Messing about on the river

Well actually it is the Norfolk Broads.
Here is TaTa with Susi who helps crew the wherry Hathor. There are only eight wherries remaining and they are remarkable and intriguin vessels.

A wherry is type of boat traditionally used for carrying cargo or passengers on rivers and canals in England, and is particularly associated with the River Thames. Passenger wherries evovled into the Thames skiff. Wherries were clinker built with long overhanging bows so patrons could step ashore dryshod before landing stages were built along the river. It is the long angled bow that distinguishes the wherry and skiff from the gig and the cutter which have steeper bows following the rise of the Royal Navy and the building of landing stages. In the late 18th century the name was given to the Norfolk Wherry with large sails which was developed to replace an earlier cargo boat the Norfolk Keel.

As wherries are completely wind and sail dependent moving a wherry from its mooring is labour-intensive and involves long punts to push the boat into a wind.

The wherry was full at time of sailing so instead TaTa and KeKe went on a solar powered boat developed in Germany and the only one of its kind in the UK. It has 14 solar panels which charge the batteries so the ride is smooth and quiet.

The new bloggers

The vote was 40% Muddle 20% Floozie and 40% Chevvie. So Muddle and Chevvie are the new blog writers. They will start writing in June.

Time to vote!

As written on the previous blog we are now looking for a suitable blogger to take over from Tizit. Treaclethe dog had a go but did not savour being a newshound.
Choose your blogger!
Hello...I am Muddle. I am 12 years old and was born in this house. I am very much a loner and like to go out and about in the neighbourhood and go through catflaps and windows so I get to her a lot of local gossip. I am very wary of human strangers (as should all animals be). My bestest friend in the whole wide world was Loofah who has now gone to Hound Heaven. I have a special fondness for fresh wood pigeon.

Greetings. My name is Floozie. I was a street cat and bought up four kittens without the help of the government. Three have now been adopted and the other one is living here with me. Because I have lived on the streets I am wise beyond my years (3) and have had to live on my wits. Lots of people come to this house and I carefully take note of what they say. As you can see from this photo I am always on the lookout for a new story. I like going out in the garden now. I don't like being handled much because I hurt my back. I have a special fondness for my stuffed mouse.

High six. My name is Chevvie (short for Chevrolet because I have a 24 valve purr, eight gears and find cornering a little difficult). I am the son of Floozie. I am 12 weeks old and spend most of my time running around for no reason, shredding cashmere sweaters and falling into the bath. I waited for my first story to come out of the printer but instead a picture of my bottom arrived. I have a special fondness for anything to do with food and leaping for great heights at 3am onto someone's head. Tab had to get a tetanus shot because I thought her arm was a dangerous snake and bit through it.

Glug. I am one of Three Fish called Fish. We would make good writers because like most journalists we go round in circles, back and forth and spend most of our time gawping at Z-list celebrities. It is totally untrue that Fish have a 3-second memory...what was the question again?

Nibbles. We are Cumfy and Mumfy. We had a relative called Giggle who worked for The Guineapendent so writing is in our jeans. We spend most of our time munching the grass and because of an incident with a fox we live outside during the day and then go inside just before dark. We do not fiddle our expenses and give out as much as we take in (we nibble, then we fertilize). We have a special interest in carrots, celery and corn - any vegetable really which begins with 'c'.
So, who is your favourite.
VOTE NOW!
You have one week!

A loving story

Both Floozie and her son Chevvie have managed to wheedle their way into my heart. I was angry because I thought KeKe meant them as replacements for Tizit. After this blog there is going to be a vote as to who writes the blog as it has always been a blog written from an animal's perspective and not a human one. So tomorrow I will post the candidates and you can vote and choose. I received this email and I thought it pertinent to everyone. We have had a tough two years with animals and I didn't want anymore ... we lost four cats, almost lost Treacle and our six guinea pigs eaten by a fox. I didn't think there was any space left in my heart for another animal but I was wrong. It was too early and I am too tired and too ill. But somehow or other the loudest purr in the world in my ear at 3am and to watch Floozie go from a frightened little animal to a comedian has been worth it. Sometimes love is not instant, sometimes fear blocks love and ultimately love wins over. And finally I had to go and have a tetanus shot because Chevvie bit right through my arm in the elbow joint!

I am sorry you are not feeling too happy with your two new cats. I know how hard it is as in the past have had all the hissing and spitting and carry on that goes with a new mum coming into the house where there are other animals. I still bear the scars when I was bitten terribly on the hand by a mum who thought I was going to touch her baby. But it is not the cats fault they came to live with you and Kees was trying to fill a gap, maybe a little too soon. These words are ones we are having at David's mums funeral on Tuesday. I am sure you know them but they count the same for dead pussies as they do for dead mothers.

"You can shed tears that she is gone, or you can smile because she has lived. You can close your eyes and pray that she''ll come back, or you can open your eyes and see all she's left. Your heart can be empty because you can't see her. or you can be full of the love you shared. You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday, or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday. You can remember her only that she is gone, or you can cherish her memory and let it live on. You can cry and close your mind. be empty and turn your back. Or you can do what she'd want; smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

When I first took in my last dog Sheba, we already had a wonderfully funny loving little shaggy mongrel called Dibbles. Dibbles was rescued a few days old from a field where she had been dumped and chewed by rats. She was full of maggots and her tail had been cut off and was just a ragged stump. Dibbles was about to be put to sleep by my friend Wendy a PDSA nurse. Instead she put aside the syringe and began washing the maggots out of the huge wound on Dibbles back. I happened to be there and saw this happening. Three months later Dibbles came to live with us.

Sheba was a stray on Wanstead flats. It took Wally Probyn, the man who rescued her over a year to catch her. When she came to us she had been homed with a lovely couple of retired schoolmistresses but had escaped and run away. She was nervous and distraught without Wally but he was unable to keep her in the top floor flat he had in London's East End. I spent a week out every night trying to find Sheba and eventually she ran back to the old ladies and jumped on their bed. They slept every night with their back door open hoping she would return. She came to us because we had a walled garden and she could not escape.

I tell you this story because one day I was at the vets and another nurse friend Debbie and I were talking. "You don't like Sheba do you" she said to me. I had not said so but obviously my tone or something I had said conveyed this to her. It stopped me in my tracks and really made me think. She was right. Sheba was a scared little dog who looked more like a fox. She did not know how to play and was terribly insecure. Dibbles on the other hand was everybody's friend. You could not help but love her. From then on I saw Sheba differently. Dibbles and she were great friends. Dibbles however had been so badly wounded and infected as a puppy that she developed a very bad bowel condition and had many operations on her rectum. She would have needed a colostomy had she been human. She passed pure blood from her backside and eventually had to be put down. She was just six years old. Sheba then became our only dog along with 23 cats.

I realised I had the gentlest most loyal dog anyone could wish for and she became my guardian angel going everywhere with me when I could not venture out of the house alone. She sat on the settee with me at every therapy session and when I was distraught she would go and sit beside my therapist and shake.

I hope things work out for you all. We are in Essex from Monday and the funeral is on Tuesday. This is not an easy time but we have to get through it, just as David's mum would have wanted. I don't know if I told you but the doctor and his wife who run mum's home lost their 30 year old son the week before mum died. He had a massive brain haemmorrage. He was a barrister with a wonderful life before him. I spoke to Mrs Khan his mother today. She was very brave and just kept saying how much they miss Dave's mum as she was such a lovely lady. She said she always told her children when they used to say "It's not fair" that life is not fair and that just about sums it all up.

The Changeling

Feeling less grumpy than the last post. Mainly to do with my friends Grania, Ellen and Suzie than the two new cats.
Went to see The Changeling last night. If you want to go through an emotional wringer then I suggest you see it. Angelina Jolie, usually seen with either a gun or Brad Pitt strapped to her thighs, played the part of Christine who one morning says goodbye to her son, Walter, and departed for work, she never anticipated that this was the day her life would be forever changed.
Upon returning home, Christine discovered Walter was nowhere to be found.
Over the course of the following months, she launched a search that would ultimately prove fruitless. Yet just when it seemed that all hope was lost, a nine-year-old boy claiming to be Christine's son seemed to appear out of thin air.
Overcome with emotion and uncertain how to face the authorities or the press, Christine invites the child to stay in her home despite knowing without a doubt that he is not her son.
As much as Christine would like to accept the fact that her son has been returned to her, she cannot accept the injustice being pushed upon her and continues to challenge the Prohibition-era corrupt Los Angeles police force at every turn. As a result, Christine is slandered by the powers that be, and painted as an unfit mother.
In this town, a woman who challenges the system is putting her life on the line, and as the situation grows desperate, the only person willing to aid her in her search is benevolent local activist Reverend Briegleb (John Malkovich).
Angelina does tend to over-dramatise her emotions and seems to bear every hope and fear wearing black eyeliner (smudged, perfect or running) and does not really represent the working class, husband in prison 'real' Christine Collins. Bit of a 'bums on seats' scenario here I think.
John Malkovich steals the movie with his restrained and beautifully crafted acting. The sets and costumes are immaculate - sometimes Disney-esque in their perfection.
The film is directed by Clint Eastwood and his direction, the camerawork and editing hold the audience through love, fear, hope, disgust, shock, and bewilderment.
The film is also frustrating to the audience as now DNA would have solved the mystery from the beginning and it is hard to put yourself in a world where the police are corrupt and women are second-class citizens (hang on a minute - sounds a bit like now).
The weakest actor in the film is Jason Butler Harner who plays the psychopathic paedophile. There is a cameo role for Morgan Eastwood as 'girl on tricycle' - not the kind of film I would want to put my child in.
Would I recommend this movie - yes and no. Yes, to see Angelina Jolie take on a demanding role and no because her performance belies the true Christine Collins and gives little benevolence toward Walter Collins. No, because of the over-shots of gruesome violence and a very explicit execution.
Also Eastwood chooses to leave out a number of important issues to do with the case which would have given more impact to the story line and would have been of more interest than the gruesome violence etc. This would have made the film into a more compelling and intricate true story rather than the edited version Eastwood chose which ultimately makes it a 'based on a true story'.
The real Christine Collins died in 1964. She always believed her son was still alive and the possibility of that could be true. He could have been so traumatised by the events that anything could have happened to him. Maybe he sat in a movie house somewhere and watched the film. Stranger things have happened.

I would like to take this opportunity to remind you of my friend's son Luke Durbin who disappeared on 12 May 2006 in Ipswich. His photo is shown above.

Life is dull

Please make a donation to Motor Neurone Disease Association www.mndassociation.org
Got the Swine Flu leaflet this morning. What a laugh that is. First of all 'We are all going to die'. Reported 100 deaths in Mexico, now all of a sudden it's 30. Then Tamiflu (strangely enough the same medication as was used for Bird Flu) is brought to the fore as the saviour of the world. Then eminent scientist says 'it lessens symptoms and cuts down illness by one day'. Then another eminent scientist says 'by taking Tamiflu you may inhibit the bodies natural immune system for when the big boy comes in the fall/winter'. You decide. Pharmeceutical industries have us by the nuts - if they can't cure us, then they will make us iller or, oops a daisy, kill us.

Haven't got much to write about since Tizit is no longer with us. She was the one with the imagination and sense of humour. Me...boring old fart. So what has been happening here in East Angular.

Husband thought it good idea to adopt a cat with one of its kittens...yeah like that could replace the hole in my heart...I would have been quite happy with just Muddle and Treacle. Now life is made complicated again with the daily hissing and spitting that is going on which drives me round the bend plus the extra work which when you are in constant pain, tired and weak doesn't improve things much. And to round that off Muddle has started spraying everywhere. Thanks husband. Next time make it a Maserati.

In the last week or so there has been one marriage, one death and one funeral. The average week in anyone's life.

Am counting the days to going to France. 1, 2, 3, 4 and so on.

Karen will understand the rest - the rest of you can go back to what you were doing: Gordon Frown, Tony Bliar, Margaret Scratcher, Eunuch Powell, Anthony Wedgie Benn, Edward Teeth, George 'Trim My' Bush, Fidel Castrate, Badback Insane Obama, Mahatmacoat Ghandi, Diana Princess of Wails, Ken Kidneystone,

Summer wot summer?

Please make a donation to Motor Neurone Disease Association www.mndassociation.org

After experiencing minus 4 celcius at the Sno-Zone I thought won't it be lovely to sit in the garden in the glorious sunshine we have been experiencing recently in East Angular. Hah ... some hope. This is the recommended garb for an English summer.
The husband decided to do a bit of creative gardening the other day - it took him four hours to take down a tree - he has to be kept under strict supervision because two years ago he manicured our peach tree which is still in shock and will probably never produce another peach again. It hasn't even bothered to blossom this year. You should have seen how Treacle the dog looked after the husband clipped him.
Had remedial therapy for the various joints which moved after snowboarding. Then couldn't walk the following day. Still the physical pain blocks out the heartache of Tizit for a while.

Snowboarding!

For very personal reason I have chosen Motor Neurone Disease as my May charity. You can donate on www.mndassociation.org
Despite warnings from friends and acquaintances and being twice as old as I was the last time I skied, two-thirds less fit, two times heavier, and living with a degenerative disease I toddled off to Milton Keynes Sno-Zone with two friends Gary (luckily a physiotherapist) and Jamie (one who has snowboarded for years).
There I was resplendent in spandex, a knee brace, a rather unbecoming crash helmet, cool shades, knee pads, elbow pads and enough body armour making me look like a G20 policethug.
Having skied and langlaufed many times (about 28 years ago) I have been used to going forward and being able to lift my legs.
Lesson number one on a snowboard is ignore the instinct to step forward when just about ready to take off - I did try to step forward and ended up head first in the snow (hence the crash helmet).
It just seemed to go against all instincts to launch myself down a slope on a piece of fibreglass without moving my feet, pointing my body forward and my knees sideways.
It took me a while to stand up and convince my feet not to move and then I was off.
Off is a good thing, not being unable to manoeuvere is not such a good thing - that's when knees, hips and various other bodily parts come into play - none of which seemed to want to work in unison so again flat on my back, my face or crashing into the instructor.
I thought this sucks.
I don't have a clue how I did it but on trying again I fell backwards, slid for a bit, then flipped over (how?!?!) and landed back on my head - nice move.
Two friends in stitches.
Gary and Jamie are at the top of the photo - I am the blot on the landscape at the bottom of the slope and no, the man to left of the photo is not peeing up against the wall.
I don't even what to mention the mechanical going up the hill thingys - let's just say entanglement, falling off, being dragged and humiliation.
Another while and my brain worked out the various body parts needed and I was off again.
Again off was good, manoeuvering was more luck than judgement, then it was stop.
I found crashing into one the snowboarding jumps, into the sides, other people and the bottom bit was effective but painful.
Luckily at the end of the hour I could do all the things I was meant to do but slowly.
I have found that my centre of gravity is nowhere near I thought it was - maybe it's something to do with women having boobs - but mine was found leaning slightly backwards - just enough not to cause the board to rock but also tilting the pelvis slightly forward and leaning into the knees (but not like in skiing - a bit more languid). Flailing my arms also helped with balance but screaming and swearing didn't.
The next day my knees hurt, my back hurt, in fact everything hurt ....but I am addicted.
So it's off to the physio to be put back together again and a nagging session from the neurologist.
So next time I am going to snowboard for two hours.
Life is for living even if it involves pain.
If you are looking to learn to ski, snowboard or any other type of snow bound activity then the Sno-Zone at Milton Keynes is well worth a look.
You wouldn’t expect to find such good snow in the UK, let alone in the middle of Milton Keynes.
I heard from other snowboarders that it is the best indoor snow centre in the UK.
I haven't seen such good snow this side of Ottawa.
The staff are friendly and helpful with qualified instructors for anyone who wants to learn.
You can pre-book lessons (either personally or as part of a group).
The prices are fair and you can hire everything you need to learn from the centre at the time.

Life without Tizit

Life without Tizit is not much of a muchness. It was as much of a shock as being shot. The shock hit me right in the heart. I felt alone with grief and lost interest in doing the things I normally do.

I love the water. Usually I’d be too busy to sit down and watch rivers, canals, lakes or the sea. I called a friend whose husband said she was canoeing and would be spending the night camping on an island. That day we went canoeing and I saw dragonflies, kingfishers and drifted around in the water. Nothing seemed real and I felt suspended in an altered state of being.

I couldn’t write about Tizit. To write about something gives me distance. As long as I didn’t write about Tizit she was still close by. I then began to receive the healing power of compassion. An honest outpouring from people who wrote e-mails and called. It was the people who asked no questions about what had happened - it was those who just expressed hope. One person almost pushed me over the edge with her persistent questions on what had happened - she just could not understand I couldn't talk about it. Another friend called round recently holding a beautiful flowers: delphiniums and sunflowers. She said 'For Tizit - the blue delphiniums for her eyes and the sunflowers for her beautiful spirit".

During this time, my tears would come as easily as the memories of Tizit. Tears are healing. They flow from our heart where we hold our feelings. I stayed with my sadness. I shared it with others and received comfort because they too have had sadness. This time of grieving is giving me a new way of looking at life; it has become my travelling companion as I aim to live more compassionately. I am learning that sadness enhances us as humans. It means we have the ability to love deeply. It is this love that will never die. My love for Tizit will never die.