5483/18403
Yesterday as I drove to the dentist with my wife, the forest from which I have stolen approximately 15 large twigs and two small branches took vengeance on me. We were scooting along past the trees when I saw something rolling down the bank towards me. There was no one around so it can’t have been pushed. This was a supernatural attack from the spirits of the woods and designed I think, only to scare me. Was it a stone or a round chunk of wood. I didn’t have time to see, or to avoid it. We ran over this sizeable object and there was a clank from my front passenger-side tyre. Luckily no lasting harm was done (I don’t think, I keep forgetting to go and check it), but the message was received loud and clear. The wood was angry with me and was warning me off.
I don’t know why it was so cross with a man who had merely picked up a few bits of tree that had fallen off quite naturally and not with the multi-national companies that wilfully destroy great tracts of forest around the world in order to sell the murdered trees. But I guess it’s easiest to hit back at your weakest opponents. And those guys have massive chainsaws, so best not to rile them up any more.
On the way home I looked out for the object that had nearly pole-axed me and it was a stump of wood. The ghosts of the trees long dead had definitely been responsible. Things don’t just roll down banks on their own. And certainly not with such timed precision.
But again, that’s a bit of blog that should have been in yesterday’s entry. I am so old now that memories drift in and out and I will soon probably write about things I’ve suddenly remembered from three years ago. How could I forget being cursed by angry nymphs. I generally prefer sexy nymphs. But they are sexier when they’re angry. And trying to kill me. They know that the wood spirit whores.
I am enjoying watching my daughter trying to process the intricacies of the language she is acquiring very rapidly. Not in a “don’t children say the funniest things” kind of way, (though they do and it’s brilliant), but more on an anthropological level. How does the brain distinguish between the literal and the poetic in our complex language. The answer is, not very well to being with.
I told my daughter that I thought she was the bee’s knees today and she got quite cross. “I’m not a bee,” she told me. I hated to point out that she has sometimes dressed as one. “No, you’re the bees knees.”
“No, I am Phoebe.” She was affronted.
“It’s a compliment, “ I told her. “You’re not a bee, you’re the bee’s knees.”
She looked at her knees - “They’re not a bee’s.” She was right. And to be honest it’s an odd thing to say. I mean, bees surely don’t have knees and if they do they’re not that great. But I, in my foolishness, have just accepted this as a nice thing to say.
Phoebe enjoyed being affronted though. And the argument carried on for most of the morning.
The other day my wife had been taking a photo of Phoebe with her face painted as a cat - and to be honest, she’d been happy to pretend to be a cat for all that time and I didn’t pick her up on it, so why wouldn’t she pretend to be a bee with knees for me?
Phoebe was excited about being a cat so and been moving around a lot as Catie tried to take a photo. “Hold your head still,” said Catie.
Phoebe took her at her word and held on to her head to keep it still.
What a fucking idiot. We have a great photo of a feline child holding her chin in her hands though.
Some of this happened today. Don’t feel short-changed. And I will remember some more stuff that happened today tomorrow, so it’s all good. Oh I tidied up the garage… maybe that’s not that good a story.
