyes for even a moment I would miss something crucial and get knocked over by it the next second, but it never happened. Instead, the forced movement opened parts of my mind I'd barely had time to explore, and on those long train journeys I created whole worlds to play with - worlds in which anything could take me by surprise, and the delightfully frivolous unknown was hiding just under the surface. Which is why, sat by my crocus and among the many cupcakes I baked this afternoon, I want to tell you a short story, and one story every day next week. I call them the When You're Not Looking series, and each one was written on a train in the spring on 2009. Hope you enjoy.
When You're Not Looking...
...PIGS do a mud-dance - their own equivalent of some tribal rain dances. The little ones spring in the air, enthusiastically shaking their floppy ears and wrinkling their speckled snouts, spattering mud about them with carefree abandonment. The older pigs march around them solemnly, proud porky heads held high, but occasionally dipping to fling clods with their noses. They plod in firm and stately manner, kicking every four steps with the right front trotter, creating a work of modern art in the pig-in-front's behind. When all are suitably bespattered, the great pigs take to rolling from side to side, while the little pigs continue their springing, leaping, frenzied dance, uttering high-pitched oinks to the grumbling undertones of the great pigs' grunts and snorts.
Eventually, when there is no inch of pink pig to be seen amidst all the mud, the now-disguised glooping creatures group in V formation, and begin their skulking approach to the farmhouse. Intent on silent ambush, they move as one squelching brown body, low to the ground, great pigs flanking little pigs who run with a mixture of youthful bravado and sheer terror in and out of their legs. Just as it appears there is no hope for the besieged farmhouse, one small pig, overcome, gives a loud squeal - the farmer appears, and in a confused and dripping rabble the would-be commando pigs tumble instead toward the feed trough.
All this Spring, well, springing, got me thinking about the unexpected expected - the things we know will happen but which we fail to anticipate, and the things which we hope for or imagine which sometimes, just sometimes, fall into our laps. It's such a strange part of the human experience, that shock of recognition when the unexpected expected comes and hits us in the face and we don't know what to do with it. Usually I have a little crazy dance all by myself (this generally worked well when I was at university and had a room of my own, but on one occasion I was caught mid-leap by the friend who lived across the corridor, and it was a bit difficult to explain...). Lately I don't have so much space for dancing - it endangers the surrounding cables, bookcase, and marmalade jars - so if I have to bounce I do so in a strictly vertical direction, and add some singing if necessary. I know it's weird, but there has to be an outlet, and I'm not much for running... though I'm trying my hand (or legs) at it again. But I digress.
About this time two years ago I was spending a lot of my time on trains, visiting Stan (who had only attained boyfriend status at the time) and my family, so I observed a lot of the Spring landscape from the inside of a rapidly-moving metal tube. The swiftly-passing fields of sheep and marshy floodlands seemed like a metaphor for the stage of life I was in - nothing was static, and as each week opened new buds and blooms I was running to keep up to the standard set for me. I felt like if I closed my eyes for even a moment I would miss something crucial and get knocked over by it the next second, but it never happened. Instead, the forced movement opened parts of my mind I'd barely had time to explore, and on those long train journeys I created whole worlds to play with - worlds in which anything could take me by surprise, and the delightfully frivolous unknown was hiding just under the surface. Which is why, sat by my crocus and among the many cupcakes I baked this afternoon, I want to tell you a short story, and one story every day next week. I call them the When You're Not Looking series, and each one was written on a train in the spring on 2009. Hope you enjoy.
When You're Not Looking...
...PIGS do a mud-dance - their own equivalent of some tribal rain dances. The little ones spring in the air, enthusiastically shaking their floppy ears and wrinkling their speckled snouts, spattering mud about them with carefree abandonment. The older pigs march around them solemnly, proud porky heads held high, but occasionally dipping to fling clods with their noses. They plod in firm and stately manner, kicking every four steps with the right front trotter, creating a work of modern art in the pig-in-front's behind. When all are suitably bespattered, the great pigs take to rolling from side to side, while the little pigs continue their springing, leaping, frenzied dance, uttering high-pitched oinks to the grumbling undertones of the great pigs' grunts and snorts.
Eventually, when there is no inch of pink pig to be seen amidst all the mud, the now-disguised glooping creatures group in V formation, and begin their skulking approach to the farmhouse. Intent on silent ambush, they move as one squelching brown body, low to the ground, great pigs flanking little pigs who run with a mixture of youthful bravado and sheer terror in and out of their legs. Just as it appears there is no hope for the besieged farmhouse, one small pig, overcome, gives a loud squeal - the farmer appears, and in a confused and dripping rabble the would-be commando pigs tumble instead toward the feed trough.
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