Hours after his birth, this new-born foal was found stumbling around by a farmer.
The foal had been abandoned by his mother so the farmer took him to the Devon-based Mare and Foal Sanctuary where they cared for him and named him Breeze. One of the staff put a four-foot giant Teddy Bear, they called Buttons, in the stall with Breeze.
The foal was instantly attracted to the teddy bear and found it a comforting replacement for his mother. The two are inseparable.
The caregivers expect Breeze to be fine, thanks to the farmer who rescued him, and to those who cared enough to take in this little cutie.
Monthly Archives: December 2014
Have “Com”, Will Fast-Forward
Poor Chris, he can’t stick me when I have “the com”. Poor me, I can’t stick watching certain television programmes (recorded, by necessity) unless I have “the com”. And if you’re not one hundred percent sure what “the com” is, well, neither am I but they used the expression quite a lot in Crimson Tide, the 1995 film (starring Denzel Washington and Gene Hackman) about a mutiny on an American nuclear submarine, during which “the com” was frequently passed (or taken by force). Speaking of which, we nearly had a mutiny in our lounge room last night. I’ll let you guess what programme we were watching… and no, don’t jump the gun (or nuclear missile), it wasn’t Crimson Tide.
I have the com. Fast forward (at top speed) five minutes of glitzy razzle-dazzle cavorting; slow down fast forward a tad in order to see in a brunette wearing black (the viewing public objects to her wearing any other colour) and a blonde in a white evening dress – they are being escorted down the steps on either side of the stage; slow down to normal speed to watch the blonde simper into the camera and the brunette crack a pre-prepared joke; fast forward (top speed), ah, wrong button – missed a whole chapter – good, the contestants have made their entrances. On normal speed, three men and a woman appear – they are twirling, extending, hip-wiggling and preening their way to the judges station.
“Oh no!” I exclaim, “Why do the judges have to do that?” (They used not to.)
Fast forward rapido for one minute, miss the first bit and go back, ah – the golden ball! The celebrity rapper doing ballroom (or is he a DJ?). Remarkable performance, so remarkable that the entire audience is on its feet.
“Look at them all on their feet,” remarks the blonde, waving her hand…
Fast forward to judges remarks:
“Marvellous”, “Marvellous”, “Try holding your little finger up a bit..”
“Boo, boo, boo,” the audience booms.
Fast forward to the scores – a seven (dagger looks from another of the judges and boos from the audience), an eight from daggers, and so on… Thank goodness I have the com. Fast forward to the Cha Cha Cha (or is it the Samba?).
“Just look at the audience on their feet for you,” commiserates the blonde, putting her arm around the morning television presenter.
“How ridiculous, she’s going to cry again!” I can’t hold back, even though I know Chris hates my commentary.
I can sense Chris wincing.
“You were fantastic, but there wasn’t an awful lot of Cha Cha Cha,” says one of the judges.
“Yes you were fantastic,” gushes the blonde, practically hugging the morning television presenter, “aah, are you crying?”
“There you are. She is crying!” I turn to Chris.
He says nothing.
Need I add more? They swanned and they gushed, and that was just the judges; the celebrity contestants were talented, wonderful and perfectly precious. I imagine you get the picture, which is more than poor Chris does when I have the com. I was fast forwarding through the fourth lots of tears (from one of the male contestants on this occasion) after twenty-thousand standing ovations and fifty thousand fulsome compliments, and, admittedly, I may have cursed or sneered for the umpteenth time, when Chris grabbed the com from out of my hands.
“Why do you bother to watch it at all if you hate it so much?” Chris asked in a raised voice and added, “I’ll switch it off!”
“I can’t help it if I’m more discerning than you,” I grabbed back the com.
I fast forwarded, rather adeptly, I might add, until the end of the final dance, when I willingly relinquished the com and asked Chris to turn off the recording (I don’t know how to turn off our modern television). The control room had been a rather frosty place after the attempted mutiny but with the cheesy grin show over, and the com on the coffee table, there was nothing more to be miffed about. Luckily neither of us went ballistic.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to play a few games of Backgammon before going to bed?” Chris inquired by way of an olive branch.
The cold war was definitely over.
And incidentally, I still want to watch the final next week, but you know – I must have the com.
Dawlish by Night
It was cold – below freezing – and I put on my new Christmassy-red coat and a white scarf for our walk into Dawlish; we had to go to the Post Office with the last of our Christmas cards for sending (the English ones) and, while we were about it, we thought we’d hand-deliver some of the local ones. We walked by way of the sea wall, past Coastguard Cottages, and walked up to the Strand from the railway station (if you happen to know Dawlish).
As you can see, I tested my new, but old, mobile camera; unfortunately, I forgot to clean the lens so the shots are a bit misty; also we lost the light – night was falling. We called in with a card for Hazel at the Vivian Gallery (they sell some of my miniatures and prints) and had a chat.
“We’d better go now, before it’s completely dark,” I said.
At this point we all turned to look through the shop window at the world outside – it was pretty dark already.
“Well, judging by the look of it, I’d say it’s about…,” Hazel paused for dramatic effect.
“Three-thirty,” I chimed in with her and we laughed.
Hence, here are some photographs of Dawlish at night… at three-thirty or there abouts.
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- Why do they have them at funny angles sticking out of walls?
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- Be there or be square!
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- Spots before my eyes!
Why So Strangely Yoda Speaks – An Amusing Podcast
Have you ever laughed when you caught yourself talking like Yoda, the back to front speaking character in the Star Wars films? Apparently not so strange after all it is, as I learned from this podcast made by James Harbeck, a professional word taster and sentence sommelier (an editor trained in linguistics). If you love words, etymology and a good sense of humour I can recommend that you dip into Sesquiotica, a blog authored by James. To hear the amusing podcast, Why So Strangely Yoda Speaks, click on the link (in blue print) below.
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The New Phone
Oddly enough, my newest phone is an old phone; not to be confused with the new Smart phone, which is brand new but doesn’t take such good photographs as my old phone (the one that became terminally ill) and which I have missed terribly. Hence, Chris went to Ebay and bought me another mobile, just like my old one, that I can use specifically as a camera; of course, I had to put a few pounds on it so now I’m available on two mobiles and the house-phone – I’ve never been so popular! Not that anyone ever calls me… but I shall be ready when they do.
Back to my newest, but relatively old phone “in new condition” (I expect it’s a year old – poor old thing). It arrived in the post yesterday morning but I couldn’t test it until today because the battery was flat and it didn’t have a sim card; the new old phone did, however, have an STD card, which had about twenty photographs on it. At first I wasn’t sure if it was ethical to look at a stranger’s photographs and I felt a bit funny checking; but my doubts disappeared, and I was soon smiling, when I realised that the former owner of my new phone is a little girl. I deleted all the blurry ones and family ones but I’ve saved a handful to show you…
And still on the subject of phones, we saw those beautiful owls again – Dusk the European Eagle Owl and Spirit the Barn Owl – at Trago Mills; one of the owners of Silverwings Falconry gave me his card – his name is Pete Fone. Now I call that a coincidence.
Dream Lover
“I had a funny dream last night,” Mum says.
“Oh yes, what was it about?” I continue snipping away at her hair with the scissors.
“I was in love with a toyboy,” she chuckles.
“Was he handsome?” I ask, still snip snipping..
“I don’t know. That’s not what I remember…” she trails off.
“Did you make love?” I bring her back.
“No, it wasn’t like that.”
“How old was he?” I ask. (Compared to my ninety-one year old mother a man of eighty could be considered a toyboy.)
“Oh, about twenty,” she delights in telling me.
“A proper toyboy then,” I agree, “and did he mind the difference in your ages?”
“Well,” Mum begins, “that didn’t come into it. He didn’t seem to notice. He just loved me for who I am, and I loved him. I woke up feeling ‘in love’.”
“I wish I had dreams like that,” I say.
I have stopped cutting her hair. I look at my mum’s neck and shoulders – her skin, which is still quite nice, does not betray her age – and I wonder when those shoulders were last kissed. Not for a very long time, I guess, except in her dreams…
I finish the haircut. We hug and kiss goodbye. Obviously, it’s not the same kind of love as in her dream, but I think she knows that she is loved for being exactly who she is.
“I Remember the Cheese of My Childhood”
The cheese of my Australian childhood would have curled and sweated, and been inedible without being kept in a fridge; and we didn’t have newspaper squares hung on a peg in our sentry-box “lav”; nevertheless, I can relate to this poem which my friend Sally sent me.
A POEM THAT SOME CAN RELATE TO
I remember the cheese of my childhood,
And the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the children helped with the housework,
And the men went to work not the wife.
And the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the children helped with the housework,
And the men went to work not the wife.
The cheese never needed a fridge,
And the bread was so crusty and hot
The children were seldom unhappy
And the wife was content with her lot.
I remember the milk from the bottle,
With the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven,
And not from the fridge; in the shop.
The kids were a lot more contented,
They didn’t need money for kicks,
Just a game with their mates in the road,
And sometimes the Saturday flicks.
I remember the shop on the corner,
Where a pen’orth of sweets was sold
Do you think I’m a bit too nostalgic?
Or is it…I’m just getting old?
I remember the ‘loo’ was the lav
And the bogey man came in the night,
It wasn’t the least bit funny
Going “out back” with no light.
The interesting items we perused
From the newspapers cut into squares,
And hung on a peg in the loo,
It took little to keep us amused.
The clothes were boiled in the copper
With plenty of rich foamy suds
But the ironing seemed never ending
As Mum pressed everyone’s ‘duds’.
I remember the slap on my backside,
And the taste of soap if I swore
Anorexia and diets weren’t heard of
And we hadn’t much choice what we wore.
Do you think that bruised our ego?
Or our initiative was destroyed?t
We ate what was put on the table
And I think life was better enjoyed.
ANON
Carlos the Ice-Cream Man (Another “Outrageous” Joke)
Carlos’ ice-cream van is parked at the side of a road. Lights are flashing, music is playing and a big queue of excited kids stretches down the street. But there is no sign of Carlos. An astute policeman (they do exist), who is walking down the road, wonders if something is amiss. Where is Carlos? Why is he not serving the children with ice-creams?
He goes over to the van and peers over the high counter. He spots Carlos on the floor. Lying extremely still, Carlos is covered from head to toe in chocolate sauce, strawberry sauce, nuts, coconut, hundreds and thousands, a chocolate Flake and little jelly bits.
“Get back kids,” the policeman directs the children away from the scene.
He steadies himself with a hand on the counter and he takes out his mobile phone.
“S…S…Sarge, g…, get, someone down here quick,” he stutters. “I’m afraid it’s Carlos, the ice-cream man… He’s topped himself!”
Below are some photographs from Carlos’ family album.
Fly on the Hall
Where is Superwoman when you need her? But perhaps it would have been too much to ask, after all, it was nearly midnight and I was on my way to bed when it happened. You see I had already turned the lights out when I went back to the kitchen to turn off the central heating, and I hadn’t turned on the stair lights because the men in orange were working on the sea wall and might have been distracted by seeing me in my convict-style stripey onesie through our glass front door. Ah, if only I hadn’t been such a prude; if only I hadn’t bothered to switch off the heating (which was about to turn itself off anyway), or my hands hadn’t been full; if only I hadn’t been wearing socks on the carpet, or I hadn’t been in such a hurry.
Luckily (if you can call it luck), take-off occurred from the top of two stairs leading from the kitchen to the hallway… I went flying, head first, through the air like a long-jumper, still holding a glass of water and the newspaper; the water flew out but the cherished glass (one of a set of four – £2.99 at Trago Mills) remained in my hand until landing. It wasn’t the most elegant of landings (not that anyone could see): left knee first (number one brake), then right big toe (silly little brake) and right knee (auxiliary brake) before coming to a stop, accompanied by a thunderous thud and a scream, half-way down the passage.
As quick as a flash, Gordon (Chris) was beside me assessing the damage and administering paracetamols – the same beloved glass I had been so eager to protect from damage proved quite handy as he filled it quickly with fresh water. Despite wearing an all-encompassing onesie, the left brake pad had worn down to almost nothing, but it needed no immediate repairs; the little brake, initially thought to have been broken, might yet prove to be just be a clout on the nail; the auxiliary brake, which saw the least damage, will not be having a knees-up for a few days. Likewise, the gym and walks in the cold will go on hold.
So am I putting my feet up? Not exactly. I was trying to knuckle down to my work when Superwoman called and asked:
“Are my Christmas cards ready yet?”
I had forgotten. Now I could have asked her if she thought I was Superwoman, but I didn’t; I spent all afternoon making super Christmas cards.
Winter Sunrise
Recently, with the winter sun being so low, I have awoken to some wonderful sunrises over the sea – and I didn’t even have to get up early to take these shots (Chris took the first three with his camera)!
