Short stories and poetry
Ok! I like rain. Soft rain sending splashes in puddles.
This rain is Cornish rain, misty mizzle, covering fur with wetness
Today – That duck in the willow pond
Maybe it will stop raining. Maybe it will. — or — maybe it won’t.
Maybe a sleep in front of the fire, after all summer’s nearly over. .
I’ve not been asleep long when the ‘phone rings pulling me from a deep slumber with its jarring ringtone. Head heavy with sleep I fumble on the bedside table for my mobile, where is it? Daylight spills into the room as I pull back the curtains. Eyes heavy with sleep I look at my watch, 11pm. Who’s phoning me at this time? I grab my mobile before it clicks into answer-phone.
“What?” My is mind still groggy with wine.
“It’s Jim.” His voice is panic-stricken, “they’re all over the bedroom.”
Jim? The farmer? Over the ‘phone I hear loud buzzing, a ‘thwack’ followed by a loud shout. “Tommy. Don’t go in there; stop. Jen, you’ve got to do something, sort this out.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your bees. Our bedroom’s full of.” His voice shouts loud. “Close that door.” Then back to me. “He can’t go to bed. His bedroom’s full.”
Shaking my head in disbelief, my two hives are over a mile from his house. I’d trudged through a hay crop to put them into the Rape field just 4 days ago. Two full brood boxes with laying queens, brood over 7 frames, two of honey, enough space for the queen to lay; supers of drawn frames over the queen excluders so workers could start on the rape. Swarm? Couldn’t be. I’d checked thoroughly for queen cells. Had I missed one? Workers have a habit of hiding them. Raining for the last three days today has been the first day of sunshine. Yes. A swarm. My mind is racing. Must get them out of that bedroom quickly before the queen starts laying gain. ‘Phone on shoulder I quickly dress.
“Jim. I’m coming over. Keep Tommy out of his room. Is there a vent in his bedroom?” Jim’s house is an old farmhouse, built of Yorkshire Stone.
“Yes. In the en-suite.”
“You’ve a high wall outside?” I know he has. “I’ll be with you in 10 minutes.”
Playing for time. I’m thinking fast. I need a lure. The bees will be hungry. Racing into my yard I find a nucleus hive, collect 3 frames full of honey and an extracted frame from the honey room. Dressing quickly into my bee-suit flinging on my veil before dashing to a hive in the field behind my house, I shake bees from a frame of brood with some empty cells before putting it into the nucleus. Good, a place for the queen to lay eggs. I have to work quickly. Must remember the nucleus hive’s roof.
All lights are on when I arrive, swerving into Jim’s yard. He’s at the door looking up. Halfway up the wall I see bees buzzing around a vent. Quickly I place the nucleus on top of the wall wedging the roof open to enable scout bees easy access, with its aroma of honey, to attract hungry bees, and, hopefully, find this new home.
At this moment there’s a scream from indoors, followed by, “Jim. Quick. Tommy’s been stung.”
“Oh no. He’s allergic to bees.”
I search my pockets for my epi-pen. It’s not there.
Clutching £70 I entered the Orvis to buy a pair of the lightweight Berghaus Wellies on display in the shop window. My other dog walking wellies are just so heavy, industrial, hard wearing wellies, the sort you see on farmers trudging through thick muddy fields. After walking Beth through woods, over fields, my legs ache. So, it was decided that I should buy some that were lightweight, hence my foray into Orvis, These are the cheapest wellies they sell, £64. Still expensive, but, I have wide feet
Oh my goodness. What an evening of total madness and heavenly laughter. The joy of laughing, freely, albeit the NEWS – global, International and National – so miserable – and, there in the midst of this is Dr John Conroy Clarke. Punk Poet, professed Existentialist, to deliver the most hilarious interpretation of life, as it is, as now. Perfect – WHY isn’t he our PM? Such joy to listen to his views about it, and it. AND to learn he is an Aquarian. WOW. So am I.
Happiness is a good night out with the loveliest people to see and listen to the words of this punk poet, Dr John Conroy Clarke.
Allotment time watering with Freddie, time to play on the Rec. 
What can be better for a lad aged three, and a grandad aged – well, well over 60, to be running around and over the Rec with Beth, the dog, excited with it all.
The allotment, fecund with apples on espaliers, cordons and stepovers. 
With Freddie watering and picking under the guidance of grandad, and me, with Beth in the background, watching over her flock, 
waiting for the chance to round them up, to play again. 
Grandma, watered by Freddie, slowly grows.
Life is beautiful when three, and seventy-three.
via Doggy Dior
Which equals her human’s view of exotic aroma – sheep shit. She rolled in ecstasy in sheep shit. Her total circumference of neck area was covered in a green, evil smelling to us, total joy to Beth, sheep dung. Plastered, hanging in thick droplets from her neck fur. And we were furthermost away from home, with a long walk back.
Doggy psychology doesn’t blame the dog. We apply this, and reward her need to come close to us with a ‘treat’ – to keep her away from us. No way do we want to make her feel she’s done anything wrong, so – we – very carefully warn people she approaches to avoid her – and DO NOT STROKE HER – though this has to be done sensitively – to ensure she is not upset and not done anything wrong.
We encouraged her to swim a lot in the Crimple Beck – and took her to our allotment to give her a ‘rewarding’ BIG WASH with our watering cans before taking her home, where she received a lovely warm water wash after a liberally applied ‘doggy shampoo.’
I feel a lot of ‘smiley’s’ should be added here. Thank God we don’t have three dogs = rolling sheep dung.
She’s asleep now on the sofa, so clean, and looking like the gorgeous angel she is to me. Love her to bits. She keeps me grounded to the reality of life. It’s really a load of shit – and there is doggy pleasure rolling in it.
Love my dog. Love life as it is. Love Jim. [He’s the human part in all of this.]
Allotment lunacy, daren’t scatter
blue slug pellets at will,
or randomly around.
This hallowed ground
our plot this spot, still
is home to our resident frog, it matters
that his place isn’t poisoned by me.
Our site, space to others, ladybirds feeding
on brassicas, and my weeding
between bean flowers see apis mellifera.
Take care to not disturb that bee.
My Plot’s organic, nothing mechanic
nor toxic. To me
my allotment is hypnotic.
My place ‘to be.’
Sunday walk, five mile through fields. Today they were all full of ewes, each field with two rams with colour coded straddles strapped to their breasts, to ensure which had done their business with the ewes; all of which looked a bit complacent and unimpressed. So did the rams I have to say. Most were laid prone, asleep on the grass. None of the ewes evidenced a colour code on their rears, which, in human employment terms, would be a bit challenging – sacking comes to mind.
Well – let’s give the Rams a chance here. After all the ewes DO have to show a BIT of interest don’t they, and IF they haven’t come into season – god Forbid, the rams haven’t a chance in hell to do their business. Though – let’s face it – they’ll be the ones blamed if there aren’t any lambs about next year. They’ll be next year’s chops – for the chop that is.
So, Beth was on her lead a lot, through ALL the fields up to the woodlands. Released here to her woodland world. This, her total ecstasy, a new world of sun rays, a world glistening with the wetness of leaves and grass, flowers, ground wet from the rainfall of last night, hers to spring through in total joy, following fresh and new smells.
We feel her joy and wonder as she races around the woodland chasing aromas we don’t feel. But, this is so lovely. such a place to be.
Its a dogs life 