It’s whimsy on a Wednesday, and it’s probably raining. 

This is what I feel like. I think it’s an after-Christmas syndrome.  People need to pay attention to this thing because I’ve noticed it’s widespread.  You think you’re getting back into a routine but you’re not. It’s a slow haul because you’ve forgotten how to be normal. Discipline and regime are now majorly difficult.  Try as you might, there’s a massive resistance and all of a sudden and then a bit, you can’t do anything you did before Christmas when you were a boss demon. No. You are finished. Kaput. Your life is not your own and it now belongs to the Christmas fairies who took it in exchange for the contractual agreement you muttered in your semi-sleep. The one where you said, “Just give me the strength to get through one more week….”

Well, that’s it. You had your week, They gave it to you and now you have got to earn your life back. And I’m not gonna lie, it’s going to be tough.

Seriously, I feel like I’m doing loads but nothing is really happening and it seems like I’m larking about all day.  

Well, let’s bloody lark then!

Six For Gold

I know that I have got the best land army a warrior chick could have: two wolfits and a Jack Russell Terrier that is bred to kill. What I was lacking in was a decent airforce. In my wisdom, one larking about day in summer, I decided it might be fun to have a murderous coven of Corvids – or whatever you call them. I even went and got myself an app that made crow sounds so I could start to train the birds around my neighbourhood and talk to them. I could then command evil from the sky to shit on other people or retrieve wallets from back pockets. That kind of thing. Neighbourly. 

Anyway, I got bored of that malarkey when the birds didn’t respond to me instantly as they had to the people I’d seen on social media platforms who made best friends with wild birds and the birds brought them gifts.  I might have been a bit jealous but I got over it and then a few months ago wondered if I might be able to train magpies.  There are tons of magpies around here and I don’t normally care for them because my mother instilled some kind of neurotic reaction in me so I have to salute them, say “Hello Mr Magpie, how’s your wife and family?” and spit on the floor. Apparently, this stops malevolent things happening to you and also makes you look like a right tit.  I know it’s ridiculous but I still do it because, dunno, Pavlov’s Dogs?  Or, because I only ever see one magpie first. They never come all together so it means silver or gold or prizes. No. They do it on purpose because the sighting of one lone magpie means sorrow. 

“Let me go first. Let’s make her do all that saluting malarkey. It’s funny! Then you lot can show up after.”

Well, what if I trained the pies and made them all arrive together? That’d save me on the tennis elbow, what with all the saluting, and probably cure my superstitious nurture/nature.  So, that’s what I did. I looked up all the things that pies like to eat and made a glass jar full of food. This was the most expensive muesli on planet Earth. Of course, they loved it! In no time at all I had a mischief of magpies tucking in on top of the wall.  It got to the point where I could be in their line of sight without them flying off and they would throat call at me from a distant birch tree. How very David Attenborough!  One even had the gumption to fly to a nearby window where I was working at my computer and make a point that he was still a little peckish. That’s when I realised I’d made a bit of a mistake.  Early mornings, when I was sleepily walking to my breakfast table for nourishment, they’d be flying around the garden chattering about wanting food. Then they argued over seedlings with the squirrel who wanted a look in, and a very feisty robin redbreast who thought he owned the garden. What a palaver. I had no time for this kind of unruly behaviour. I have enough on dealing with my own personality. I decided to ignore them for a while. I mean, they hadn’t brought me any presents yet and this was supposed to be a two-way street. How selfish!

I later read that you don’t want to be upsetting a member of the Corvid family otherwise they start picking on you. They might even peck your eyes out! What had I done? I’m barely over the incident with the sparrow hawk and Murder In The Garden. That put me right off my Coronation chicken sandwich.

The moral of this story is not to get fanciful ideas on larking about days. I’m now in the process of weaning the magpies to a two-day week. 

Talking of Tyrants…

We all know that I have a soft spot for my main wolfit, Tex. For Christmas, somebody made me a stamp with his face on it.

Naturally, I loved it and anyone who came to my house during the festive period got a Tex tattoo on their arm or hand. Like an entrance stamp – you’ve been Texed! If a guest rolled their eyes, it went on their forehead.

Like many things, after Christmas, the gifts go in a box or drawer and get forgotten about. I didn’t want that to happen to the Tex stamp so I decided to try and make him famous by drawing bodies onto his head.  I will turn these into cards and send them to people so they can roll their eyes some more. I should be paid by opticians.

Today we have ‘Tex the Terrible’

I’m taking Tex requests if you have any. Other than that I must go and finish larking.