Someone's nicked my shoes!

I left them on the bench in the women's changing rooms while I used the gym at Cockermouth Leisure Centre, and when I got back, they were gone. I was quite sure they'd just been tidied up by some over-consciencious member of staff, but it seems they really have been stolen. I'm appalled! They only cost £7 from a charity shop, but I'm very fond of them because they actually fit my wide feet and they're great for cycling and they're nice and bright and red and I can't afford to replace them with a new pair of the same quality.

<sob!>

When I joined the gym I asked where the lockers were, and I was told that although there are lockers for the swimming pool there are none for the gym (although they're planning to install them sometime) so in the meantime you just have to carry all your stuff around with you. I don't like putting my street shoes, which are sometimes a bit dirty, in the same bag with the rest of my clothes to cart around the gym, so I generally just leave them under the bench. They're not worth much so I never imagined anyone would take them. But last night the floor was sopping wet - I think it had just been washed - and because I didn't want my laces trailing on it and getting all wet I put the shoes on top of the bench instead of underneath, making them a lot more visible, I suppose.

And of course, because it was warm, the back door was open. Anyone could have slipped inside, had a quick look around the changing rooms, picked up my shoes and nipped out again without being noticed.

Of course I complained, and now they tell me that I'm quite welcome to use the swimmers' lockers! That wasn't what I was told when I joined. I am not happy.

I may just spend a bit of time wandering around the streets of Cockermouth looking at people's feet and showing this photo to everyone I meet: "Have you seen these shoes?"

BLACK CAT UPDATE

Little Snooky2, or whatever his name is, is becoming quite a frequent visitor. If I go to call our cats home, he turns up first, miaowing much louder than Aineko or Oscar do. Last night I opened the door and he was sitting there, quite companionably, with Ainkeo, and they both wanted to come inside. I felt really mean refusing him entrance. It's like your child comes home from school with a new chum, and you let your own kid in but turn the friend away.

But I know cats. I know if I let him in, he'll want to stay, and feel less and less inclined to go home. I also have no idea of the state of his health (although he seems quite bright-eyed and his coat, though needing some grooming seems shiny enough) or what sort of parasites he might be harbouring, ready to pounce on the 2 humans, 2 cats and 2 dogs who already live here.

VISITOR

A strange little cat has started visiting us. He's very friendly - comes straight over, miaowing as though he's an old friend of the family. As you've probably gathered, I'm pretty fond of cats, but I really can't go round encouraging unknown cats to hang about our house, particularly since he seems very keen to come inside.

For one thing, the cats who actually belong here, assisted by the dogs, would probably make a good attempt at dismantling this little chap, bit by bit, if he dared to pass the threshold. And more importantly, he must belong somewhere, and I'd hate to be responsible for him preferring our house to his own. It was just this sort of scenario that I was afraid of when Aineko went missing: she visits someone who invites her in, feeds her, and gradually takes her over.

Not knowing his real name I'm calling him Snooky2 in honour of the first cat in my life, Snooky, who looked exactly the same and lived in the flat downstairs when I was a toddler. He was mainly responsible for my life-long love of cats. Snooky used to come visiting (his owner was a friend and knew he visited us so it was OK) and charmed me forever. I actually saved Snooky's life when I was about 7 or 8. The big heavy downstairs door to our stair had very strange hinges, which meant that the back of the door swung away from the wall when it was open, and swung back when it was closed. I can still remember seeing Snooky walking through the gap behind the door as someone went outside, not realising he was behind them, and the door starting to close on him. It would certainly have crushed him. I charged down the stair, grabbed the door and stopped it closing at the very last minute.

Postscript
Shortly after taking the photo above, Oscar came home with one eye half shut. The obvious conclusion to draw would be a fight between him and Snooky2, but I never saw or heard anything so I'll reserve judgement for now.

Postscript 2
Something has bitten my leg. I'm not aware of our cats or dogs having fleas at the moment, but Snooky2 was rubbing against my leg with great gusto. Hmm...

Fringed

Since I had to be in Edinburgh anyway on the first weekend of August, I thought I'd see which Fringe music shows had already got started. Not many, if you look through the enormous programme. I sat in Hilary's kitchen thumbing through it: the first thing we fancied had been cancelled; the next couple were starting in about 10 minutes, leaving us no time to get there. We finally settled on something called Café Cadenza, described thus: "Eclectic wind virtuoso John Sampson and songwriting singer-guitarist Stewart Hanratty produce an hour of classy music, ranging from Stewart's contemporary tales to John's recorder, crumhorn and trumpet, creating a warm, forget-the-word atmosphere."

Well. Mention recorders and crumhorns and I'm yours. Hilary was inclined to agree, so we chucked the Fringe programme in the back of the car and set off. Halfway there, I said to Hilary, " It was at that place in Nicholson Street, wasn't it?" And Hilary replied, with absolute conviction, "No, no, that was the one we couldn't get to - this one's at the Carlton Hotel." "Are you sure?" said I, not at all sure myself now. "Positive," said Hilary. How could I argue with that?

The Carlton Hotel is not the sort of place you can get parked outside, so we parked away back up Nicholson Street and walked very fast down to the North Bridge, as the show would be starting quite shortly. Like most venues during the festival, the Carlton was festooned with a variety of Fringe posters. Hilary started following some people who looked like musicians, in through the front door of the hotel, through the lobby and down a back staircase. Like a sheep, I followed her, feeling the whole thing was somehow wrong. Eventually one of the musicians turned round and explained that although this was indeed the way to the venue, if we followed any further we'd end up on the stage with them, and we ought to go in through the other door.

Back up the stairs we trotted, somewhat faster than before, then out through the main door and back in through the side door, where a girl at a desk claimed she'd never heard of Café Cadenza. I borrowed her copy of the Fringe Programme (for ours was still lurking several blocks away in the back of my car) and discovered that, astonishingly, Hilary had been wrong, and the show was indeed in the venue, named for the duration, as, 'The Zoo, Southside,' back up the road in Nicholson Street.

We nearly ran this time, back up across the High Street, up Nicholson Street, past where I'd parked the car, and about the same distance in the opposite direction until we reached the old church where the show was about to start any moment.

"After all this," I thought, "it had better be bloody good."

We found a seat in a little room set up with 'cabaret seating' as they call it in the Kirkgate - tables, chairs and candles, with a few fairy lights draped around a red velvet curtain to provide a stage.

A man with a guitar appeared, propped up several strange paintings on a chair, and started to sing. I still have no idea what he was singing about as his enunciation wasn't too good, but the songs seemed to be connected in some way with the paintings, which we deduced he had probably created himself. I'm sure this would have been much more enjoyable had we been issued with sheets containing the lyrics - the songs were probably very funny, or sad, or thought-provoking, or profound, or just damn good poetry, but we'll never know.

Had it not been for the promise of recorders and crumhorns I'd have got up and left. I could think of several things I'd rather be doing in Edinburgh on a Saturday night. Suddenly, when I just thought I couldn't take any more, a big man with an interesting beard burst on to the scene playing a post horn with great enthusiasm, and from this point on the whole show livened up.

John Sampson (for it was he) is a skilled performer on a variety of wind instruments, which he plays with aplomb. He's also very funny, and one of those people with the ability to get a laugh with just the odd raised eyebrow. Stewart Hanratty, the guitarist, slipped easily into a role much better suited to him, that of accompanist, and between them they entertained us delightfully for three quarters of an hour.

Shame about those first 15 minutes, really.

If Mr Hanratty really must sing his songs, the least he could do would be to intersperse them throughout the show, in between John Sampson's instrumental pieces, though quite honestly, the whole thing would have been better without the songs at all. Sorry, Stewart.

Stuff

GYM
Well, all that working out seems to have made my back stronger already, as I was only incapacitated for a few days, rather than the usual couple of weeks. I can actually feel some of these new muscles. If I lie on my back it's like I'm lying on something hard, until I realise it's a couple of muscles that run vertically down the back on either side of the spine. Heh. I've lived all this time without noticing they were there!

The gym has big wide-screen tellies in all the rooms, tuned, with subtitles, to BBC1, a channel I hardly ever watch, apart from the 6 o'clock news. Why are all the characters in Eastenders so ugly? I thought it was supposed to be a reflection of real life, but real people aren't so consistently unpleasant to look at. I can't follow the story at all - no idea who is who or what is what, nor do I care, but you find your eyes being drawn to it as you pedal away furiously on the upright bike or run, boringly, on the spot on the treadmill.

The reason they need subtitles is that they also have piped pop music. I tried using my phone's built-in radio with headphones so that I could listen to something of my own choice, but it's not loud enough to compete. I see people using iPods, but I don't really want to splash out that sort of money just so I can listen to the Archers.

RIGHTS OF WAY
They've recently erected a couple of new signposts in the village, proclaiming a Public Bridleway between Crosby and Crosscanonby. It's been a Public Right Of Way for a very long time, and I've known about it since we've been here, but it's been more or less impassible. Seeing these new signs I thought, "Aha! They must have made some improvements to the path! Hurrah!"

Last time I tried this path, you had to go through a big gate and through the seemingly private drying-green belonging to a farmhouse, and then into a big boggy field, with nothing to show where to go next. If, by dint of much searching, you actually discovered the spot in the fence with the stile, you still had to negotiate deep mud and broken wooden steps over the fence. When I discovered this I had to go back the way I came as it was impossible to get dogs over this stile and there were no dog-gates.

Seeing it was now described as a 'bridleway' I assumed it would now be improved to the extent that you could get a horse through. Hurrah! Entering from the bottom of the path, rather than the top, we made our way across the field to the place where the stile had been several years ago. It was gone. The only way you'd know it's the place to cross the fence is the absence of barbed wire for a couple of feet. I guess I could have climbed over - I'm quite good at climbing over fences - but the dogs wouldn't. It was too high to jump, even for Ghyll, who's happy enough to jump over things of reasonable height. No dog-gates, no holes in the fence, no way to get through. And as for horses? Well, yes, I know some horses do jump, but they'd have to be pretty accurate to jump that little gap, and if they missed they'd be impaled on the barbed wire on either side, or crash unceremoniously into the hawthorn hedge.

They say that if we want to keep our Rights Of Way open, we must use them regularly. How are we supposed to do that?

NOCTILUCENT CLOUDS


Just when I thought there weren't going to be any noctilucent clouds this year, I spotted a nice display the other night, as I was on my way to bed. Dropped everything, grabbed me trusty tripod and took a few pics. It's amazingly hard to get a camera to focus properly when the subject matter isn't very bright but I did manage a couple of good ones, of which the photo above is the best. I could sit and watch these mysterious phenomena all night - they're beautiful and fascinating, and, interestingly, a pretty recent thing. They may be related to climate change, in which case we should be worried, but in some ways I feel sorry for my ancestors who may have had darker skies and therefore a better view than we have of the winter stars, but who never even imagined the possibility of these beautiful nebulous things in the summer sky.

A day in the life . . .

There's a Flickr group called A Day in the Life . . . which I rather like. Four times a year, on the summer and winter solstices and the spring and autumn equinoxes, all the group members spend the day taking photos of their day-to-day lives. Five of these photos are posted to the group pool, and the rest in a folder on the member's own Flickr page. So four times a year we get a fascinating glimpse into the lives of ordinary people like ourselves, leading ordinary lives, but in different parts of the world.

Today is my 3rd DILO. My first was on December 22nd last year, and it happened to be the day I was driving down to Wasdale to pick up our free range turkey, so I had ample opportunity to take interesting photos. And being Christmas time, the sun came out from time to time. (Gone are the days when it snowed in December . . .)

My second was on 20th March 2008, on Chris' birthday. Not such nice weather, but I was in Cockermouth where lots of houses are painted in bright colours, and was also lucky enough to capture a bird flying over the Moon, which I thought was incredibly cool.

Today, being midsummer's day, it rained continuously. We're mostly quite pleased about this, as our veg garden has been parched and poor Steve has been marching up and down with buckets of water.

I took some midnight photos last night when the sky was still clear and starry and bright with the nautical twilight known in Shetland as the Simmer Dim - the one on the left was taken at nearly 1am.

Sadly, by the time I got up this morning conditions had deteriorated, and it all looked grey. We'd already decided on a trip to Keswick, as for once I didn't have to rush off anywhere playing music for morris dancing or helping people move furniture.

An unexpected phone call took us to Cockermouth first, though, as members of Steve's family were in town, so I took some photos of the little lad playing on his grandfather's electric chair (no, no, not that kind - this is the sort that raises and lowers the seat, making things easier for disabled people) and creating aged paper for the treasure map he was drawing. I was delighted when the neighbour's tiny black cat, Sammy, came wandering in, as I've been trying to capture her in a photo for a while. Today she posed beautifully for me, singing feline airs with gusto.

By the time we left, the rain was well and truly settled in, but who cares? It may be wet, but it's not particularly cold.

Keswick was fairly busy, as you'd expect, as it's full of tourists at this time of year, and there's not much else for them to do on a rainy Saturday but wander round the market stalls or sit in cafés drinking coffee.

The DILO's theme this time round is green, and for once I'd taken very few photos featuring anything green, unlike my usual pics full of hills, trees and fields. We left the main road on the way home and parked up by the Bouncy Bridge, from where I could take some photos of the clouds settling down on the fells and the River Derwent meandering through the farmland.

You can see all my photos from today's DILO here

The day's not over yet of course - it's only 25 past 9 - but it's still raining, so I don't think I'll be finishing off with my usual flourish of a YABS (Yet Another Bloody Sunset).

I am keenly awaiting Chris' contribution to the DILO group. He's in the Czech Republic at the moment with Rudsambee, and they apparently spent the day on a trip to the local spectacular mountains. I guess I'll have to wait until he returns to the UK, as he doesn't seem able to access the internet at the moment, or even use his phone, which for him is probably worse than the pain he suffers from his sinuses while flying. I only hope his batteries have lasted.

Trying to be fit

I joined a gym. Those who know me of old might be somewhat surprised at this. At school I managed to skive off PT/PE for most of my secondary years by dint of taking Art which involved prolonged trips to Newhaven Harbour to do sketches of boats (and to hide behind the lighthouse smoking and drinking alcoholic things). This was a lot more fun than running round a cold playing field dressed in a divided skirt which showed off one's fat white knees when one was at just that age when one wanted to be admired by the opposite sex, rather than mocked by them. Interestingly enough they were far more inclined to admire someone who spent whole afternoons holed up behind the lighthouse, smoking and peacefully watching the tankers steaming up the Forth to Grangemouth.

It's not that I don't do exercise. I love taking the dogs for walks, and enjoy cycling, so long as the weather's in my favour. Swimming is a great pleasure, so long as it's out of doors in the sea or a nice cold lake, and I can dress in shorts and a t-shirt rather than a stupid swimsuit which does nothing for those with a larger waistline than they'd like.

So, what seems to happen is that in the summer, when it's warm and dry and good weather for cycling and lake swimming, I get sort of fittish, and lose a bit of weight, and feel generally pleased with myself. And then the winter comes, and it gets dark early, and it's cold, and it rains, and I'm too much of a wimp to go cycling in this stuff, and of course swimming in Bass Lake in midwinter would put me on a fast track to the West Cumberland Infirmary, so the only exercise I get is walking the dogs, and even that's not a lot of fun in the dark when you're halfway down the lane and meet strange scary people who shine torches in your face, putting the wind up the dogs and me.

Eight years ago I gave up smoking. Not because I didn't like smoking, 'cause I did. I really enjoyed it. But I knew I'd live longer if I quit, and somehow I managed it (this is another story which I might tell some time) and now feel there's a very good chance of living longer. However, round people tend to live shorter lives than lean people, and my biggest ambition is to live as long as possible, so the next unpleasant thing I have to do is to take more, regular exercise, and start now while I'm still young and fit enough to do it.

People who have had heart attacks and other life-threatening illnesses are sent to the gym to work out and recover, and some of them recover so well that they run marathons and all sorts of things. If they can do all that, surely someone like me who is perfectly healthy and whose only problem is not particularly enjoying repetitive exercise, can do it too! So I signed up at the gym.

I don't expect to enjoy it. But you pay a month in advance, and being a Scot I have to get my money's worth once I've paid for it.

So far it's been working out quite well. The place is full of machinery that looks like the contents of a torture chamber. There's a treadmill (the very name conjures up images of doing boring repetitive work, doesn't it?), an upright bike (i.e., a bike that goes nowhere), a recumbant bike (ah, cycling in a comfy chair!), and a couple of other bizarre things: one that feels like plodding through thick snow and one where you work your arms and legs together in a completely unnatural fashion and whose name I've completely forgotten. Oh yes, and a rowing machine, but I can't use that because I've got a wonky knee and the last time I tried one I was crippled for a week.

Having used this lot for a few days I was 'inducted' into the weights room, which is filled with even more extraordinary machinery. (Who invents these things? They're amazingly clever, once you realise they're not designed to remove your legs and arms, one at a time, in slow motion.) Funnily enough I almost enjoy this room. Each time I go I find I can move a greater weight, and I seem to have incredibly powerful thighs. Maybe I should have been one of those stocky Eastern European female weight-lifters or shot putters. I'll move on to the free weights in due course, which is good, as I've inherited a set of them, complete with bench, from a friend who was moving house, and I'm scared to try them until I've been shown the right way.

So . . . everything was going just speldidly, and then I managed to hurt my back. Nothing to do with the gym workouts, just the bit that tends to 'go' from time to time - I seem to have a bit of a weakness there. So frustrating. I'll need to leave it at least a week before I can get back to the weights, and I'll probably find I'm back where I started again. Buggabuggabugga . . .

Spring?

Signs of spring

Well, it's spring, and for once the sun was shining, and I didn't have anything too big to carry, so at last I was able to get on my bike again and nip into Maryport for some stuff. Lovely it was, to be cycling in the fresh air again, with a blue sky and the smell of blossom and grass on the wind. (... and diesel fumes, but we'll not get into that . . .) Coming back up the hill was harder, as I'm out of condition, but I resolved to be brave and keep pedalling, as the more you do, the easier it gets. Eventually. It was fine until I stopped and tried to stand up.

Somehow I seem to have pulled a muscle in my back, while cycling up the brae. 'Snot fair! I was feeling all good and energetic and keen to get fit again, and now I'm creeping about like a bent thing, unable to stand up straight.

With the help of good old paracetamol I was able to get to the Piping Hot practice, but felt somewhat woozy because of the medication. It's amazing how one can carry on playing music one knows really well, even when one is somewhat away with the fairies.

Coming home, approaching the turn-off to our driveway, I had to slow down as I spotted two cats charging across the main road, a small one in pursuit of a slightly larger one. "Hang on," says I. "That small one looks familiar." Even in the darkness, Aineko is quite recognisable. Apparently she was seeing off some feline interloper who had dared to enter her territory. Well, fine, but please Aineko, don't run across the main road without the green cross code!

In trouble again

I just can't resist taking photos of musicians on stage. I don't use flash. Why don't theatres approve? Tonight I was sitting quietly in the middle of Row F, taking a few very inconspicuous photos of Red Priest in full flight, when this old bloke on my left suddenly spoke out: "Will you stop breaking the theatre's rules?" he said, quite loudly, causing people's heads to turn. He'd obviously been thinking about it for a while. I didn't know they had rules about photography. Usually the places that disapprove make some sort of announcement at the start of the show, but no-one said anything here, so I assumed it was OK. Trying to be polite, I said, "Oh - I didn't know," rather than telling him to mind his own business. "It's in the programme, Madam!" he said, louder still. (Funny how some people manage to make the word, "madam" sound like an insult.) "I don't have a programme," I informed him, but regretfully put my camera away, while realising that he was the one who should now be embarrassed, having shown everyone around what an officious person he was.

Trying to rationalise his outburst, I came to the conclusion that (a) he is one of the volunteers who work at the theatre and is therefore personally involved in this stupid rule and making sure it's kept or (b) he's spent years wishing he could take photos in there, but always stuck to the rules himself, and can't bear to see someone else getting away with it.

After the interval I moved to an empty seat beside my friends several rows back. Poorer view, but nicer company.

What I'd like to know now, though, is whether Piping Hot should start dressing in red leather corsets like Red Priest's violinist? Or does it help to be young, pretty and blonde? And will I now be on the theatre's blacklist, for not only taking photos but publishing them online? I'm booked in to a recorder workshop with Piers Adams tomorrow morning, so maybe I should go in disguise.

Storms? What storms?

Doesn't look very stormy to me.

Apparently the south of England has been devastated by storms. I'm genuinely sorry for the people down there. Here, however, it's been quite mild, a bit grey and sorta driech, but nothing much. Oh, it rained a little bit, earlier.

What surprised me was to find a headline in the local paper informing me that the road at Dubmill Point had collapsed in the stormy weather. Dubmill Point is the bit of the coast road just beyond Allonby, on the way to Silloth, that sort of juts out into the Solway, and always gets the worst of the storms. It's so close I can see it from my window. And I was quite unaware of any storms in the past few days. I'd have noticed. Certainly there has been a spring tide, which is higher than normal, but the road must have been in a pretty bad state already if the spring tide was enough to undermine it and cause a collapse.

BELFAGAN

Haven't been to Belfagan for 2 weeks, but tonight I felt I really had to go, as I'd been contacted by a potential new recruit, and thought I really ought to be there to greet her. She turned out to be just the sort of person we want - good fun, enthusiastic, a quick learner and best of all she really enjoyed herself! She will not be allowed to escape . . . heh heh heh . . .

My feet, though, are killing me. Haven't done any dancing for ages, and I've been so busy (see previous blog entry) that I haven't even had as much dog-walking exercise as usual. (Though I have actually been out with them 3 days running so I'm not that bad.)

Busy . . . busy . . . busy . . .

It's all David Parrish's fault, for making me take control of my life and actually get lots of work done, every day, regularly. That course I went on has made me work, so much that the other important things in life aren't getting done any more, like blogging and gazing vacantly into space.

I've missed Belfagan 2 weeks running - though admittedly one of those days I stayed at home because I had a bad cold. I've been working most evenings, and getting jobs finished that have been hiding in dark corners, sobbing, wondering when I'd notice them. It's awful! I've more or less got to the end of the queue of chairs to be reseated, and I've been putting money in the bank, too! Give me another week or two of this and my bookkeeping will be up to date, for the first time ever since I started being self-employed.

Of course, this will only happen if I can keep it up. And I'm not properly organised yet, as I haven't managed to fit a regular dog-walk in to all this busyness (just as well Steve takes them), and the house still looks like a bomb has hit it. There's still a lot of deck-clearing to do.

MUSIC (1) - los Huevos Bandidos


Last Saturday at this time I was at the Kirkgate watching Steve's illustrious band, Los Huevos Bandidos, doing their first gig of 2008. One of their best for a long time, it was, and after much angst about the lack of a percussionist, they ended up with 2 Andys. Andy1, the Original Andy, who has in fact left the band, came back for the night and played his congas, bongos and other latin percussion, while Andy2, the New Andy, was there with his drum kit. He seems to be fitting in well, so long may he stay.

The local salsa dance class turned up, as usual, and for the first time included several quite young children, who danced happily and confidently, though it was the expert adults, as always, who stole the show.

The Kirkgate had put on food with a vaguely Tex-Mex bias, perhaps thinking, erroneously, that there was some connection between Mexico and Afro-Cuban jazz. (There isn't. Well, apart from the use of Spanish, I suppose. But that's like serving up Aussie beer at Glyndebourne just because the English language is spoken in both countries.) Anyway, despite the mismatch, the food went down a storm, so well, in fact, that most of the audience went on strike after the interval and refused to come back upstairs until they'd eaten their fill, despite the band being ready to start playing again.

Well, who cares? The main thing is that the audience enjoyed themselves and got their money's worth. The place was full. Everyone was happy. Well, apart from Peter, who tends to panic a bit if shows overrun at the end, but there's no pleasing him, really . . .

MUSIC (2) - Piping Hot

Piping Hot are now practising for our Georgian Fair gig, though it's beginning to look like we'll be very lucky if we all manage to get together at the same practice even once before the concert.

We're doing three Dowland pieces from our back catalogue, some Playford sets that we did at the Playford ball two years ago, an arrangement for recorders of Mozart's Horn Concerto No.3 (KV 447), Brian Bonsor's Serenata and a piece by JC Bach whose name I've forgotten as I haven't actually got a copy of the music yet.

Doesn't sound much? Well, it's not. It's just a sort of mini-gig. Most of the musical groups in the Cockermouth area are getting half an hour to put on a performance, one after the other, and this is our half hour.

The trouble is that it's coinciding with Belfagan's Day of Dance, which will be happening around Cockermouth all day. Bridget and I will have to slope off and play recorders for half an hour, and then back to the morris dancing. (Actually Bridget is so tied up with the Georgian Fair that I can't see how she'll manage to do much for Belfagan at all that day.) And to make matters worse, my Georgian (well, Tudor actually) corset doesn't fit properly since I lost weight, so I really ought to make a new one, but because of being BUSYBUSYBUSY (see above) I haven't got time.

Just as well I'm putting "Practice recorder music" on my list every day, mixed in with work reminders!

The Fraser Fifield Band with the Nedyalko Nedyalkov Quartet from Bulgaria

Above: Nedyalko Nedyalkov on kaval with Fraser Fifield on bagpipes.

The Fraser Fifield Band are touring Scotland just now, accompanied by the most amazing group of Bulgarian musicians, the Nedyalko Nedyalkov Quartet. I went to see them this evening, but I can't tell you where as I feel a bit guilty about taking photos after being told not to. I'm not sure why you're not to take photos - all I'm doing with them is using them to publicize the bands and their tour. I never use flash in these situations - I know what it's like standing on a stage playing your heart out and suddenly being alarmed by bright lights going off. Not fun. So I keep a very low profile, use a fast ISO setting and try to remain invisible. It almost worked. The man didn't tap me on the shoulder until near the end. If he's reading this . . . please forgive me! I enjoy these things so much more if I've got photos to remind me of it!

I've seen F.F. before, at the Edinburgh Fringe, and thoroughly enjoyed the experience, but the addition of an eastern European band made the prospect of a second visit irresistible. Did I mention I love Eastern European folk music? I think this was the first time I'd seen it live, though.

Nedyalko Nedyalkov (N.N. from now on, for brevity's sake) is an amazing player of an instrument whose very existence I was only vaguely aware of, the kaval, an end-blown flute similar to the ney, but with an enormous range, and the ability to sound like 3 different instruments within the space of half a dozen notes.

Born in 1970, N.N. is known as one of the world's top kaval players. He was already playing music at the tender age of 7 and although he started off on the accordion he soon took up the traditional kaval and spend many years developing his skills until he graduated in 1989 with high honours. He joined the Bulgarian National Radio Folk Orchestra in 1996 and still plays with them as a soloist. He seems to be internationally famous, and has played with all sorts of bands and musicians I've never heard of, but probably should have.

This guy is jaw-droppingly amazing. I've tried playing a ney - it's a very difficult technique, as these instruments are end-blown rather than transverse like our orchestral flute, or fippled, like the recorder. The kaval and its cousins are just open at the top, with an edge over which you have to blow, letting the edge cut the airstream and producing a sound. It's much harder than it sounds, and it sounds hard enough! N.N. makes it look so easy, and then his fingers start moving, faster and faster (he plays with flat fingers like a bagpipe player, rather than bent like a recorder player), and he moves seamlessly through several octaves, producing deep breathy sounds one moment and high trills the next. I was completely gobsmacked by the performance and can't do it justice with simple words. Go to his MySpace site and listen!



N.N.'s wife Stoimenka is even more amazing. She sings effortlessly, with ululations and microtones that sound just impossible for a human voice to produce. The melodies, so heartwrenchingly sad, almost brought tears to my eyes.

Urrr. . . Sorry . . . gotta give myself a shake here. Getting a bit carried away. But you can see, can't you, that this band are very very good. I'd gone mainly to see Fraser Fifield, who is also very very good, but I knew that already, and I know about the instruments he plays - soprano sax, low whistle, bagpipes - so, impressive though it is to see these things being played with such virtuosity, I did sort of know what to expect.

This is one of the exciting consequences of the collapse of the Iron Curtain and the introduction of Eastern European nations into the EU. We are now, at last, getting the chance to experience music that in the pre-internet past could only be heard on fuzzy, distant radio stations, late at night when dial-twiddling was all there was to occupy insomniacs. Eastern Europe is full of exciting bands who are still completely new to us - musicians playing instruments we've neither seen nor heard before, in styles we've never come across.

If you're near any of the towns on the itinerary of this tour, I urge you to go and see them. Check it out here. You won't be disappointed!

Snake Davies Woodwind workshop

Busy old week, this. Still recovering from Michael Schenker's gig last night, I find myself at the Rosehill Barn clutching Steve's lovely Martin alto sax and learning some tricks of the trade from Snake Davies, virtuoso jazz saxophonist/flautist.

I find the place full of our customers: mostly sax players, but a couple of flutes and a clarinet as well. I did toy with the idea of bringing one of my recorders, but decided it might be just a bit too radical, expecting such a thing to be accepted as a potential jazz instrument.

After too many years playing classical music from the dots, and folk music from memory (but sticking to the same tune all the time) I find it really hard to let loose and play solos based only a chord pattern. It's OK on a guitar - your fingers fall into the chord shape and all you have to do is play those particular notes in some random sort of sequence for it to sound like an interesting improvised solo, but on a wind instrument it's much harder. I tend to start off OK, and then get lost in whatever I've started playing, and by the time I'm halfway through I've completely lost track of which chord I'm supposed to be playing with. I guess practising occasionally might help . . .

Michael Schenker at Workington

Seems odd how these big rock stars end up playing on the stage of the little Carnegie Theatre in Workington, a place even Steve's Los Huevos Bandidos have been known to strut their stuff. Hell, I've explored the backstage area myself, and turned up my nose at the grotty dressing rooms, and yet Michael Schenker turns up and plays there.

I had no idea if I'd like it or not, but it's always worthwhile accompanying Steve to see his heroes, even though he won't return the favour. (I'm off to Langholm - alone - next week to see Fraser Fifield - a brilliant Scots sax player - the sort of thing you'd expect Steve to like, but on the strength of 4 tracks on his MySpace site he's decided he doesn't like him. Oh well, it's his loss.)

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoyed Schenker, and even more so because I've finally given in and bought myself a packet of fluorescent yellow expanding foam earplugs from B&Q. Meant to protect your lugs while using power tools, they're brilliant for taking the edge off very loud rock music, to the extent that you can actually hear the notes being played, adding a whole new dimension to this wonderful art form.

The singer and bass player were as good to look at as to listen to, and I now have, I think, the definitive list of players: Leif Sundin - vocals; Thoman Broman- drums; Wayne Findlay - guitar/keyboards; Thomas Torberg - bass.

The rest of the photos can be seen here.

Buttermere

When the sun shines on a Saturday I feel obliged to make the most of it, so I took the dogs down to Buttermere for a bit of a wander. Beautiful lake, of course, but I thought at this time of year it wouldn't be too inundated with tourists. Well, perhaps it's even worse in summer, but honestly, it felt like bloody Princes Street down there, squeezing past families with kids and babies, dogs and grannies, on the narrow path by the lake shore. I've never been to such a busy lake. You can see why, of course - it's crystal clear, flat and mirror-like, surrounded by statuesque mountains, and even boasts a selection of heartstoppingly amazing trees. A photographer's dream, except that at times it's just too flat and mirror-like. I prefer a mirror disturbed by a dog's wake as it dashes in to retrieve a stick.

I mean, honestly, just look at this. Too beautiful, or what?

Anyway, Pace, having just celebrated her 10th birthday, is beginning to show her age. Just as we'd reached more or less the point on our walk that was furthest from the car, she started lagging behind, and at one point looked about to sit down in the middle of the path. I guess I'd better stop letting her do so much swimming, even though she thinks she wants to do it. She needs new batteries, but I don't know where to insert them . . .

I hope this isn't the last photo I'll be taking of Pace swimming with a stick, though.

Fixed. Sort of.

Well, I took the dodgy drive to Westcom in Workington, told them it was urgent, and returned home. About an hour later I received a phone call to tell me it was ready for collection - it was the container holding the drive that had failed, rather than the drive itself. This was more or less what I thought was the matter, so I was very happy, and returned later in the afternoon to collect it.

Plugging it in to my computer, though, I found it still not working, though the computer detected an MTP device (MTP - music transfer protocol - isn't that something like an MP3 player, rather than a hard drive?). Whatever it is, I was informed that it was installed, but wasn't working properly. Oh, great. Tried all sorts of things but nothing happened. Finally I took it to Steve's computer, where it worked perfectly well. Well, at least I know my files are safe and sound . . . I just can't get at them. Used Steve's computer to make 2 DVDs' worth of copies of the stuff I can't do without, but there aren't enough DVDs in the world (well, that's a complete lie, of course. But there probably aren't enough in our house) to copy all my photos and mp3s and stuff so they'll just have to languish for now, unaccessed but safe, until I get my stupid PC to recognise the drive. At least I can get on with some work.

Did I mention that my computer is seriously f***ed up?

Heigh.
Ho.

Making besoms!

Spent the morning at Ashgill Quarry, Plumbland, learning to make birch besoms. Quite a contrast to my previous learning activity, but a lot of fun, and it was nice to be able to go out wearing scruffy old clothes for a change. Bloody cold, so warmth was more important than haute couture.

Got stuck behind a flock of escaped young herdwicks on the way, which was fun, as I love herdwicks, and they did seem to be rather revelling in their newfound, but probably short-lived freedom.

Helen rests her weary legs: Hannah shows off a newly-made besom as one of the students watches in admiration.

The sun shone, the resident border collies brought sticks to be thrown, and we tied birch brushwood together and stuck poles through the middle. I now have a besom HP himself would be proud of, though, sadly, none of us managed to rise so much as a couple of inches off the ground.

BLOODY COMPUTERS
Spent the rest of the day, on and off, trying to figure out why my external hard drive has suddenly become invisible to my PC. Yesterday morning it was working, but when I switched on the computer again later, it had vanished. Well, it's still there - I can see it - and the LED is lighting up, so it's getting power, but the computer isn't recognising it. Tried it on Steve's PC but it, too, ignores the thing completely. Seems to me it's a mechanical fault, rather than a software problem, which means (a) we can't fix it ourselves, but (b) at least the data is probably safe. So I phoned up Westcom, our trusty local computer repairers, and have booked it in for tomorrow morning.

SECURE BACKUPS?
In the meantime I am bereft. I'm searching through backup CDs for out-of-date copies of my price list so I can update them and send them to enquirers; found one at last, as well as an old copy of several other things I need. But there are a number of jobs I intended to get on with today and tomorrow, and they'll have to be postponed for a wee while now, as I don't have recent enough backups. That'll larn me . . . The question is, though - What is a safe backup method? Everything can fail. I don't trust CDs and DVDs particularly, but that's where my backups are. I thought the external HD was more secure, but now it's failed! I gave up on minidisks because of the nightmare scenerio of some of the drives turning rogue and destroying any disk that was put in them. I just don't think anything's 100% secure. Perhaps I should upload copies of everything to some secure online vault or something . . . but how long would that take? And why should I trust them any more than my own local drives?

NO NUDE FEMALE DANCERS HERE
Heh heh. I've just uploaded to Flickr a batch of photos taken this morning during the besom workshop, one of which showed a strange figure I discovered on site, carved from scrap timber, and depicting an ethnic looking female dancer, apparently unclothed. Among the Flickr tags for this were words such as, "nude, female," and "dancer". It's now an hour or two since I uploaded the photos. Unsurprisingly, since it's Feb 14th and many people probably have better things to do than browsing Flickr, I've had no views at all on most of my photos, except for one . . . guess which one has already had 10 views! I'd love to have seen their faces when, after following links leading to the "nude female dancer" they were expecting,they found this instead!

The Final Session

... of the course I was on, was held this evening in Denton Holme Community Centre, a nice sort of village hall place at the back of the library. But we had to be there for 6pm. 6pm! Whose silly idea was that? No time for anyone to have a meal beforehand, unless, like me, they decided to clock off early, get to the hall before the doors opened, and eat cold bean stir fry and rice out of a plastic box in the car while waiting.

After the course proper, so well organised, so inspirational, so life-changing for some participants, this final session was a complete waste of time. In charge was a pleasant fellow from the new University of Cumbria, who, to give him his due, made the best of the bad situation he'd found himself in, but the whole exercise was pointless.

We'd been given these workbooks to fill in, labelled CREATE '08, which is the name of the course, with the list of the bodies behind it at the top: EU Social Fund; University of Cumbria; Cumbria Cultural Skills Partnership; Leading Learning and Skills. I guess all of these had to be assured that the participants in the course had actually attended the sessions, done some work, and learned something, in order for the funding to go through. The chappie from the UC told us sadly that he had nothing to do with writing the questions, so he was as much in the dark as we were when it came to figuring out exactly what sort of answers were expected.

For example, what sort of reply were we expected to give to this? (A whole A4 page was provided, blank and threatening looking, for our answers): "Please list the types of methods that you would consider using to record your learning activities (for example, written, video production, sound recording etc). Give examples of how you would research these media." Now this was a course where we sat at desks and took notes. One or two of us took some photos. How d'you fill an entire A4 page with that? And what on earth do they want when they ask for, "recording the outcomes of a reflective process"?

Most of us, being conscientious sort of people, had spent many hours labouring over this document, but after 3 hours in the community hall with the so-called expert, we were still none the wiser as to whether we'd passed the course or not. Whether we'll ever find out I've no idea: Veronica and I are still waiting for the results of the course we did in November 2006 . . . we stopped holding our breaths about that one some time ago.

For those of us who are self-employed it hardly matters, but for those like my friend Krishna, who are employed and whose employers paid for their participation, it matters a lot.

David Parrish would be appalled at this disorganised last session. When we left his 4th class we were all on a high, full of inspiration and ideas for developing and transforming our businesses; after tonight we felt crushed by bureaucracy.

Stripping today

Yes - stripping down rush chairs, prior to re-seating them. Some jobs are just too messy to do indoors, so you have to wait for decent weather and be prepared to drop everything else if the sun does come out. Someone a long time ago had covered the worn-out rush seat pads of these 3 chairs with fabric, to make them look upholstered. Presumably they couldn't find anyone at the time to re-rush them. Anyway, the fabric has done a very good job of containing every little scrap of broken, disintegrated rush, and as soon as I pulled out the nails and removed the cloth, a fine powdery dust started to escape. Once I started attacking the actual rush pad with my Stanley knife, huge clouds of what looked like smoke were released, and I had to make a quick makeshift facemask from the scarf I was wearing.

Above - not smoke, but powdered rush!

Aineko followed me outside and sat patiently on the picnic bench while I worked. She's good at her job. When I'm inside, working on the computer, she comes and sits on my lap. She's a companionable cat, which is nice.

Misty

Misty today. All day. You could lose your dog on a day like this. Fortunately, I didn't.

Carlisle Enterprise Centre

An interesting old art deco building which seems to have been a factory or something originally (did someone suggest it had been a power station?) and which has now been given a new lease of life, Carlisle Enterprise Centre stands on the banks of the River Caldew below Nelson Bridge, and is the sort of building quite easily overlooked if you don't have to go there for some reason. This is where the course I've been going to is being held. Inside it's full of corridors and fire doors and confusing corners and signs, but you gradually get the layout in your head, and stop getting lost on the trip between the classroom and the loos.

It reminds me of Portobello Pool, or at least the building at the end of it, inside which there was a big cafeteria smelling of chips and with water and detritus all over the floor. I hated going in there in my bare feet, straight out of the water, as you'd end up stepping in squashed chips or pools of spilt Coke. But from outside it looked great, and could easily pass for the long-lost brother of Carlisle Enterprise Centre.Unfortunately Edinburgh City Council didn't think this fine old edifice worth preserving, and all that's left is memories and photos like this.

I keep winning bottles of wine - well, small bottles of wine, but still. Gees. . . it's embarrassing being a smartarse . . . Mind you, if they'd had incentives like this at school I suspect a lot of people would have done a lot better than they did. We had to buy our own booze back then, for heavens' sake!

Ow!

Saturday. Trying to do several things at once, in a bit of a hurry. Trying to slide the back door of the car closed while opening the front one, in order to put my hand in and push down the button to lock the back door. (No, I don't have central locking. I don't like it.) I do this often, though in future I may not, because on this occasion my timing was all to pot, and I managed to complete the sliding-the-back-door-closed bit before starting the opening-the-front-door bit, with the result that part of my right hand, viz., my right pinkie, ended up between the two doors as they collided. Fortunately neither of them was locked at the time, so I was able to slide the back one open again very smartly, but the damage was done. It was incredibly painful. I went jumping back into the house going, "ow! OW! OW! OWWWW!" followed by the cat, who was going, "miaow, miaow, miaow," in a normal, catlike manner, which led Steve to think I was doing cat impressions instead of screaming in agony. I didn't even realise I'd left a trail of blood. I thought I'd just crushed the finger, not burst it open too.

Well, once I'd finished hyperventilating and bleeding all over the kitchen I managed to clean and bandage the wound, which isn't actually quite as bad as it felt. There's quite a deep cut, but nothing's broken, and the wound's nice and clean. The finger's bruised a bit, and of course it's difficult to type with a bandage on your finger if you're the sort of typist who's been using all her fingers on the keyboard ever since that summer when she was 9, and bored, and decided to learn to touch-type on an ancient antique typewriter using her mother's old workbooks which gave her loads of practice in producing nice neat bits of typescript declaring over and over such words of wisdom as, "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party".

Heigh ho. I've damaged practically all my fingers at one time or another, so it's nothing new. Let's see: when I was still at school I embedded a penknife in my left hand ring finger while trying to remove the crown cap from a glass Coke bottle; twice I've sliced a bit off the tip of a finger, sending me once to sit in a long queue in the casualty department of Edinburgh Royal Infirmary and on the other occasion to the doctor's surgery; I've had an axe through my thumb, cut a piece of finger while slicing onions, burnt a finger on a hot exhaust pipe, squashed a thumb between two rocks while chucking them into a wheelbarrow, lost a couple of nails which eventually grew in again, and of course had my right index finger bitten by a jealous dog when the new dog arrived. Then there are the everyday cuts and scratches caused by sharp tools, hammers and pointy bits of cane, and the burns from touching things that have been soldered without waiting for them to cool down, or from taking bread out of the oven and brushing against a hot oven shelf. There was a nasty blister too, when the steam from the kettle attacked my thumb, and another occasion when a couple of fingers, for no apparent reason, developed a swelling which would quite likely have spread to the rest of my hand and then my arm had I not lived in an era and a place where antibiotics are available.

Don't know why . . . there's no sun up in the sky . . .

. . . stormy weather. Well, it's been quite exciting to watch, with our perfect view from our windows of the sea in all its wildness. BIG waves and squalls of hail and rain and nearly-snow hurling themselves towards us across the water. Strong, gusty winds chucking stuff around. Notice the eucalyptus tree in the photo - it's bending seriously to the right - it normally stands up fairly vertically. The sun, however did appear from time to time, as there were nice big breaks in the clouds, as you can see here. You'd hardly believe it was such a wild day, really.

But this is normal weather around here. The trees down the lane are all bent in that direction permanently, because of the prevailing winds.

You have to drive more slowly than usual, especially when you're on roads with overhanging trees, as there's no way of telling if there's going to be a big huge tree limb lying across the road in front of you as you go round a bend. But hey, it's all fun.

Apparently the M6 was closed for a while, and a car ferry on its way across the Irish Sea had to be evacuated by helicopter. Can you imagine being out in the Irish Sea in a car ferry in this weather? I think I'd have stayed ashore and waited for the wind to die down if it'd been me.

Several days' worth of nothing important

The thing is, if you allow yourself one day off from posting on your blog, you sort of slip into a non-blogging area where it no longer matters, and suddenly several days have passed. Well, it's true, it doesn't matter at all, and hardly anybody reads these words of wisdom anyway, but still, it's a sort of discipline thing and it should be good for the soul or something.

So, dear readers, you must be gasping, by now, to know what I've been doing that has taken me away from the . . . er . . . blogosphere. (Can't decide whether that's an appallingly horrible word or not, yet. I'd better try using it for a bit and see how I feel about it.)

The coffee I drank at Friday's class left me with a headache on Saturday, which turned out to be a completely wasted day, so nothing to write about there. Sunday was the usual round of dog-walking in the muddy old cowfield, visiting Sainsbury's and Steve's dad, and trying to catch up on some boring work later, which was interrupted by the welcome distraction of a phonecall from Chris. So . . . nothing to write about there, either.

Monday was back to Carlisle for Class Number Two, which probably was worth writing about, actually. What I am learning is how to say, "no," to the wrong sort of customers, and how to identify the right sort, and offer them something that we do better than any of our competitors. We do lots of things pretty well, and this is our problem, really. We're spread too thinly. If we can identify the things we do better than anyone else - (not necessarily the things we do best, as others may do them equally well) - then we have a competitive edge, and we can concentrate on these, become specialists, and build up a reputation for being the very best at those things, so that when people want those particular things done, we will be the obvious choice to do them. I came away filled with ideas. We go back again next Monday for more. What fun!

The only problem is getting up early. I spent Sunday night packing up parcels for mail order customers, meaning I didn't get to bed until after 1am, but had to get up again about 6am. Not enough sleep. (Hence the coffee!) Fortunately DP is such an interesting tutor that I managed not to doze off at all. Oh, and I won another bottle of wine! (We never had incentives like this at school.)

Had to stop on the way into Carlisle at a small post office to despatch my parcels, and then dash to the bank at lunchtime. It's hard work trying to keep things operating while being incarcerated in a classroom all day. Before I could go home I had to make a trip to pick up a monitor for Steve that we'd found on Freecycle: he's put a W98 computer together to play old games on but had no monitor for it. (Apparently they don't run on WXP.) Then a dash to the other end of town to get catfood.
We need a photo here, don't we? It can get very boring without illustrations. Let's see . . . Here's Mr Fire and Brimstone, proclaiming the wrath of God upon the sinners of Carlisle,(and there are many), doing his rather second-rate best to imitate The Rev Ian Paisley. He stood beneath the statue of a long-deceased mayor of the city, ranting away diligently, with his minder standing quietly by, but nobody stopped to listen. I'm afraid I didn't feel any more doomed than I had before I saw him, and having grown up in the shadow of Pastor Jack Glass in Edinburgh, I'm fairly immune by now.

Down Bank Street I came across yet another Eastern European-looking busker playing accordion - this time a pretty young woman with gappy teeth. (She obviously hasn't come across the other European immigrants to our shores yet - the Polish dentists.) Anyhoo . . . I approached her, smiling, in the same way I'd approached the guys on Friday who had grinned and posed so nicely for me, but she waved me away with a look of alarm on her face. I tried to show her that I'd pay for the privilege of photographing her, pointing to my handbag and purse, but she kept shaking her head and waving my camera away. I have no intention of taking photos of people who want to remain anonymous, so I left her in peace. I suspect, though, that she may be here illegally, or is trying to hide from someone. It would be fascinating to hear her story.

While writing captions for some of my other Carlisle photos on Flickr I had to do a bit of research and discovered the interesting fact that the famous factory chimney (Carlisle's main landmark, really), known as Dixon's Chimney, was the 8th highest factory chimney in the world at 305 feet. I've yet to get a really good photo of it - it always looks wonderful as you drive past, but I've not found the best viewpoint for it yet.

And today? Getting back to normal working again, which means I finished a cane chair at 11.30pm. I hope to deliver it to its owners on Saturday. While working I watched a programme where these two young doctors - identical twins and both completely mad - go around the world finding out about how other cultures deal with sickness and pain. Today they were in Asia, and as an experiment joined in one of these ceremonies where participants get metal skewers pushed through their faces and tongues. One brother went through all the rituals beforehand, which were supposed to make him immune to pain, while the other acted as a control. Didn't seem to work. They both found it excrutiating. However, later on, one of them seemed to find the secret. You still feel the pain, you just no longer let it bother you. It's a state of mind. Fascinating stuff.

Carlisle

There's funding from somewhere for strange training sessions and courses, and once the funding has been secured, the organisers need participants. I'm on the mailing list, and if it sounds interesting, I go along. This time there's the carrot of a £100 bursary at the end of it too.

It's a thing run by one David Parrish, and based on his book, T-Shirts and Suits, aimed at creative people (the T-shirts) who run businesses, things that are generally run with more efficiency by entrepreneurs (the suits). There are pencils, stripy pencil sharpeners, folders of info, and little piles of coloured origami paper on the desks. I say to the guy next to me, "Oh - are we going to be doing some origami?" but he just shrugs as though it's a silly question.

(Interestingly enough I win a small bottle of sparkling wine later on for making an origami fortune teller.)

There are several women in the group, and only one man - well, two if you count Andy Mackay, the organiser. We spend a pleasant day getting to know one another and thinking about how to run our businesses better. There are 4 more sessions to go. I think I might end up with some useful knowledge so it's well worth the effort.

At lunch time I dash (we've only half an hour) from the Viaduct across the street (no proper crossing place!) and up the pedestrian precinct to the post office, in order to despatch the Partnership Tax Return by Special Delivery. That's it - the last one is gone. Hurrah!

Carlisle's full of interesting buskers. I make the mistake of not photographing them on the way to the post office, and at least 2 of them had sloped off by the time I was on my return journey, meaning I missed the opportunity to capture for posterity the brass quartet playing Handel's Water Music and the double bass/flute duo. I did, however, manage to capture the Eastern European guys with their glorious moustaches playing folk tunes from - where? Bulgaria maybe? - on sax and accordion. As soon as they saw me approach with my camera they started to pose for me. Wish I'd had time to chat to them - I'd like to know where they were from.

When I returned after class finished, and visted Holland and Barratt, I asked one of the staff about the buskers. She groaned, saying, "They've been there since 12 o'clock and they've been playing the same song the whole time. We're sick of it!" I guess the poor lass was tone deaf, as I heard at least 10 different tunes in the time I was there, and there was lots of variety.

I also managed to capture photos of a trumpeter and another rather foreign-looking fellow playing another accordion. Had he been a bit closer to home I'd have been tempted to invite him to come and learn some morris tunes or join our ceilidh band.

The Tragically Hip
Have you heard of these guys? Unless you've been in Canada you probably haven't. They are, apparently, Canada's most popular band, and having listened to a some of the free downloads on their website, I have to admit they're rather good. What other musical gems are lurking in the Canadian wilds, I wonder? There's also Great Big Sea who are a sort of Canadian Runrig, complete with swaying thousands in big stadiums. How come these bands never get heard anywhere else?

Taxing matters

Finally all the relevant info has arrived from the tax office - a variety of security codes, PINs, IDs and so on - so at last I took a deep breath and logged on the to Government Gateway website.

Last year I took my 3 tax returns to my local office, only to be refused a receipt for them. They wouldn't even tell me their surnames so that I could take a note of the people who accepted them from me. For a department who have twice in 10 years managed to mislay one or more of my returns in their capacious offices, they're not doing a lot to instill confidence in their users.

The one thing they kept insisting on, last year, was that for my peace of mind I really ought to be filing my returns online. Soon, they told me, it won't be possible to hand them in personally at all. We were a little worried about the security issues, but with all those codes and PINs I feel a lot safer than handing them into an office with no way of knowing whether they'll ever reach the right person.

So. The two personal returns worked fairly smoothly. Now for the Partnership return. After going through the same security rigmarole as the others, I found there was no dedicated software available with which to file it. I was presented with a list of 3rd party software companies, approved by the Revenue, and with a vague piece of advice stating that neither could they recommend one package over another, nor could they tell us which one was free, although it seemed there was at least one. I've yet to find it. I went through them all, and all of them seemed to cost money, as well as being a lot more complex than what I required.

Sighing heavily, I phoned the helpline. A nice Weegie lassie replied, and with a helpful tone of voice attempted to answer my question. In the end she had to agree that there didn't seem to be a way of filing a Partnership return online without paying for the privilege, and suggested either taking it in person or posting it Special Delivery. I could have done this a week ago, had they not tantalized me with offerings of PINs and easy online filing. Aaarghh!

So. I guess the Special Delivery option is the safest bet. At least I'll get a receipt from the Post Office, and it's guaranteed next day delivery. Costs a bit, but cheaper than buying a complete software package that I only need for a single, very small job.

Carlisle

I'm off on a free course in Carlisle tomorrow. ALL DAY. I'm not used to this sort of thing. How shall I keep awake? It sounds really interesting and useful, but it's an awfully early start - 9.30am. I just hope they have copious supplies of black coffee.

Too much to do . . .

. . . to have anything interesting to write about. Putting caning kits together; printing instruction books; doing invoices; taking phone calls; stripping down 'Cesca seats; caning a small bedroom chair; packing customers' orders; updating clients' websites; making phone calls; replying to emails; printing price lists; wondering when I'm going to get around to the other half dozen chairs and stools that need reseating with seagrass, rush or Danish cord; wondering if I'm ever going to have time to leave the premises again.

I'm tired, I tell ya!

Happy birthday to me

I got 3 actual physical birthday cards, and many virtual ones, which is fine, as it leaves less to recycle, and of the 3 real ones, two were home-made while the third is so pretty that I'll probably want to keep it anyway.

I also got enough reading matter to keep me quiet for a while, enough games to distract me even more than usual from real life, some lovely home-made jewellery and half an acre of Brazilian rain forest, which I plan to visit and set up a holiday home on as soon as I've brushed up my Portuguese a bit. (Oh. I see. I'm not supposed to use it - I'm helping to conserve it. Well, that's actually even better. Thanks Patti.)

I gather it was snowing the day I was born. It was snowing the day Chris was born too, and that was 2 months after my birthday. These sort of things don't happen any more. Yesterday's feeble attempt at snow had vanished completely by lunchtime, and now it's just rain and flood warnings and wind and greyness and general dreichness.

Weather

Eventually we are all reduced to talking about the weather. Well, if we're British, anyway.

Wild today. Wind and that really cold nasty rain that penetrates clothing and chills your skin even if you're just dashing from the car to the Post Office. You don't see people standing around in the street on days like this: they're all dashing from one sanctuary to the next. I didn't even notice the usual knot of smokers outside the pubs, but having been one myself for many years I know that it takes more than bad weather to stop a smoker lighting up, so I guess it was just the wrong time of day or something.

There's a stretch of road between Netherhall School and Maryport that always floods when there's heavy rain, and on my way into town the whole left side of the road was waterlogged, forcing all the traffic to veer to the right side of the road. On my way back the flood had spread so that there was only about a car's width left on the dry side. A little later and it would have filled up completely. Someone told me the Dearham road was flooded too, so the poor Maryportians may have ended up beseiged in their own town, with the only way out being through Flimby.

By the time I got home the rain had turned to sleet, and within minutes the sleet had turned to snow. For a while I got quite excited, but it turned out to be that nasty wet sort of snow, that will certainly lie for a while, but makes crap snowballs and is useless for sledging on. Oh well, with the full moon it looked quite nice in the garden anway. Hmm. Wonder if the moon's still visible? Might be an opportunity for some interesting long-exposure photography if I can find warm enough boots.

I am a calm-assertive pack leader, I am . . . well, sometimes, anyway

Cesar Millan's ideal state for the pack leader is 'calm-assertive', while the dogs in the pack need to be 'calm-submissive'. Since Sky 3 runs two episodes of The Dog Whisperer back to back every night of the week I'm becoming immersed in his ethos, and it's beginning to rub off on me.

Took the dogs out for a quick run round the field before our weekly trip to see Dad, and, horror of horrors, there on the other side of the road was E. with his little lurcher. This dog really dislikes my dogs, and I feel E. also dislikes them, as he has been known to wave his stick in a threatening manner at Ghyll in the past. I've always tried to avoid them if we see them coming, since that incident. As a pair, they are our nemesis. Today, however, I decided to be the calm-assertive pack leader, and march purposefully onwards, leading my pack with the right sort of energy. And it worked! I couldn't believe it. We walked past E. and his dog, and neither Pace nor Ghyll let out so much as a murmer. E's dog, however, did bark a little, but all three of us completely ignored it and walked on. Wow!

We have a long way to go before my dogs are 'balanced' as CM puts it, but we're getting there, and a lot of it is down to my own behaviour, rather than the dogs'. They've always behaved better for Steve, and this is probably because he's closer to the calm-assertive ideal than I am. I'm learning though.

Just a moment ago, as I was typing this, the dogs started barking, hearing something outside. (We're waiting for Steve to come back from his band practice.) Instead of shouting at them, I walked quietly downstairs, and without a word touched Pace, who was doing the barking at that point, gently but firmly on her head, and she became quiet and calm and moved away. Silence followed. This is amazing!

Their behaviour when the phone rings is already improving, though we haven't quite got there yet. Next they have to learn to be calm when customers arrive, and to ignore the postie. I feel optimistic though - I think we're going to do it. Hurrah!

Above: our somewhat extended pack last spring when Steve's mum and Dougal joined us on the beach.

Loweswater, unexpectedly

Below - NOT Loweswater but Cogra Moss
For once it wasn't raining, and my new walking boots needed a good workout. Spent a little while poring over the OS map (English Lakes, NW area), and remembered we hadn't been to Cogra Moss for ages. Lovely remote little baby lake, undiscovered by tourists, and only used by a few peaceful anglers and many waterfowl. (See photo, left.) It's sort of beyond the village of Lamplugh on the other side of the fell from Loweswater.
There's a little off-road carpark, where we left the car, and the dogs and I wandered across the field full of disinterested sheep, which hardly glanced at us as we passed. At the top of the field you reach a gate, and beyond the gate we found an ominous sign, informing us that forestry work was ongoing, and for safety reasons the path down to the lake was closed. There was even a useful map (shown right) explaining exactly which bits of forest were to go. Bugger.

Oh well, not to be put off, we put a brave face on it, returned to the car, and made our way to the next lake along, Loweswater. This turned out to be rather a good idea, as it happens, because I normally only go there in summer for some reason, and at that time of year the water is infested with toxic blue-green algae which makes swimming for the dogs too hazardous to permit. Today the water was clear and bright and the dogs could happily dash in, swimming and splashing to their hearts' content.

Loweswater is quite a moody looking lake on a grey day like today, but in some ways I prefer it without the perfect blue skies you see in the touristy photos. There were plenty of wet and muddy places in which to test the waterproofness of my new boots, and they emerged with shining colours. Well, they emerged covered in mud, actually, but my feet remained dry.

Halfway along the lake shore we came across a lovely little bothy, all clean and tidy and locked up, though it looks like it gets used by whoever can find the key. Through the window you can see a basic kitchen complete with cooker, simple bench seating and an instruction sheet. In the other room there's a ladder leading up into a loft, where walkers or others presumably can sleep. It's a lot cleaner looking than the bothies you find in the Highlands, but those, of course, don't need to be locked up. This one is too near civilization to expect civilized conduct from all who find it.
These are not quiet woods. Further along we hear a commotion ahead, and an army of benevolent English pensioners comes streaming towards us, all outfitted by the best of Keswick's outdoor gear shops complete with backpacks and walking poles. (One of these days I shall devote an entire blog to the pointlessness of walking poles, but I digress . . .) They look happy and fit, chatting pleasantly to each other, and smiling in a genuinely friendly manner to me and my crazy dogs. Sometimes you can't help liking English people, however hard you try not to. Then again, maybe I've just lived here too long, and I'm getting sucked in.

A little further on we find two ladies in identical red anoraks sitting on identical folding camping stools, taking in a superb view across the lake while they share a vacuum flask of tea. Well, honestly, what could be nicer than sitting with a friend (actually they looked like mother and daughter) sipping tea in such surroundings? See what I mean about being sucked in to the niceness of the English? I sometimes feel they need protecting from all these scary immigrants who will surely destroy all this niceness and turn England into a wild and crazy place like the rest of the world. Maybe it's up to us Scots to protect our auld enemies from something much worse. Strange thought, that.

Well, back to the dogwalk. I take photos of all the little streams that flow into Loweswater. Some are named on the map, like Dub Beck and Holme Beck, but others are not. I intend to upload some of these pictures the the River Names of Britain group on Flickr, but I can't use unnamed becks. Not that anyone would be any the wiser if I just named them on the spot - I could call them Oscar Beck and Aineko Beck after my cats. I wonder how long it would take before anyone noticed? Actually they probably never would. The internet is full of errors, mistakes and downright lies, which people just blindly copy from website to blog to social networking site without ever checking their veracity. I used to try to correct things, but after a while you give up. People don't want to know. So the description of the world around us is changing before our eyes: those of us who know what's correct will gradually die off, leaving a generation who rely solely on what they read online to inform them.

Is it a new phenomenon, I wonder, where one has a gut feeling that one's parents' generation was probably the best one, (well, apart from the wars, of course), and things have been sliding downhill ever since?