The end of the lighthouse keeper.

I am reminded of lighthouse keepers.

And the sad fact that suicide is rife within the profession.

But there are no lighthouse keepers any longer I hear you say.

That is the problem. when automation was introduced the resident keepers were laid off and obliged to return to their wives and families.

Constant nagging and demands for DIYing come as a shock after years of solitude on a storm lashed rock.

They yearn for the constant nagging of the waves and and the demands of filling the oil lamps.

And then there are the rumours of fully manned lighthouses punctuating the seas and oceans of the afterlife.

And that Charons on board hospitality is provided by Grace Darling.

'Untie me from the mast, shipmates'. the redundant lighthouse keeper cries. 'I can hear the foghorn siren call and I must to her, to the lonely sea and the sky. All I need is my tall tower and my star to steer ships by'.

Orthodoxing Day.

Moll is no fool.

Her christmas day occurs in early January.

'Why so late?' I ask her.

'To take advantage of readily available natural resources'. She replies... 'A good selection of free christmas trees litter the streets (some of them part decorated), the recycling bins are full of wrapping paper, the charity shops full of cheap gift ideas.In the supermarkets mince pies and Christmas puddings are at a knock down price to make room for easter eggs (great stocking fillers in themselves) and there are no mile long queues at the checkout.

Another plus is the fact that the transport system works sufficiently well which means that there is no need for guests to stay overnight; they can leave shortly after the After Eights and well before my boredom threshold.'

'Not very orthodox!' I tell her.

'Au contraire sweetheart'. she says. 'It has long been the norm within the Greek Orthodox Church. which is one of the reasons why I was drawn to that strand of christianity'.

'What other reasons were there, Moll'? I ask.

She says nothing. Then a coy smile lights up her face and she glances sideways at the photograph of Archbishop Makarios attached to the fridge by a bagel shaped magnet...

Hogmanic tumbleweed.

Something to ponder over a well sucked humbug:

The start of the new year heralds the arrival of of the mysterious urban tumbleweeds that plague our streets for a week or two. The local authorities will do their best to clear the damn things away, but not before they distribute their seeds in the minds of small children and romantic adults, ready to germinate at the beginning of December.

Perfection and striped shirts.

Tristan called today in a state of great excitement.

'I have the answer to the perfect poem'. He tells me. I have hemingwayed one of my best ones until there is nothing there and all that is left for the performer is a series of body movements... It is sublime.

No Tristan, I replied... It is mime.

A train intrudes... But slowly.

Sadly (but inevitable sometimes) the realities of life have taken up much of my time lately; illness, death, lack of work and domestic worries have all contributed to a rather depressing time.

But hey ho, upwards and onwards. it is time to bring out the dunkirk spirit, dust off the old stiff upper lip and head towards the light at the end of the tunnel...

Probably an oncoming train though...

fortunately this is England and any oncoming train will be glued to the track by snow and oncoming nowhere, in any way other than abstract wishful thinking, for the forseeable future.

A good time to play 'chicken' then!

snow in Portobello.

Freia X Fisher. A very sad day..

FREIA X FISHER. 2.01.1976 - 2.01.2010

Blocked.

I know I am following a road well travelled but it is painfull none the less.

Blocked. Unable to write, focusing on the block which compounds the problem.

I hope the new year brings inspiration... Anything will do.

The torture of a tortoise.

Met up with friends (I shall call them Mr and Mrs X for their own protection) at the village green yesterday and I naturally asked after the health of Linford.

Linford is a tortoise.

I was told that Linford is not allowed to hibernate, much to his chagrin.

Mrs x tells me that it is important that the little fellow stays awake for his first winter otherwise he might develop some problems. I would imagine that keeping a tortoise awake against his wishes is going to cause some pretty serious psychological problems let alone the foul temper.

Mrs x went on to explain that she gives it hot baths regularly as well as allowing the children to prod it, sing to it, dress it up and decorate it.

I took a look at Linford; he did not look happy.

just very, very sleepy.

But, on the bright side he is one of the very few tortoises to have seen a christmas tree or felt the splot of a snowball on his shell.

Cabin fever, murder and flight.

The 'flu has passed leaving me weak and listless. The only good to come from it has been the extraordinary hallucinations that have visited me in my sleepless nights.

Being housebound with only the bag lady for company has led to the inevitable; we are at each others throats. Neither of us will dare drop our guard lest the other attacks with a broken bottle or carving knife.
I hear her late at night sharpening things. There is a book on poisons open on her bedside table. Open at the chapter on nicotine poisoning.

She is Googling 'hit men'.

I believe there is some kind of symbolism in her choice of flatware that she bring my lunch on.

I for my part am hoarding apple pips having read that they are (in large doses) deadly. How I am going to get her to consume 8 Kilos of the things is something i have yet to work out.

I must escape... I thought of going to France but the Eurostar trains have all broken down, B A is on strike, the airports are all closed due to asuggestion of snow and traffic is at a standstill on the roads.

I must find refuge!

Cauliflower, corporal punishment and coke.

I felt a little better today so offered to cook for Moll.

There was a cauliflower in the coldbox so I decided to make cauliflower cheese. I thought it a good one; made with a good bechemel sauce, bacon and 3 kinds of cheese. Then sprinkled with breadcrumbs and parmesan and baked in the oven.

Moll (who's tastebuds have deserted her) thought it bland and inedible.

To me it called up my schooldays and was redolent of headmasters (Eric Forrester) study as he brought out his cane for the first and only time in our relationship.

'I am going to have to give you six'. He said. 'It will I am sure give you no joy and hopefully an amount of pain. On the other hand I shall derive a great deal of pleasure from it'.

My crime? My crime was to have written CUNT in weedkiller on his lawn a few days earlier. Is it my fault that I am dyslexic and was only attempting to demonstrate my knowledge of early British kings.

I feel sorry for the kids these days who have to explain FCUK to their dyslexic teachers. But at least the teachers are not allowed corporal punisnhment and they must look after their pupils as they are probably their coke dealers as well.

Is it not ironic that it is now our educators who have the learning difficulties. They have problems understanding that there is no point in an education any longer.

Best to keep drones in the dark.

Irony in a pig factory.

Fluente Maiales writes from Mexico: His career as the worlds only professional Mexican waver is in tatters. The fear of swine flu among event organizers means that all of his gigs for the christmas period have been cancelled.

Ironically he has been forced back to working in the American pork products factory on the outskirts of his village.

'So'. said the overseer when he went back to work in the pig fat rendering vats. 'I see you are no longer waving Fluente but merely drowning'!

Nurse dreams in a potting shed.

When the pig flu struck Moll thought it best that she nurse me at her place... I arrived at her little home with my overnight bag and my hopes raised. She said she had built the place herself and I was curious to see her home. Needless to say I was not dissappointed with her 'Pretty Palace' as she called it.

Her cooking was somewhat agricultural and her nursing skills tantamount to mental cruelty but fortunately such was the virulence of the 'flu I soon fell through a hole in reality and entered a new world of delirium where everyone perspired noisily and conversation consisted of grunts and snorts.

At the height of my fever Nurse Caz visited me in my sick bed.

She hasn't lost her looks.

I feel that the worst is over and I shall soon be in full command of my faculties