Apperception

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To sleep, or not to sleep? That is the problem.

But to sleep, for the obedient wrongdoer, in the aftermath of a wrongdoing done, is not much of a muchness of a problem.

A wrongdoing done to another, a deception, is not much of a problem to be borne, if one was ordered by another wrongdoer to get the wrongdoing done.

It’s a not-muchness of a problem that can be smashed up into pieces, like an egg; and the bits, being slowly digested, causing only a minor irritation to the oesophagus – a tickling rather than a scratching.

And with the tickle comes a giggle, as the bearer, now happy on the eggshell sertralin, drifts off to sleep – job done.

Memories dispersed.

Conscience-free.

 

And the next day …

Just a big itch.

In one’s bottom.

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

 

 

51: Saucy Sunday

Fed up with tidying up everyone else’s mess, I thought I’d experiment, i.e. abandon the kitchen for a day, in the hope that Hubby might get busy in there.

Hubby did get busy in there.

After a long Sunday-morning lie-in, I decide to face reality and venture into the kitchen.

This is what it looks like:

 

Sachets of sauce, scattered spices, dirty laundry, bottle tops, rank dishcloths, bla, bla, bla … on and on and on as far as the eye can see and the nose can smell.

Seems that somebody decided to have a sort out! If only they had thought to replace the items brought thus out of the cupboards, donned the pink gloves and got hold of a bottle of bleach!

Looks like today’s walk is a no, no!

Need cheering up first, so popping outside to snap up something prettier.

And, somehow, overnight, the dandelions on my lawn have taken on a new kind of beauty. Perhaps I won’t get the lawnmower out after all …

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Just caught aforesaid Hubby, peering furtively at me from our cave door.

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I frown at him.

‘I’m just sorting out a system,’ he says. ‘We need a system!’

All systemised out, I retreat to my writing desk and leave the new Mr Hinch to it …

Await the update!

 

Copyright of text and photographs owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

P.S. I have five days of the day job left, before I go all independent. Have I just signed up to a future as an unpaid cleaner? Or, is it really possible for a cave-dwelling eccentric to earn a living as a self-promoted freelance nutter?

50: Croissants in Cornard

Saturday. A definite picnic day.

Only five more days left of the day job. Time to prepare for the wind down!

I turf out all the junk mail that’s been accumulating in my stylish picnic basket and fill it to the brim with delights. Lots of healthy fruit – a water melon, bananas, tomatoes, etc. And, even some veg – a bunch of spring onions! All set. Whoops, forgot the chocolate croissants – my main course!

And it all looks extremely pretty and artistic laid out on a picnic table in Great Cornard Country Park. I congratulate myself on the arrangement and capture the moment with my Nokia.

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The water melon benefits from a close-up shot:

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And then I acknowledge the truth. Sprog 3 and a sproggling friend were the real artists involved in the set-up. But, if one has produced a talented sprog that has teamed up with another talented sprog, then surely one is entitled to steal the outcome? Besides which, then my Nokia took these photos.

Being me, within a few seconds, my feet start to itch and I trip-trap across a little footbridge to capture a view of a promised land.

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Hubby assures me that if I walk through the golden wheat field and into the horizon, I’ll find a viewing platform enabling me to get a snapshot of the mere.

I’m off.

Well … almost …

First, I explore my immediate surroundings. Who knows what trolls might be lurking?

Then the sprog in me, who wants to save the best til last, doubles back, and proceeds to wander around the perimeter of the picnic area – to track down anything interesting in the undergrowth. And, it’s not a bad collection:

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But, within minutes, my red shoes take control of the situation; I’m left with no other option but to cross that bridge and go for gold.

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As I’m sure you’ve gathered by now, I, Jay Cool, am not one to ignore anything that’s going on below, so I zoom-in …

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And I cannot but help but feel proud of the outcome.

With mounting confidence (my photography is sure to earn me a commission with the Suffolk Norfolk Life magazine, or even with a spot in The Guardian’s top 20 photographs of the week list), I take a tour of the local property hotspots.

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I pause a while and contemplate sharing my property collage with the Sudbury branch of Bychoice, but come to the realisation that, as far as Jay Cool is aware, these buildings are not ‘For Sale’!

Time to refocus! And time to go wild with splodges of pink, purple, yellow and … more pink! I could give those splatty-paint modern artist dudes a run for their money!

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Which do you prefer: Jay Cool’s wild-flower collage, or this watery effort (sorry, Edith!)?

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To be fair, then I rather like the above piece – reminds of a carpet burn I once had that seemed to eat further and further into my skin when I kept on dousing the scab in Dettol! Nobody told me that Dettol is supposed to be diluted and, no, I couldn’t be bothered to read the label – I was a lazy University student, lacking in any morsel of common sense!

I reach the horizon. Hubby told me to turn left at the end and I would find the aforesaid viewing platform. Following my orders, I go left and follow a line of trees along the far edge of the wheat field. I see nothing but a wall of trees! But, at the corner, I take a right turn in the hope it will take me beyond. A footpath lined with yet more trees takes me up a gentle slope and a series of steep steps.

And the mere?

The mere does not exist anywhere, except in my Hubby’s imagination. I see no mere, but I do see an old geezer hovering around near the bushes in safari gear. He looks annoyed by my sudden presence. Perhaps he was hoping for a rarer species of bird to turn the corner. And I also see quality! Forget the field of Rose Gold wheat (only 9 carat); the fields beyond the beyond must be higher up the hierarchy than the 18 carat Yellow Gold stuff.

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And, what’s more, the poppies must have more value than a Monet original!

The scenes are fabulous, but on hitting the road leading out of Great Cornard and into Bures, I think its best to turn back and rejoin the picnic party. En route, I find a couple of recesses – squares of freshly mown grass adjoining wooden fences – are these the viewing platforms? Surely not!

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There are no views to speak of, and no mere, but I hold my Nokia up high and take some pics anyway – just in case the outcomes look better when seen from the vantage point of my laptop.

When I re-emerge at the point of the horizon and commence back down the Rose Gold wheat field, a new sense of determination takes hold of me. Instead of rushing forth to the picnic area, I take a left turn – through what may or may not be a footpath – submerging myself in wheat. I can hear running water – the mere must be in this direction! Spotting a gap in some hedgerows, filled in with a wooden fence, I think – this must be the moment! The mere is over there and I, Jay Cool the adventurer, need to get to it.

If the path on which I stand is very possibly not a path, then the route through the wheat to my chosen destination is absolutely not a path – but that’s no matter! Nothing can stop me now! I wade through, doing my best not to flatten any stems. Not sure why I’m quite so concerned when the kernels will end up in my bread at some point anyway! But, because I am Jay Cool the environmental guru, I like to be able to sleep at night with a clear conscience.

Cutting to the chase, or to the carbohydrates in the endosperm, I arrive at the edge of the wheat field only to find my path to the fence barred by lots and lots and more lots of nettles. Aaaarrrrrgh! Thanks to my Poundland shorts, My legs are completely naked (and, no, the rest of me isn’t) and I don’t even have a protective layer of hair to defend me (yes, earlier this morning, I gave into social expectations and got to work with a pink-plastic disposable razor (again, from Poundland)).

But, this is Jay Cool. And Jay Cool is brave. I take the plunge and go for it.

OUCH, OUCH AND MORE OUCH!

I’d like to say that the victory stop was worth all of the pain, but I’ll allow you to judge that one for yourself.

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Is this the mere, or just some rich person’s garden pond? Gutted and slightly concerned that I might be caught snooping, I take a runner back from whence I came (if I’m quick enough, the stings won’t hurt and the wheat stems will bounce back up again).

On my return trip via the Rose Gold wheat field’s designated footpath, I notice an area of wheat, about double-bed size, completely flattened. Have I just missed Tommy and Mollie-Mai? Are they on the run from Love Island? And there was I – worried about breaking a couple of stems!

A few more steps – and I locate my next victim!

‘Hubby!

Hubby, why did you tell me to look at the mere? There is no mere! You sent me on a wild goose chase … and not for the first time either!’

‘But, how could you have missed it? Didn’t you see the viewing platform – that little square of lawn, cut into the hedgerows, next to a fence?’

‘That? THAT WAS THE VIEWING PLATFORM? I was there and there was definitely no mere!’

‘What? How could you not have seen it?’

‘I saw an explorer who looked like this:

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And, I saw a wooden fence, and a square of lawn, but I did not see anything resembling a mere!’

Hubby’s still looking aghast, so I show him the evidence.

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‘Oh,’ he laughs. ‘Oh, I forgot that you are shorter than me, and wouldn’t be able to see the same view!’

‘Ha, ha, ha! Hubby, ha, ha! Grrrrrrhhhhhhhh ….!!!!!’

A chocolate croissant, a couple of tomatoes and a banana dipped in coffee later, I’m off again. I’ve been chomping at the bit (Hubby’s favourite phrase) to get back and photograph some of the wild flowers that wowed me on our way into the park, via the allotments. I take leave, again, of my company, who are still eating. I mean, how long does it take to have a picnic? I’ve already seen half the world in the time it’s taken that lot to chew the cud!

And now, to you my one loyal and devoted reader (Ricardo Scribblero), I present the other half of Jay Cool’s planet. So, suck it up!

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Oh dear, never mind the au natural look – my grey roots need touching up! Was I grey, before my poet friend, the old man Ricardo, talked me into going as orange as Stacey Dooley? Surely not?

‘Come on, Sprogs! In the car! We need to stop by at Poundland for an orange top-up!

No, no, it’s alright. Dad doesn’t need to get in too! He’s staying right where he is!

HERE’S MY NOKIA, HUBBY! FIND YOUR FICTIONAL MERE AND GET SNAPPING! SEE YOU LATER!’

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

P.S. Yes, I know that Love Island’s a load of tosh! But, being a load of old tosh, I love it!

 

Modern art image courtesy of edith lüthi from Pixabay.

Monet image courtesy of Markus Baumeler from Pixabay.

Image of alligator explorer by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay.

38: Assington

Saturday. Time to get out and to be out.

Today’s destination? No, I’m not driving to work on a Saturday – forget that! But, every workday, I drive up the A14 towards Colchester and, out of the corner of my right eye, see a church steeple beckoning to me from on high.

Come on! it screams. Bunk off work, take that right turn, and come to worship! You know you want to!  But, being a vicar’s daughter, I’m well-versed in church avoidance tactics. So, I ignore the voice of the Lord and continue on up the A14 towards my employer, who does at least pay me for my obedience.

Come Saturday, though, and I’ve run out of excuses. Also, the boss is only paying me for the next month or so, at which point I bank my redundancy cheque. Time to listen to the voice of all that is miraculous. Time to hedge my bets.

And DD (my beloved, but temperamental Dacia) is raring to go (i.e. stalling). A couple of hundred yards into my journey, DD stops – with her nose stuck right out onto a roundabout! Fortunately, the car approaching from the right is the DD’s double – another Dacia. It too stalls, stopping short of DD, and we’re able to take off again.

It’s going to be a lazy day for DD. She decides that her driver needs some exercise, nips into a lay-by, and turfs me out. I’m left with no choice but to slog towards my goal via the field route. The red carpet awaits!

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I may be strange but, to me, there’s something special about mixing the man-made with the natural.

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After all, isn’t this what we all do when we head off to Argos to select whichever watch best complements our skin tone?

Dig this one!

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Totally in love with this watch and it broke the soon-to-be-redundant bank, at less than a tenner! Cheap love. Give me more!

Watches aside, then who would have known that the walk to the church would yield so many floral perks? Churchgoers – forget the in-house flower arrangements! Why pay the professionals, when God did such a good job out here?

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Soak up the sunlight and immerse yourselves in natural colour!

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And if a downpour catches you out, take cover in one of these hideaways:

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If you fancy drinking tea with Hagrid, go for the thatched roundhouse, or alternatively, keep company with a woodlouse inside an abandoned shed.

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I have to add at this point, that whereas all of the grasslands and borders are extremely beautiful, it’s wise to don your leggings – especially if, like me, you’re the redheaded-sensitive-skin type of a wild thing.

Hope this goggling geezer’s got his trogs on!

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Trogs or not, then I reckon that any number of nettle and bee stings, rashes and scratches, are more than compensated for by the countryside view on offer. I especially love the swathes of purple. I’d like to be able to say that the botany project my Aberdonian schoolteacher made me do, all those years ago, had equipped me with a lifelong encyclopedic knowledge of wild flower names. Unfortunately, my brain has been scrambled by twenty-three years of employment in a mashing factory, and all ability to recall names of any kind, people or plants, has been irrevocably destroyed. Still, at least I know my colours! And red and purple are my all-time favourites. Just take a look at that red poppy (hey, I’ve identified something), trying to muscle in on the tall and slender purples! (Kind of reminds me of Love Island’s Anton’s doomed attempt to muscle in on the towering Arabella!)

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And the walk continues to deliver, as I get closer to the holy place – even offering up some mutton chops to chew on.

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But being a vegetarian, I prefer to pause and indulge in some off-task chatter:

Baaaaaah, bah, baaaaaaaaaaaaaah …

Have to say that the conversation is very one-way. Hence, it comes to its logical conclusion:

CHOMP!

I had a Godfather (no idea whether I still do) called Brian, and I recall him being very fond of a chomp on some churchyard flowers (back in the day, in the parish of Donington, Shropshire). For this reason, I cannot help but slip into a daydream, conjuring up an image of mutton cuisine with a pink-flower side salad.

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Rather fortuitously, my attentions are diverted by a luscious-blonde uplighter. And, a little further on, I come across its inferior – all dressed up in a pretty lavender shade and flirting with a pair of daisies. Could this be a not-so-cool Curtis, taking his time over whether to go for Maura or Francesca? If he bothered to look back to his left, he’d realise what a superior specimen he left behind when he rejected Amy. Silly man!

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Sorry, Curtis, there’s no easy fix! You had your day and you lost out!

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At last, Jay Cool arrives at the Church of St Edmund, and there’s a luscious ginger at the helm, holding on for dear life (musn’t wear that bumbag again – makes me look like I’m the oldest nutter on this planet to be up the duff).

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A friendly church caretaker  (warden?) is cleaning up the church and its grounds, and he encourages me to inspect the ‘fascinating’ remains of past congregations (many of whom bore the surname of Gurdon). I don’t need much encouragement to indulge in my favourite pastimes of grave-digging, poo photography and wonky tower dodging. But it does help to know that I am not the only one who has a fascination with all things weird. And, on entering the church itself, I’m pleased to receive a second nod of approval by none other than the Great One!

Yes, Jay Cool, the Great One agrees in a telepathic sort of a way.

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Yes, you really are doing the Earth a favour by giving up the day job to become a bestselling author! Your title ‘Fractured Faeces’ is a guaranteed No.1 in Waterstones and on Amazon.

But, I’ve barely heard out the Great One, before I clutch my hands to my heart.

 

This is it – I’ve fallen in love – I’ve just got to have this red chair, and I’m seriously tempted to declare my new-found passion to the entire population of Assington, via the pulpit! But the friendly caretaker is still hovering around with his Hoover, so I resist. It’s one thing performing to a crowd; quite another to have an audience of one!

I move back to the churchyard (can always return to gaze at the chair again later), and shoot away at the already deceased (always wanted to be the heroine in a zombie action movie).

ass13It all gets a bit much, though, even for a starlet, and I decide it’s time to crash out with the twice-dead.

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It’s comfortable enough but, before long I’m having nightmares (daymares?), and things start to take a dark turn, as the film set begins to turn into reality.

Time to leave …

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I make my escape, back the way from whence I came. It would be a mistake, however, to call it a return journey, as this would be to suggest a repeat of the same experience. And, this is far from the case; everything looks different from another direction because, I am not, believe it or not, walking backwards!

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Okay, so a red carpet looks pretty much the same whichever direction one walks along it, but I definitely didn’t spot this three-trunked tree when outward bound. And neither did I snap any of these flowering wonders.

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Before long, I find myself being swung at by some horrifically spiky medieval flails (below, top right – reckon my boss is on the other end of them). And, I’m just beginning to recover from the shock (not at all shocking, if it was the boss), when I look up to see that I’m walking through a sea of bubbles. It’s like being in the Bible story, when the Red Sea departs to let Moses and his followers pass through to safety on the other side. Except that I’m not Moses. I’m Jay Cool. The sea is very green and I have a suspicion that it’s about to keel over and drown me. ass17

Oh my darling, oh my darling. Oh my darling – Mistress Cool.
Thou art lost and gone forever. What a to do, Mistress Cool.
You drove your victims to the water, every morning just at nine.
Hit your foot against a splinter, and fell into foaming brine.
Wonky lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine.
But alas, you were no swimmer, so you drowned my Mistress Cool.
Oh my darling, oh my darling. Oh my darling, Mistress Cool,
You are lost and gone forever, and I’m not sorry, Mistress Cool.
Lyrics adapted from ‘Oh my darling, Clementine’, a traditional song attributed to Percy Montrose (1884).
Swimmer or not, I somehow survive the Green Sea. But, when I stick my head up, gasping for air, this is what greets me:

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Assington Autos! Such an attractive view! What were Barbergh Council playing at by allowing this planning application through?

My sanity quickly recovers, thanks to a wild flower bonanza. It’s all even more exciting than a visit I recall to the Dutch tulip fields, back in the day (when I was even younger, but less sprightly)!

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The only minor issue, here, being that the generic name of tulip covers all in the Netherlands, whereas I can’t very well use poppy and daisy with everything that regards itself as a flower in Assington.

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Looking beyond the borders, fields of wheat stretch out to the horizon. Shame my legs don’t extend out that far.

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If they did, I’d be able to catch up with my Love Island favourites, Ovie and Amber, who appear to be enjoying a tete-a-tete. Amber’s doing a Maura, and leaning in for a quick snog, but looks like Ovie’s having none of it. More fool him!

I make it back to the lay-by to find DD. She’s impatient, wanting an immediate leave, but I’m lingering on … to take just a few more pics. And, then, … just a few more …

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DD’s revving up, which were she any other car, would make me panic and jump in. But I know DD – she stalls, which leaves me with many more seconds to kill. Snap. Stall. Snap. Etc.

It’s time. I jump into the driver’s seat, just to be sure that DD takes me in the right direction – and we end up where I’d planned to end up all along:

Hello, Shoulder of Mutton! Anything vegetarian on your menu? No. Oh well, just as well I picked up some wild mushrooms en route. Mushroom soup?

No?

Okay, if I really have to, I’ll settle for a pint of Aspall’s! (No, I’m not driving back home afterwards! Why do you think I have DD? And a fine-looking chauffeur?)

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Need to hire a chauffeur anyone? That’s great – get in touch with the firm! This fine specimen’s been booked up for quite some years to come …

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So go get your own!

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

Image of goddess from Pixabay.com. All other images by Jay Cool.

 

Please see links to other posts by Jay Cool:

50: Croissants in Cornard

48: Luka in Lexden

46: Roman Remains

Laughter on Location at Leestock

 

Quintessence

I quit.

And in the quitting,

I squint in the sunlight,

and find, that at last, I make sense.

 

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Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

Featured image from Pixabay.com

 

49: Sad

Disclaimer: If you decide to purchase a featured product, via one of the image links, I will receive a commission from Amazon at no extra cost to yourself.

Seven working days to go and they ain’t half dragging!

Sure, a part of me is sad – I have been in this job for twenty-three years and, at various times, have come close to being consumed by it. But, when one went into a job with some lofty idea about being able to help my fellow human beings in some way and, instead, has found the profession swarming with scramblers happy to quash anyone with an opinion, one has to swim out of the dung pit.

Better out than in!

And it’s even better to be out when there’s so much going on in my garden. When DD delivers me back to my cave, a quick perusal of my estate wipes out any doubts I might have about my decision to escape from the office early today.

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Did I see such variety, whilst at work today? Did I see happy faces, reaching up to the skies, full of hope for a future? No. Just lots and lots of lots of people all wearing much the same thing and all doing much the same thing and all looking much the same, i.e. gloomy.

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Yet, here in my own lands, I find ladies in cerise pink ballgowns dancing on air, pink-tipped angels fluttering their wings, white-sprigs bobbing around on fancy hats and, best of all, just to complete the dancer-room theme, an upturned yellow chandelier. I’m home! Let the party begin!

And, for those of you who prefer to bring the outside into your home, perhaps you could recreate the Jay Cool garden theme with some of these choice items from Amazon;

 

Not creative enough for you? Liven up the dance by decorating your own hat!

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Or perhaps the calm-green look is more to your taste?

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Pretty sure that Nanna Cool was once the proud owner of a tea-set with the same design. Will see what Amazon can come up with!

The disposable paper variety wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but if it fits in with the whole indoor-outdoor garden party theme?

Enough, Jay Cool! Enough of all that joviality! Your sprogs are squabbling ….

Oh yes, so they are. Problem. Why am I giving the day job up? Do I really want to spend more time with my sprogs?

Second problem. The kitchen’s still in a mess from breakfast time. ‘Kids! Which one of you is volunteering to sign up for scivvy training? Both of you? Excellent.’

Problem solved.

Day job not wanted!

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

‘Morris Dancers’ image by Image by ShepherdMedia from Pixabay

48: Luka in Lexden

Disclaimer: If you choose to purchase the featured book, via the image link, I will receive a commission at no extra-cost to yourself.

 

This is the day.

No, Dad*, this is not ‘the day that the Lord has made’! This is the day for my umpteenth guitar and singing lesson. Today, I get to hear a recording of me, my two-weeks ago self, singing Suzanne Vega’s Luka.

With a sense of impending disaster, I jump into DD (my loyal Dacia Sandero), and allow myself to be zoomed off to Lexden.

I arrive with almost an hour to spare; not, because I am keen, but because I need to get the whole torturous process of listening to myself over with as quickly as possible. Also, it gives me plenty of time to stay seated in DD, reading a good book. I dig into my backpack and retrieve ‘Bookworm’ by Lucy Mangan. It’s not without some resentment that I purchased this piece of genius; this is, after all, by an author who had the foresight to put her thoughts into action, and beat me to my own idea of writing a childhood-reading memoir. She who hesitates is lost!

Half a page later, and I’m all done in. I like the word ‘quintessence’ and make a note of it (should inspire the muse), before abandoning my roasting-hot DD; if I read any further, I’ll be well and truly cooked-up.

Just round the corner is a turnstile, leading out of this residential suburb and into enchantment. I’m in the Hilly Field Nature Reserve and this is what living is all about. I swap the book for my Nokia and start snapping. Crouch, squat, snap. Crouch, squat ….

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‘The memory is full. You must delete some photos to free up space, before you can take any more.’

Whose idea was it to purchase a Nokia? I need a bigger memory to compensate for my own very tiny one!

Select. Delete. Select. Delete * lots of times!

Crouch, squat, snap. Crouch, squat ….

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‘The memory is full. You must delete some photos to free up space, before you can take any more.’

Select. Delete. Select. Delete * lots of times!

Crouch, squat, snap. Crouch, squat ….

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‘The memory is full. You must delete some photos to free up space, before you can take any more.’

Select. Delete. Select. Delete * lots of times!

Crouch, squat, snap. Crouch, squat ….

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‘The memory is full. You must delete some photos to free up space, before you can take any more.’

Select. Delete. Select. Delete * lots of times!

Crouch, squat, snap. Crouch, squat ….

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Put the last few lines on repeat * lots of times, and it just about sums up the next hour. Hour? I only had … less than an hour to kill!

Kill. Kill the Nokia. I’m late for my own preview recording!

Up. Go. Run …..

It’s bad. More than bad. Jay Cool has the most incredible talent at getting the flat notes just so! She’s excruciating to listen to, and I make a mental note to steal a pair of my son’s foam earplugs ready for my next music lesson. Fortunately, my tutor’s a dab hand at fiddling about with the electronic tuning and, before the less-than-an-hour’s lesson is up, I find I can just about tolerate the din. He tells me that all the best singer’s have their recordings fine tuned by the software. Even Lady Gaga!

He doesn’t fool me with his white lies. As Joanna, of Love Island says, each little white lie can lead up to the big one!

And here comes the big one!

‘Your tone is perfect!’

And the catch?

‘You just need to work on the vocal exercises to access the right notes!’

Cheers!

So I can’t sing, but I’m not giving up the day job to launch my singing career, and I have taken some pretty cool photographs. Just take a look at the rest today’s collection:

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My favourite pic? That’s easy – it’s the half-dead daisies! Some bits dropping off and the rest raring to go ………

THAT’S ME!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

*Please do excuse any interceptions by my dad – he can’t help it! Thinks he’s still doing his man of the cloth day job! No, dad, you’re retired now … It’s okay to descend from the pulpit!

46: Roman Remains

Disclaimer: This post contains image links to associated products. If you make a purchase, I will receive a commission at no extra cost to yourself.

 

Saturday. A difficult day for making any progress with my blog. Mountains of crocks from Friday evening to be dealt with first!

Where is my friend, Mrs Hinch, when she’s needed? And why doesn’t that Zoflora stuff do the disinfecting without the necessity of any manual labour?

Forget the crocks. Time to get out!

Time to hit Chilton! First stop, clutches of green eggs, all snuggled up in their parents’ love nests, accompanied by black-headed pins sunbathing on pretty-pink cushions.

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Love Nests & Pin Cushions

Poppies. Cow parsley. Brambles. Prickles. Why did I opt for bare legs today? Leggings, get yourselves here – now!

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Now, I’m pretty sure, that were Hubby here, he would make the definitive statement that this is nothing more than hogweed. But, this is what I see. A girl-band of fairies, one on each platform, all singing their hearts out and striving to catch the attention of the King of the Little People – Louis Walsh!

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Fairy Stage

Sloes. Attractive, but not as attractive as they look when fermenting in a bottle of gin! No idea what the white flowers are, but they bring back memories of other children’s paper snowflakes sellotaped to a primary classroom window. Was it just me, or did everyone else spend hours cutting intricate shapes out of their folded and quartered paper square, only to open them up to find – not a snowflake – but four separate pieces of holey paper!

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Snowflake in July

Red and yellow and pink and blue; orange and purple and green. I can sing a rainbow, sing a …. Okay, so you can’t see any orange but, come on, all of the other colours are featured! And my hair’s orange – that counts!

July 6 collage 1

And, whilst we’re on the subject of hair, who should I see gazing into my Nokia’a lens, but Boris Johnson (top left, below) and, judging by the state of his bulbous-red nose, I reckon he’s just been for a filler at the The Five Bells, down in Cornard. Just take a look at him – thinking he’s the bees’ knees (2), with all those purple-hatted royal ladies competing to get a kiss from him! Yuck! Boris, get off your pedestal – you’re not PM yet (and you never will be if anyone’s got any sense!)!

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‘The Five Bells’, Great Cornard, Sudbury, Suffolk

July 6 collage 2

Yes, all of the wild flowers of Chilton are stunning, just like the photographer, but I resist the temptation to take a selfie, and I drift downhill from Chilton, take a run for it across the busy bypass, and head along a somewhat-quieter byway that gives me a fine view of the properties that grace Cornard Road. Nothing prepares me for the splendour of the site that greets me

Viriconium.

July 6 collage 4

The ruins of a Roman town, not in Shropshire’s Wroxeter, but in Suffolk? When I left Shropshire, at the age of four, did I hoist the landscape up onto my tiny shoulders and bring it along with me? Did I carry it on my family’s voyage all around the coast of the UK, before depositing it in Sudbury?

You doubt me?

Spot the difference!

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View from byway overlooking Sudbury & Great Cornard, in Suffolk
Viriconium
Viriconum, near Wroxeter, in Shropshire

Adrenaline rushes through me, as I see the opportunity for a new challenge. Why the heck did that Septimus Severus geezer ban women from fighting as gladiators? Reckon I’d have given Spartacus a run for his money (did slaves have any money?)! Time to get back to my cave and don my fighting gear.

Shame this outfit is lacking in the essentials, because I’m feeling rather suave in it!

But, if can persuade Amazon to do a mix ‘n’ match deal, with the dagger and shield from the brunette wench, I’ll be right in the action!

 

I jog back up the cliff face, eager to rummage through the fancy kit in my cave home’s dressing room, and all revved up for challenging my next invader to a duel, when I come to a rather abrupt stop. A flourescent-yellow lightshade is blinding me with its glare, and I feel like I’m in one of those nightmares – you know, the ones when your legs are running, but you’re not getting anywhere. There’s nothing I can do. And, within seconds, thanks to the fortune I saved by not going for the anti-glare tint on my sunglasses, I find myself completely immobilised.

July 6 collage 5

Where are the men when they’re needed. Come on, Hubby! Come and rescue your maiden in distress. I’ve been petrified by a basilisk! This is surely something to do with that sexist b*****d, Septimus Severus!

Come on, Hubby (3), sort it! Help me out of this mess!

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

(1) My level-headed Hubby corrects my misconceptions. Apparently, this is actually a bramble bush!

(2) On the issue of whether the apostrophe should be before or after the ‘s’ in bees, depending on how many knees we are talking about, I have opted for bees in the plural. As Kirk Elder suggests, then: ‘the bee is singular, unless it is in a swarm, in which case it is quite dangerous.’

(3) If Hubby turns out to useless in an emergency, there’s nothing to stop me calling for Love Island‘s Curtis. After all, if Maura thinks he’s a real ‘manly’  sort of a man – then he must be!

47: Miserable

No, I’m not miserable about the fact that I only have two-and-a-half working weeks left in my job. Get real! In a couple of months, I get my redundancy payment. And, in a couple of years my publications will be on the best-seller lists in Waterstones, WHSmiths, Amazon, Ebay, …………., etc.

No, I’m not miserable about the idea of working for myself, rather than for the boss, just a bit (a lot) miserable about the idea of giving up on buying books for a wee* while.

I don’t expect to be believed on this one, but I’ve decided that my redundancy money might stretch a little further if I review the books I’ve already read, rather than adding to my pile of unread newbies. The last time I bought a book was …. six days ago!

It’s official. I’m now a recovered book addict. And never again will I stray from the fold.

Pity, because I’ve just written a review of Switched, and that really ought to entitle me to purchase ‘Torn’ and ‘Ascend’, the other two novels in Amanda Hockman’s trilogy. Come on, Amazon, you know you want to send me some free (signed) copies, as a little thank you for all my efforts! Yes, I know that nobody’s actually bought any of the books, via the links on my reviews, yet – but the day is young!

And, today, I have also written reviews about The Universe Versus Alex Woods and The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake.

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So give me a break! Please …

In order to alleviate some of my new-book withdrawal symptoms, I’m going to sprint headlong (is this even possible?) down from my mountain-top cave, to my local for a pint of the old mango cider. It is okay to spend money on a pint, isn’t it?

And, just to prove that mango cider isn’t the only thing motivating me to step outside today, I’ve just nipped out of my cave to take this beautiful snap of beast on a mountain-top flower:

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Enjoy your interactions with the beast; I’m off to my local!

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

*Yes, I am entitled to use the word ‘wee’. I may be English, and a little bit Irish, and a lot crazy, but I was also a schoolchild in Scotland. And that’s entitlement enough!

Savvy Book – The Universe Versus Alex Woods

Disclaimer: If you choose, via this  post,  to purchase the featured book, I will receive a commission from Waterstones.

A story that begins at its ending, with a seventeen-year-old boy called Alex, being arrested at customs for trying to re-enter his home country with a dead man on his passenger seat! The suspense is built up by the weird situation Alex finds himself in, when the reader starts to question why the interrogators are more interested in the marijuana in Alex’s glove compartment than they are in the deceased.

Time shifts, and the rest of the book, The Universe Versus Alex Woods, takes the reader back to Alex’s childhood and details a strong friendship that Alex forges with an elderly man called Mr Peterson. Alex is a bit of loner, and Mr Peterson a Vietnam War survivor and Amnesty International supporter. Alex finds a humanity in Mr Peterson, sadly lacking in some of his bully-boy peers, as the two work together writing letter to convicts ‘wrongly imprisoned – on spurious charges’ (p.120).

Serious issues, such as the bullying and also of terminal illness, are treated with sensitivity and humour by the author, Gavin Extence, and I particularly enjoyed the following analogy between prisoners and school students:

‘They were good people who’d been locked away and denied their most basic human rights. They weren’t allowed to act according to their consciences or even to express their opinions without fear of persecution and physical reprisals – although Mr Peterson doubted very much that I could imagine what that was like. I told Mr Peterson that since I went to secondary school, I though I could imagine it fairly well.’ (p.120)

Mr Peterson provides Alex with an alternative world, an escape, albeit temporarily, from the realities of a bog-standard-one-fits-all education, in which the differences that make us all human are often quashed. So it seems fitting when, in turn, Alex, pumped up on ‘adrenaline’, assists his friend in escaping from the confines of a hospital ward staffed by humourless nurses.

Maybe you’ve worked out for yourself, by now, how the beginning of the story marries up with the ending, or maybe you haven’t. Either way, then this book should be next on your agenda, as I’ve only revealed a very small sample of all the laughs in store!

 

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, July 2019

 

Savvy Letter – Dear Bannatyne

Savvy Book – Fuse

Savvy Poem – Towyn