Sabaton: the P&J's First Rock Concert:

So, on Tuesday I'm off to see Sabaton, a Swedish (I think) rock band, who enjoy, it would seem, singing songs about war. Hmm. Not quite what I mean. I don't mean they glorify it. They perform, in effect, a military history book set to heavy metal. I've seen many a post by erstwhile fans, claiming that they would have passed their history GCSEs if Sabaton had sung the curriculum.

They aren't my cup of tea, I have to confess, but I don't mind them. If my son insists we have dinner accompanied by Sabaton, I don't say no. They are, actually, quite listenable. But I wouldn't buy an album. Well, not for myself.
Why then, I hear you ask, are you going to spend four or five hours of your life (there are 3 bands playing, before you wonder. This is Sabaton, not Yes.) shredding what's left of your hearing and throwing your back out, standing for, potentially, 5 hours (no seats. Please, Mr Brodén, if you play Bristol again, try and get the Colston)? Because, as some of you will have already twigged, they are my son's favourite band, and my son is only 16. Old enough you say. Well, if he had someone else to go with, maybe, but he hasn't, so it's either me or Dad. He'd rather go with me. At least, I assume he would. His father's (who is, I hasten to add, providing the transport to and from, so he is making some effort) response to any new rock band is, it sounds a bit like Queen, and I did at least recognise the homage to Judas Priest on one of Sabaton's tracks. Kudos to me, eh? And I've got a couple of kosher Judas Priest shirts, so I can at least blend in as a mature rocker. I will not, however, be head banging (rheumatism in the neck) or playing air guitar ( ditto back and hands). And I might take a couple of bits of cotton wool with me, just in case it's too loud.
If I make it out alive, I'll report back on Wednesday. Possibly Thursday, if I'm still in shock. Does anyone know if they serve tea and coffee at the O2 Academy....?

Here's a review of the current tour so you can see what I'm in for.
And a link to some  Sabaton on youtube in case you're interested.
And some Barry Manilow, if you're not. See, I aim to please.

Fluff and Fur and the Joy of Having Cat Hair up Your Nose

Twice a year it happens. As Spring lumbers tantalisingly over the horizon, flicks the Vs and lumbers back again, I have to fight with The Cat. The Cat, you see, is the long-haired variety, and she moults. Now, the little tufts of hair I find on my newly hoovered floor aren't the problem. And, really, she's quite considerate in that way, as she sheds in large, easy to pick up lumps of super-soft fluff. As I say, not a problem, though a little annoying. No, the problem is the un-shed hair, the huge lumps of matted stuff and tight little so-near-the-skin knots, that are the problem. For Jamara/ Jemara/ Jimara (take your pick. I didn't name her- I inherited her from a friend, so I've no idea how the name is spelt. Every time we go to the vet, there is a new spelling. As she can't read and doesn't answer to it anyway, it probably doesn't matter.) does not like being groomed. Neither does she like her knots being snipped.

So every February and November, we have The Fight. I have learned not to pick up the scissors until I've closed all the escape routes and have her clamped under my arm. The best technique for solo snipping is to sit on a bed with her rolled on to her back, and pinned between my forearm and thigh, which leaves me with two hands free. It's awkward, but do-able. I have learned to ensure her head is up by my elbow, as though she's only got two teeth (I warned her about brushing her teeth; but you can't tell a cat), she can still shred a pigeon with them.

And, of course, there are the claws. She's still got every single one of those, so it's quite an art to avoid the sudden bad-tempered lash or kick. These arrive with what I can only assume are cat curses, a cross between a grumble and a shriek.

The snipping over, she rushes off, her body low to the ground, with ne'er a backwards glance or thank you for relieving her of all that discomfort. She paces at the back-door, waiting for the butler, and, whatever the weather, flounces out into what I laughingly call a garden, just to make a point. Woe betide any mice or birds who get in her way while she's in that mood.

By the time she returns, she has acquired huge lumps of matted fur over her back legs. These are less of an issue for the beast, and she actually purrs while I pull the matted fur apart- until I get to the core of it and it might hurt a little. "No, you don't!" (or words to that effect) I say, clamping her down with a swift and firm forearm, and while she growls and squeaks, finish the job. Then she sits in the doorway and gives me The Eye before wandering off to bat the dog round the head.

And so on to another day, and remembering next time NOT to wear a fleece jumper or black trousers when removing those knots. She has, of course, a lot of white in her fur.

Eulogy for Newer Fish

It is with a heavy heart and light kidneys, that I announce the demise of Newer Fish. I know that, for those of you who were close to him, this is not the news you wanted to hear, especially at this time of the year. In the short time that he was with us at pre-school, I know many of you grew very close to our scaly friend, and cod only knows, we'll miss him.

Newer Fish, it would seem, had been eel for some time. What started out as a slight haddock, quickly developed into full blown rigor mortis. But even then, he didn't carp about it. He quietly slipped away, to that great fish tank in the sky, and we can all take comfort from knowing he has gone to a better plaice.
We will remember Newer Fish fondly- a little ray of sunshine, a happy sole, never koi, who always had time to listen (even though he was hard of herring), who was always a dab hand at cheering us up.
And let us not forget his generosity- how often he contributed to the social fund, to the tuna six squid. He was not one to let his friends flounder, always there with a comforting word and sound advice.
I'll leave you to mullet over, knowing that, when we all shufflle off to that great aquarium in the sky, whale meet again. My friends, I give you Newer Fish.

A Poem To My Son

"Mother, there were elephants,

But we haven't got them now,

And all the rhinos have long gone—

How did we lose them? How?

Mother, there was teeming life

That wandered on this earth,

But now there's just a wasteland—

There is nothing here of worth.

I'll never see a tiger, Mother,

Or hear a lion's roar.

You couldn't save them, Mother dear,

And now they roar no more.

And all those gorgeous forests,

Where the creatures wandered free,

Are replaced with palm plantations

And toxic factories.

Mother, there were oceans

Where dolphins jumped and played;

Gigantic whales and sharks lived there,

But none of them have stayed.

The seas are too polluted

With chemicals and waste.

You couldn't care enough, it seems,

To make a better place.

Mother, there were blue skies once,

And air that you could breath,

But the sky is always grey these days,

With toxins on the breeze.

Do you see this picture, Mother?

Of these giant silver-backs?

Like the chimpanzees beneath,

They're never coming back.

What's happened to the world, Mother,

That you were to bequeath—

A world stuffed full of creatures

And clear blue sparkling seas?

Did you forget to listen?

Did you forget to see?

Why have you left me in a world

Where there's nothing left for me?"

"My son, I saw the elephants.

I saw the rhinos too.

It breaks my heart to see them gone,

Or only in a zoo.

The world was green, and full of life

When I was as old as you.

But when I grew up, I let it die,

And left nothing here for you.

The powerful got greedy.

They had to have the lot.

They seemed to think they owned the world,

When clearly they did not.

So, when the chips were really down,

And good intention spent,

The care we should have taken

With the world just upped and went.

I guess we all decided

It was another's job to do.

We hoped, but we did nothing,

And left nothing here for you.

It wasn't that we didn't care—

It seemed too much to do,

With more than we could solve at once

And live our own lives too.

But when you look at what we lost,

How quickly its demise,

We should, I think, have done much more,

And I apologise.

These books, these screens, are all you have

To tell you of this stuff.

We lost it all because, my son,

We didn't care enough."

Tretower Court and Crickhowell- the further adventures of the parents of a cycling enthusiast

I won't go into details of the whys and wheres. We got the P&J out of the house at a reasonable time to  drop him off in Brecon, for another crack at the Taff trail. Some people never learn. I stoked him up with a cooked breakfast and sent him on his way. He tells me there will be a video (can't wait... yawn), but it went dark half way through (which means- a) it's so boring you'll fall asleep halfway through, b) he's been cycling with his eyes shut, or c) he should have got up earlier. Take your pick- each is as likely as the other). On the way there the OH and I noticed a sign suggesting there might be another castle to cross off our imaginary tick list- Tretower Court. Never heard of it? Neither had we.
So on our way to Crickhowell, we detoured (I was going to say deviated, but some of you might choose to get the wrong idea), thinking 10 minutes, a couple of snaps for the blog, and on our way. Nooo! This is what we found.

Hmm, we thought. Interesting. We might have even said it. Who knows? We're both of us a bit long in the tooth now, and neither of us can remember the P&J's name half the time, let alone what we said four hours ago.
 Anyway, as the OH mumbled something about paying, we went and had a look. The young lady at the till (young lady- that's when you know you're getting old!) was very pleasant (another word I've started to use- it's my age) and informative (like a  bus time table, but more interesting) and charged us £5 each, and £ 2.50 for a guide, so I didn't have to take notes or remember stuff.


Well, what could we say? What a little gem!  Brief history?
Established at the end of the eleventh century, it was eventually claimed by a chap called Picard, and it was he who built a mott and bailey at the site, which grew, via a succession of Picards, into a proper castle.
The Picard line died out in the fourteenth century and the castle went to the Berkeleys, of Berkeley Castle fame. It was purchased from the Berekleys in 1429 by Sir William ap Thomas and passed on by him to his son, Herbert, who settled it on his stepbrother, Roger Vaughan. It was Vaughan who built Tretower Court. The Vaughans were Yorkist, and after Richard III's death, rebelled against the new King. Vaughan was, however, later pardoned. The Vaughans held Tretower Court until 1700, and abandoned it soon after. They offered it to to a local family and it was bought by William Parry in 1786 as a working farmhouse, eventually falling into disrepair.
The  building was bought for the nation, following an appeal in the late 1920s. There were many efforts at conservation and preservation, the last one taking place 2009-10.
There is, of course, a Wiki page, and a Castles of Wales page, for more information. This is a summary of the guide. But you want some more pictures, don't you? Here's a few. I'll post the rest on my Pinterest account, in due course and put a link here.

                                                                               

 This plan is an artists impression (by Terry Ball)  out of the guide. It's to give you an idea how the tower and the house go together. If you want to know what the numbers stand for, go to Tretowers and get your own copy. It'll be a nice day out. I'm sure I saw some nice pubs/ coffee houses en route...  

And then on to Crickhowell, where we were intending to go, before we were interrupted by Tretower. Crickhowell also has a Wiki page.
It also has a castle, but, quite frankly, it's a bit like watching your mum on a karaoke machine
after you've just been to see Peter Gabriel.

It does, however, have some nice coffee shops, and when we arrived, there was a persian carpet sale going on in one of the halls.

So, these are some of the bits of castle we were able to find-

Can you see it?

You can see that it was quite substantial, and has its own entry on castlesofwales

What else did we see? Oh, yes- the seventeenth century bridge

And a river. The Usk I believe

There is also an iron age fort

That's it, that bump on the right. I was using a wide angle lens here- the hill isn't that small or that far away.

There's also this, which I'm told is Gwernvale Manor, one time home of  Sir George Everest,

famous for his mountain in the Himalayas.

There may have been more, but we had to go in search of the P&J in darkest Pontypridd.

He found a convenient pub to wait by (practising for when he's 18), but we couldn't find it for a while, and by the time we did, he'd gone from being a hot sweaty teenager, to being a cold, smelly one. But he's just had a bath, so all is well. And I regret, this will probably be the last blog about our travels until Spring, as the days are definitely too short for getting lost now.

Going Green- Shampoo and Toothpaste and getting rid of those plastics.

I'm feeling inspired today. Instead of getting depressed about the endless stream of bad news on how
we're trashing our planet, I have decided to make a bit more effort myself. If we all try a bit harder, maybe we can collectively make a difference, right?
So, I'm going to try and cut down on my pollutants- not just the ones I disperse into the environment, but the ones I disperse upon and into myself as well. I'm starting with simple things- I am, after all, a very busy person, with seemingly never enough time to do what I have to, let alone saving the planet. So, this week, while I'm off, I'm going to try alternatives to commercial shampoos and conditioners (and I have to say I'm sceptical) and toothpaste (which I'm less sceptical about). When my box of ecofriendly washing detergent runs out, I might have a go at that, as well.
These receipes have been gleaned from Madeleine Somerville

So, here's the shampoo-



Mix one tablespoon of baking soda into 250ml of warm water. Stir until dissolved, then pour it over wet hair. Massage this magical mixture into your scalp and rinse well.


And here's the conditioner-

a tablespoon or two of apple cider vinegar or lemon juice diluted in 250ml of warm water will do the trick. Pour over washed hair, leave to set in for a few minutes, then rinse.

The toothpaste is simply good old bicarb of soda, brushed onto the teeth. I have given up on the household brands and their micro plastic balls, but the alternative still comes in a plastic tube, so I'll try the bicarb so I can get rid of some more plastic containers.
  Like you, I thought what I'm prepared to give up won't change the world. But then I read Madeleine's shampoo article and her closing words-

"If you were reading about my strange little shampoo situation above, shaking your head and thinking, “There is no way this strange Canadian lady can convince me to wash my hair with the same stuff I use to unclog my kitchen sink,” does that make you a crap environmentalist? No.

Not doing anything because you can’t do everything? That makes you a crap environmentalist, and a defeatist. No one likes a defeatist.

Do what you can and ditch the guilt. You don’t have to wash your hair with baking soda to make a difference, although it would make a certain strange Canadian lady immensely happy if you did. Even just once."

The Guardian article is here

I'll let you know how I get on.



Update 6 November 2015


Well the hair wash of bicarb and vinegar has worked surprisingly well. My hair ( which, I have to say, is quite short) looks and smells clean, and my scalp, which can get maddeningly itchy, isn't half as irritated. The bicarb toothpaste is okay- my teeth feel as clean as with a regular toothpaste. There has been a wee bit of a setback, in that one of my molars broke at the side. This was not as a result of the new tooth regime- it had been an ongoing problem which my dentist hoped would sort itself out- which it obviously did. At least I can eat on that side now, which I haven't been able to do for some months.


The only problem I have is that I can only get 180g tubs of bicarb locally, and the tubs are plastic. Admittedly, they're more reusable than toothpaste tubes, but they're still plastic. So, I'm now in search of a larger, more recyclable pack. Watch this space..


.

A Short Story: Jack

   
 Caradoc sat with his head on the table, groaning. An empty wine bottle lay beside him, knocked over when his head hit the table last night. The bottle had been stopped from rolling off, with the dramatic smashing of glass appropriate to it, by the huge amount of clutter that covered the table. Caradoc groaned again. Then, with a whimper, he sat up.

He gazed bleary eyed around his kitchen, struggling to find something that was in focus. “Coff— Coff— Coffee!” he managed, as his head dropped back onto the table.

Why did he keep doing this? Why did he keep thinking the brief relief from the misery that was his life, was worth the crappy way he was going to feel the next day? With a grunt, he stood up, rocked a little and staggered over to the stove. He stayed there, swaying slightly, as he surveyed the piles of unwashed crockery, pots and pans, that littered what he laughingly called “the work surfaces.” There was a kettle here, somewhere wasn't there? Evicting most of the new life forms that had developed since its last use, he picked up a small saucepan from the top of a pile of unwashed plates, and tried to put some water in it.

The pump over the sink shrieked hideously at him as he pulled and pushed the handle. That must be enough for a cup of coffee, he hoped, as his head began to throb with even greater intensity. Did he feel sick? He wasn't sure. If he did, the coffee would resolve matters, one way or the other.

He couldn't find the coffee cannister. A howl of frustration tried to escape his lips, until his delicate brain told his mouth to shut up. He looked at the water currently simmering in the pan. The liquid had turned a dark brown colour. Coffee? he hoped. Coffee, he decided, found a cup that looked reasonably clean, and poured the hot liquid into it. Coffee, his brain sighed. Somewhere, the part of his brain that was still functioning laughed to itself.

Carrying the cup in a shaking hand, Caradoc began his journey back to the table. Focussed entirely on his destination, his eyes didn't notice the small creature running across his floor— but the super-enhanced, high-fidelity hearing that comes with an economy size hangover, heard it. He stopped, still swaying, his hand still shaking. “What's that?” he said, and flinched. It hurt his head to hear itself speak.

He listened again. Whatever it was had gone or stopped. He forced his head to tilt and look at the floor. He stared at his feet. There was nothing there— and even if there was, he wasn't going to be able to see it until his eyes came back into focus.

He continued his journey across the kitchen, still looking at his feet. It was too much effort to look back up. He crashed into the table and his hot drink slopped out of the cup, adding a dark brown stain to the myriad of other colours that had come together over the however many months he had been wearing this shirt. The scalding liquid burned him, but it was too much effort to take the shirt off, so he suffered instead.

His free hand managed to find the back of a chair, and he sat down gratefully. He spotted a space on the table and placed his cup on it. He heard the scurrying again. Could he be bothered to look for it? It was probably only a mouse, and, as he didn't feel like eating at the moment, it didn't need his attention yet.

He stared into his cup and then shut his eyes. Maybe, if he concentrated, he might be able to find his way through the fog in his brain, and locate at least which side of the room the creature was on.

He listened.

There was silence at first— evidently the creature was waiting to see what he did. And then, there it was again, the patter of tiny feet— tiny feet? He corrected himself. The patter of tiny-ish feet— heading towards..? His chest of drawers?

Caradoc frowned. What would a mouse want from his chest of drawers? All the food was in the kitchen— admittedly, some of it even a hungry mouse wouldn't touch— but there was some edible food there, somewhere. Wasn't there?

Then he heard a grunt. Caradoc frowned again. He'd had a lot of mice in his house over the years. He couldn't recall any of them grunting.

He took a long sip from his cup. The coffee was vile. He looked at the brown liquid. How had he managed to make something so simple, so badly? The conscious part of his brain coughed politely. It's not coffee, it reminded him. Oh yes, nodded Caradoc, remembering the stuff in the saucepan. He took another sip. He grimaced. “This coffee tastes horrible,” he said. The conscious part of his brain gave a tut and a deep sigh, and suggested to Caradoc, Just-put-the-cup-down! Caradoc put the cup down.

What to do now, he wondered. Eat something, suggested the conscious part of his brain. “Eat?” said Caradoc. His voice sounded very loud and rattled around in his head. Eat, he thought. Did he still feel sick? No, he didn't think so. Food, then. What to have?

He heard the scurrying again. Something fresh, perhaps, thought Caradoc. If he could catch it. He listened intently, and suddenly realised his headache had gone. Now, how had that happened? He looked accusingly at the cup of brown stuff. Had he inadvertently made a hang-over cure?

His stomach gave a rumble and urged him not to get distracted. Food, it reminded him. Ah, yes, thought Caradoc. Food. He heaved himself out of the chair and over to his kitchen cupboards. They were empty, except for a packet of out-of-date pasta and a jar of pickles. Pasta and pickles? He sighed and turned his attention to the chest of drawers. Was that creature still there?

He drew up a chair and sat down to wait, his arms folded over his chest. He felt a tickle on his forearm, and noticed a flea scurrying through his hair. He tutted to himself. He'd have to get the flea powder out again. He hated the stuff. It made him feel worse than the wine did, and without that brief period when all seemed right with the world.

Down by his feet, something swore. Caradoc frowned and looked down. There was something there, but it wasn't a mouse. It reached half way up Caradoc's shins. It was bipedal, clothed and had its arms wrapped around several of Caradoc's gold coins.

“And who are you?” enquired Caradoc, bending down to get a better look at it.

“Er,” offered the creature, its face a picture of terror.

“Er?” repeated Caradoc. He nodded towards the gold coins. “I believe those are mine,” he said. “What are you doing with them... Er?”

“Umm,” said the creature and gulped.

“I hope,” continued Caradoc, “that you weren't intending to remove those from my premises without my permission— because that, my little friend, would be stealing, wouldn't it?” The creature nodded its agreement. “And stealing, I'm sure you know, is wrong, isn't it?” The creature nodded again. “You must realise,” said Caradoc, “that the penalty for stealing from me is— well, I expect you can guess what the penalty is for stealing anything from me. We don't want that now, do we?” The creature nodded with a whimper. “Perhaps you should put it back then, so I don't misconstrue your attempts to tidy up my cash box as theft!” The creature gave a weak smile and a nervous laugh. “Go on, then,” said Caradoc, “and come back here when you've finished. I need to have a word with you about a few things I've lost recently, and which you might be able to help me find.” He smiled at the creature.

Five minutes later, the creature's head appeared from behind the chest of drawers. “Ah,” said Caradoc. “There you are again. I thought I was going to have to come and find you. Now, Er—”

“Jack,” interrupted the creature. “My name is Jack.”

“Oh,” said Caradoc. “I do beg your pardon. Well, Jack, I wondered, in your travels around my home, whether you had come across either a golden harp or a large white goose?”

“Er,” said Jack, looking up at the ceiling, “not a golden harp, no.”

“Not the harp? But the goose?”

“Yep, I've seen the goose. Well, a goose, anyway,” nodded Jack.

“Where?” asked Caradoc.

“In your oven, Sir,” replied Jack. “At least, I think it was a goose. It was a bit difficult to tell, without its feathers on.”

“Feathers? Oven? Are you saying I ate it?”

“I think so, Sir. How many of these geese have you got?”

“Just the one.”

“And no chickens, ducks or swans?”

“No.”

“Pigeons, pheasants or quails?”

“No.”

“Probably was the goose, Sir. Bad luck, Sir. Were you fond of it, Sir?”

“You could say that, yes. When was it you saw me cooking it?”

“A couple of weeks ago, Sir.”

“You were here a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you visit this place often, then?”

“Er, yes, Sir,” admitted Jack.

“And why?”

“Umm— tidying up, Sir. I just love tidying up!”

“Do you, now? Well, you should have said. I mean, there's absolutely loads of tidying up to do here.”

“Well, Sir, not wanting to offend you, Sir, but you're a bit scary, Sir. Didn't know how nice you were, Sir— so I only ever tidied up the chest of drawers.”

“Well, Jack,” beamed Caradoc, “it looks like it's a lucky day for both of us. I'm a mess and you love tidying. A match made in heaven.” He handed Jack a dishcloth. “You can start with the washing up.”

♣

Caradoc surveyed his kitchen and gave a sigh of satisfaction. He had to take his hat off to the boy— if he had a hat to take off. Jack had certainly been thorough in his cleaning. He became particularly diligent every time Caradoc wondered out loud what to have for dinner. Or lunch. Or breakfast. The kitchen gleamed. Indeed, the whole castle shone like a new pin. He had to admit to feeling a bit guilty, making the lad work so hard, especially when Jack mentioned his poor old mother being all alone— and then let it slip about the beanstalk. Well, Caradoc did what any good employer would do, and paid the old girl a visit. Down the beanstalk he'd climbed, and what a world it led him to! All those shops, all those... things! And now he had a computer, and could order anything he wanted. Of course, he couldn't get them to deliver to the top of the beanstalk, but now Jack and his mother had no need for their house, he had everything delivered there.

Yes, it had been a shame about Jack and his mother. Well, when Caradoc arrived at the cottage and found Jack's mother in possession of the harp and the goose, what else could he do? Receiving stolen goods— a capital offence. She had been rather tough, though. He'd been picking bits of her out of his teeth all day.

He heard a ping and got up to attend to the spanking new rotisserie that had arrived this morning. Yes, it had been a shame about Jack and his mum, especially after the month of unpaid work Jack had put in, tidying the place up.

He took the spit out of the rotisserie and observed the lean carcass it had just cooked to perfection. Perhaps he should have taken the opportunity over that month to fatten the boy up a bit. Caradoc ripped a piece of meat off with his teeth. “Perfect,” he muttered, wiping the grease from his face with his sleeve.

The End

♣

© Tracey Meredith 2015
From Grimm Stories & Other Faery Tales

If you enjoyed this, why not use the links on your right to download my full length stories?