Difficult Decisions and Brain Fog


It’s a decision that I face every day, maybe even twice a day. Or, at least, I should be facing it but because of the brain fog I often can’t remember if I have remembered to or not. (Life’s got very like that).

You rip open the packet, out it comes and off you go to use it.  Just like that.  In everyday, ‘normal’ life.  You don’t think anything more of it.

It was Husband who needed one first. He grabbed the first one out of the pack, he clearly wasn’t worried about what colour it was, and started using it.

Of course, when I needed one, I ended up with the other colour.

And this where my baffled brain (cell, singular, most likely) gets bamboozled every day, or whenever it is that I remember to brush my teeth (because, sadly, I don’t remember when I do), because my Husband has the pink toothbrush. I have the blue. He doesn’t have a problem with it. I don’t have a problem with it. I mean, after all, this is just a toothbrush that we’re talking about, something that we spend a mere six minutes average with daily, and I’m fully aware that the pink/blue thing is an entirely modern concept (perhaps ironically). However, however … Mongrel Beast is confused.

(Mongrel Beast likes helpful prompts and reminders about daily living, appreciates stereotypes to simplify proceedings).

It doesn’t help either that Husband is deeply mistrustful of my ability to use the appropriate toothbrush. If he catches my hand quavering over the tooth glass then I’m in for an interrogation. It doesn’t reassure him that I can never remember when I last brushed my teeth much less vouch for which apparatus I may have used at the time. And then, naturally, under the heightened pressure and emotion, Mongrel Beast will usually fail to supply the answer to which toothbrush is indeed the correct one. (Although, Mongrel Beast does at least grasp that guessing is not likely to end successfully so just haws like an asthmatic fish).

(Even our dearest are apt to forget, at times, that which is the monsters such as Mongrel Beast that eat away at our cognition and that which is our true Selves).

Nor does it help that the toothbrushes are only differentiated by a slight band of their respective colours. To the addled brain cell, they are both white toothbrushes. You have to look closely. And then, of course, remember. (I’m not doing well with the remembering thing at the moment, did you know?)

I have taken to placing my toothbrush upside down in order to make (or, at least, in hope of, making) it clearer to myself. I don’t think it dries as well though.

And, then, of course, sometimes I forget to…

(Life’s got very like that).


Memory Loss


Is there a word for forgetting what a word is?

You know, just a single word

A term, I think they call it

I can’t even remember the word for that

So how am I supposed to remember the word for forgetting words?


I think there must be a word for it

There always is

I remember a world of fancy words


A once upon a time world

That never was


I’m nostalgic but have little idea of how I arrived here

I can’t remember what I’m forgetting


A Canary Conversation


We got talking about canaries the other night, Husband and me.

We have recently found out that Norwich was once the capital of canary breeding in England.  Maybe that explains the nickname for the local football team, more than just the colour of their strip.

Husband, however, was telling me that canaries aren’t really yellow after all.  I know, I was having visions of several pillars of my childhood and culture disappearing down the pans marked ‘myth’ and ‘lie’ faster than you can say goldfish.  Well, don’t worry, canaries are yellow but they’re just not meant to be.  Apparently, it’s a genetic mutation that one breeder made rather popular.

So what colour are real canaries then?  I want to know.

And where do canaries come from?  The Canary Islands?!  (I know the canary wine, an old-fashioned brew that I have never met in modern life came from there; they used to pay the poet laureate with it).

I know little about the birds that people keep as pets.

I thought I had canaries, at least, sussed.

Apparently not.

And if canaries come from the Canaries then all I could suppose was that budgies come from a car hire place.  Husband was not amused.

(I believe budgies are the blue ones with the stripes.  I await this theory being destroyed also …)

Apparently, it isn’t that wild canaries (wherever they do hail from) aren’t ever yellow but this colour makes them too vulnerable to predation so they don’t survive.

I discerned a flaw.

What about parrots?

Parrots?  Husband wasn’t quite sure what path my brand of logic was leading me down.  (I don’t blame him).

Parrots are bright colours.  How come they don’t get predated?  Or is it just because they live in Brazil where everything is bright coloured?

Sexual selection.  Came Husband’s sage reply.

I spent a moment trying to work out what sexual selection had to do with predation rates.  I failed.

They’re bright colours to help them attract a mate.


So we’re saying that bright yellow canaries aren’t sexually attractive to other canaries?

I was indignant on behalf of the thousands, if not millions, of yellow canaries that live in this country, if not their natural habitat.

Husband decided that he was rapidly coming to the end of his scientific knowledge about canaries.

Anyway, why do parakeets live in Australia when parrots live in Brazil?

The wordsmith in me has always wanted to know; the words sound related but are they?

And what’s the difference between cockatoos and cockatiels?  I know one is white with a fancy hair do but I can never remember which.

Husband retreated inwards to his own musings.

I was left digesting my newly acquired knowledge.

And what about Canary Wharf?

He looked up.

Canary Wharf.  You know, Canary Wharf.

It was possible that he did.

Is that where canaries used to be disembarked or something?

Neither of us knew.

Then we hit upon a major discovery:

The Klingon security officer in Star Trek wears a yellow uniform.

Why is this?

Because he’s a Canary Worf.

Woolly Thoughts


A Sheep from a Knitter's Viewpoint

It has come to my attention that I like wool.  No, not wool as in yarn, as any self-respecting knitter has to, but wool as in sheep fluff string.  I love the feel of it.  I love the smell of it.  Is that weird?  I want to be wrapped in woollens, preferably of my own fabrication.  I am not a fan of acrylic after all.

There’s a lot about bucket and what-have-you lists on the internet and I found an interesting entry the other day: pet a sheep.  I love sheep.  They are the most gorgeous things possible; cute faces, robust and enduring, and well, woolly.  Never mind bungee jumping, skydiving or any of those exciting, dangerous pastimes that make most people’s’ lists, on my Life Experiences list the first entry going down is I want to pet a sheep.  Preferably a lamb.  Although I see them frequently at a distance, gamboling across the spring fields, usually from a car,  haven’t pet a wee lamb since I was very, very little.  So I want to pet a sheep.

I had another nosebleed last week, which I really didn’t appreciate.  I also really didn’t appreciate the fact that I was working with white yarn at the time.  No, there was no damage, never fear, I am a well-trained and well-experienced blood-stopper but of all the colours that I don’t usually work with!

Whilst I do not hold Mr Freud and his theories  in too high esteem, he has had quite an influence on both our culture and our language.  Apparently, I have been making a Freudian slip (nothing to do with petticoats).  Apparently when I say ‘feral’ (when describing my organisation systems, for example), it comes out ‘fair isle’.  Hmm.

FO: Why Not?


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I made these many months ago but I just haven’t been able to keep with my posting this year.  They’re another project from Susie Johns’ Knitted Fast Food; details for this project are also on my Ravelry page.

Il fait un temps de Toussaint



The rain falls
Other times a sudden deluge
But it falls

The dream fades
Sometimes there’s a drop of hope
But it fades


I watch for you to breathe, wondering yet again how we got to here.  What went so wrong?  The night is cold and empty; I am alone watching you.  I tiptoe away.

I cry when I have the strength but other times the pain is just too much.  I am overwhelmed just as I know that you are.  Is it worth fighting?  Or maybe we really haven’t got anything left to lose.

We are lost, both of us.  There are no answers, no quick fixes, no miracle cures.  No hope?  I don’t know.

Can you light a candle in a rainstorm?  Should you even try?


Waterproof matches, check

Candles, check

Lantern, check

Love is an adventure

Just like camping

Windswept, sodden

Trying to stay warm

Keeping in the zone

Fixing smiles

Teeth chattering

Isn’t this fun?

Character forming

Team building

Love is an adventure

Just like camping

Who forgot the matches?!

Write at the Merge - Writing Prompt

So for my first link-up in a very long time, I got to use a new-found idiom as this post’s title and have probably abused most of the ‘rules’.

My favourite lines of the song:

And when your fears subside
and shadows still remain
I know that you can love me
when there’s no one left to blame
So never mind the darkness
we still can find a way
‘Cause nothin’ lasts forever
even cold November rain
Don’t ya think that you need somebody
Don’t ya think that you need someone
Everybody needs somebody
You’re not the only one
You’re not the only one

And for some other thoughts on camping see here and here



Hand of Cards

Otherwise known as oops, I did it again.

What you may ask?

Well, I’ve got a little bit of a radar for patterns and I was getting a little bit worried as October progressed because after October, November follows (naturally) and I haven’t really got such a good track record when it comes to Novembers.  Do you remember the bounce?  Do you remember the bonce? I do.  And the most important thing I learnt was that I never want to repeat either experience ever again.  (In fact, having watched a few too many episodes of emergency services documentaries of late, I have been made increasingly and uncomfortably aware of how fortunate I was, falling that far with such minimal damage to me or anything else).

I don’t want my fear or superstition to lead to clumsiness.  I tell myself that it was just a random thing, a chance thing that both of those cheerful incidents occurred within the same month.  Maybe November just isn’t a good time of year in my world; it’s getting dark, the clocks have changed, the lurgis are flying …

What scares me most though is that I don’t seem to be getting any better.  There, I admit it.  I admit that first, I’m scared and second, that I’m not getting any better.  I’m used to the ebb and flow of this wretched illness but the tide doesn’t seem to be turning in my favour any more (seeing as we’re going with sea metaphors in this sentence.  Are they metaphors?  I can’t remember).  I keep expecting to feel better, there’s so much that I want to do once I’m feeling a little better.  It’s boring and frustrating living with this level of exhaustion where being able to sit on the sofa, feet up, propped up, is an exciting treat, instead of having to lie in bed all day.  And I’m a burden.  I feel that I am such a burden, a boring, never-ending burden.  My management strategy for ME was to be ill in my own private space and time and it just isn’t respecting that any more.  I can’t pretend to be well any more, I can’t save up my energy for the necessitous splurges that life requires because I don’t have any, full stop.  I am tired and ill wherever I go, whenever.  And that sucks.  I liked being able to pretend.  I liked being in control.  I liked not having to impact on others.  I liked not making a fuss.

So November?  Well, I don’t think I can get any worse than it is at the moment.  Hopefully.  But I may just have scored a hat trick.  And it’s nothing to do with that Western hat that I insist on wearing.

I have sharp fingernails.  I have skin that marks easily.  So lying in bed, in the dark, attempting to sleep after what could only be described as a totally crazy day, I wasn’t too surprised when I felt a scab on my ear.  I probably nicked it with my nail, I thought, and didn’t think anything more of it.  Sunday night, after yet another crazy day (I managed these two days thanks to careful abuse of caffeine (a usually verboten substance to sensitive little me) and sugar and have spent an entire week, so far, recovering in bed), it was still there and it wasn’t just a little scab line from a scratch either.  I was mystified.  I cleaned it up and went to bed.  Or it may have been Monday morning, I don’t really remember because my Memory has long since departed.  (I miss it still).  By lunchtime this rather large scab was hanging past my ear and there was blood everywhere.  I don’t do blood, have I said before?  Well, maybe not everywhere, just on my hands and a tissue and enough to worry me.  So I eventually staunched the bleeding and found the scab had disappeared and I was left with a rather large section of my earlobe missing.  To say I was distressed is putting it mildly.

I don’t like to lose a chunk of my ear (OK, maybe not a chunk but a large piece of skin about yea big and so deep) without being duly informed of how and why.  Is that really so unreasonable?  But I couldn’t account for it.

Last night, lying in bed (because that’s where I’ve been all week anyway) I had a little light bulb moment.  (Will ideas come slower to this generation’s children because they’re being raised with those eco-light bulbs?)  I remember, vaguely, very vaguely, catching my ear on the hair straighteners either last Friday night or Saturday morning (I told you, my memory is a distant, hazy memory).  Can you see where this is going?

I’m missing a chunk (OK, see above) from my ear and the scab is yellow-ish not brown like as if I’d cut myself and I had thought that was unusual but I couldn’t remember why I know that there’s two colours of scabs (at least!).  Oh, and it’s itching like crazy.  But of course I didn’t think anything of it because my ears always itch and I can’t do anything about it.  But this is quite a specific itch, I’ve felt this itch before … Hmmm.

I don’t quite know how I’d manage to do myself quite so much damage with the straighteners; after all, my reaction times are usually pretty good.  And I know that I don’t even hold it very close a lot of the time because I worry about burning myself and I haven’t got that kind of patience and coordination.  But … There’s always that ‘but’ isn’t there?  I was trying to make an effort to look nice (AKA, mostly presentable) and I was tired.  I’m always tired at the moment.  I don’t think my reaction times, nor even my level of awareness, are quite what I think they are at the moment.  They’re definitely not likely to be anywhere near where they should be.

I may have burnt my ear (and maybe my head as well because there’s a very particular itch going on up there too), I may also be the person who left the gas on the other night … Yeah.  I don’t quite know how I descended to such levels of ineptitude but I don’t feel safe any more, I just don’t feel safe.  And feeling safe is such an important thing.  And you expect lots of outside things to take away your feeling of ‘safeness’ not yourself.  It’s such a horrible thing to lose, along with your memory, and I totally blame Mongrel Beast.  But even that doesn’t make me feel any better.

So, I don’t think I even made it into November this year.  Or maybe there’s worse yet to come.  Personally, I don’t even want to think about it and if you don’t mind, I’m off to have a nap.