Ab Imo Pectore

From the bottom of my heart. Not to be confused with, "from the heart of my bottom".

I have just been reading about the battles of Agincourt and Waterloo. What stands out/to attention/the test of time, is that, in the past, there was a huge amount of physical courage. Perhaps today that courage still exists but, if it does, it is rarely put to the test where we live.

Invading pumpkins

Absolute Proof of God's Existence

 This, as you know, is one of my dogs. Gilty. He is a small beautiful animal; attentive, kind, sensitive and constant. Of course, we all fall into the trap of anthropomorphizing the animals we care about. But to dismiss the ministrations of  a being so utterly perfect as something trivial is to forget the essence of life itself.

When I got divorced I was severely depressed. I was ill and physically weak, I didn't sleep, I ate little - to the extent that I lost 15 kilos and weighed 70. On arriving home in the evening, Gilty followed me everywhere. I would sit on the stairs and he would sit next to me, sometimes for 20 minutes or more, resting his nose on my lap. I didn't allow the dogs to sleep in the house but at that time I let them sleep in the kitchen. As soon as I went to bed I would shut the door waiting for the wave of insomnia to envelop, like sleep but the wrong way round. As soon as I had closed the door Gilty would be scratching at it. When that didn't work he would hurl himself at it making a noise, a violent thudding. I would let him into the room and he would jump onto the bed spreading himself generously over the canopy of the bed. I never saw him leave but, when I awoke he was always gone.  

 

Dogged

 I think what I want to say is that I feel very lucky and very protected. I have done very little to deserve my beautiful sons, house, dogs, girlfriend, my parents, my job-which I adore, and my friends.

Today's poem:

DRINKING SONG

You're always right, I'm always wrong

By rote I know you just how strong

By wrote I writ you letters long

Signed; yores before, ewer always wright,

Drinking myself into the night.

You're always right, I'm always wrong

Forgive this trite pathetic song

Forgive this spiteful ink-filled prong

Signed; flaws afore, you're almost right,

Drinking myself into the night

You're always right, I'm always wrong

But who's to say for just how long

This heinous torture must go on?

Signed; buy fore goods, you're never right,

Drinking myself into the night