Nightmare

When my daughter was 17 she went to an Ollie Murs concert.  It wasn't the first concert she had been to.  It wasn't even the first time she had traveled to London or had gone without an adult, as she was a fearless adventurer, despite carrying a bundle of personal anxieties. Even from the age of two, she would stand by the door in a hat and shoes and scream, "Out!" By the age of seven she was insisting that she really was big enough to walk to the post box on her own and by eleven she was going to the nearest big town on the bus and having to be rescued because she thought a 35 and 35X were the same. She had even been to Dublin with a friend, walking till they had blisters and sitting in their hotel room eating crisps of an evening. As parents, we worried about every new thing she tried. The Long Suffering Husband always questioned whether we were right to let her go but she always come back and we congratulated ourselves on our superb parenting skills.

   It was a bright, clear December day as the girls gathered in our hallway, giggling and checking their tickets.  One of those perfect days with washed out skies and crisp air full of possibilities. While they were watching the concert it snowed; a soft, fat, silent dumping of snow that took everyone by surprise.  She texted as they came out to say how pretty it was.  Then reality struck, as they realised that it had brought the whole of London to a standstill.  There were no buses, no trains, no tubes.  Policemen were everywhere, advising people to stay where they were.  The LSH and I sat in bed with our laptops and phones, talking to the girls, the other parents, googling for any information we could find.  It felt like chaos. It was out of our control and we didn't like it.  The one saving grace was that our daughter likes to talk and we were getting regular messages, like the true journalist she was to become, keeping us updated on everything that was happening and how everyone was reacting to this bizarre situation.  Then it stopped.

"I knew we shouldn't have let her go," said the LSH.
"Don't be silly, it's only a bit of snow.  It'll be fine," I said.
"We should have known."  The worry frown separated his eyebrows in a way nature had failed to do. "It is December, after all. It snows in December."
I laughed at him.
"What if something has happened to her? She always texts you." He was beginning to hyperventilate.
The phone rang.
One of the other parents passed the message on that our daughter's phone had run out of charge and she wanted us not to worry. The girls hadn't decided what to do yet but it would be fine and this woman's husband would pick them up from the station when they got there. She suggested we get some sleep.

"See," I said, "It'll be fine."
"Yes, I'm sure it will but London is a big place. What if they start walking and get really cold? I don't suppose they've got proper shoes or a good coat.  I'm always telling her to take proper shoes, aren't I?  I'm always saying, 'take a spare pair, you never know when you might need them."  And what if they get a taxi?  You hear all sorts of things about unlicensed cabs in London. And there are some really strange people about.  What if someone says they are going to help them and they're a bit, you know?"
I didn't know but I could guess.
He continued to list all the possible things that could go wrong.
I told him that they weren't alone and there were hundreds of other people in the same situation and he really shouldn't worry.
He sighed, turned over and was snoring within two minutes.
I lay, wide eyed, thinking about all the things he had said could go wrong.

The next morning we learned that they had slept on the floor of a coffee lounge in the O2 and should be home later that day.  We built an igloo.

I remember this because before I went to bed last night I watched the news about the bombing at a concert in Manchester.  It was awful.  I empathised with the parents wondering if they should have let their child go but as it wasn't my child I was able to sleep.

It was a sleep filled with dreams.  I dreamed of looking for my daughter in the snow.  I dreamed about shouting her name into the deadening silence of white.  I ran around with other parents all calling their child's name.  Occasionally, a Costa coffee cup would explode next to me or sometimes a bit further away.  It's amazing how my sub-conscience thinks Ariana Grande is a specialist coffee.

It was a nightmare.  One that I was glad I could wake up from. My heart breaks for the parents whose nightmare will continue.

Patronising the Voiceless

I know a thing or two about being voiceless.  It's not pleasant.  It makes you feel lonely, stupid and worthless but if you can get over that it's funny.  Watching how others talk you you is hilarious.  Strangers look at you as if you might be contagious. People you know look at you with sympathy, head cocked on one side, try to give advice to the point where you feel completely patronised.

I'm not the only voiceless person that is being patronised at the moment.  I've been watching social media getting it's knickers in a twist about people who aren't registered to vote.  If you aren't registered you are truly voiceless.  You have no say on who runs the government. Obviously, there are millions of others that have a voice but choose to stay silent.

For whatever reason these people aren't using their voice the reactions to them are similar to those I'm getting.  People are giving them advice.  All young people are being urged to register by politicians and journalists who write about politics. This is the Twitter equivalent of pissing in the wind. Anyone who hasn't registered to vote is not following these people. People I know are posting on Facebook that  on the 8th June 1913 suffragette Emily Davison died after injuries suffered in the name of women's suffrage.  They then suggest that this is the reason why people should use their voice. I can't help thinking that many people who are not going to vote have never heard of Emily Davison or what women's suffrage was.

I agree in principal with getting people to vote but I worry that that all this advice to the voiceless will seem patronising and no one listens to patronising advice because it just makes you feel even more powerless and stupid.

I've noticed that when I try to speak it makes people uncomfortable.  People would rather not hear my attempt at speech.  They'd rather not hear that I can pronounce the voiceless consonants like f,s and c, which makes me sound a little snake-like, or hear my Minnie Mouse impression when I force what sound I can out, through the top squeaky notes of my register.  Maybe those who aren't planning to vote should speak up more; should say why and should make a point because no one should stay silent because it makes others feel uncomfortable.

Medical Advice

There's a new trend sweeping workplaces.  Employers are taking out insurance to cover their losses when staff take time off sick and as part of that package employees have access to private medical services.  Instead of taking time off to visit your GP you can have a Skype consultation with a private GP.  I can imagine teachers, coughing at their i-pads with children running feral in the background while a man in pyjama bottoms and a shirt and tie with a stethoscope around his neck tells them that antibiotics are not recommended and suggests that they could be stressed.  The teacher replying, "No shit Sherlock," under their breath.

This sits uncomfortably with me.  I've been against any privatisation of the the health service since a neighbour, Auntie Mary (had a canary up the leg of her drawers) boasted about her BUPA.  Even as a ten year old I couldn't work out how it was OK for a doctor to be using NHS facilities on a private patient and I found it totally corrupt that people who have money could get treatment before someone that really needed it.

I can see the appeal.  Some people like seeing doctors (personally, I'd rather avoid them) but it is very difficult to get an appointment. I think it's because all the doctors can earn £200 a consultation sitting at home in their pjs, avoiding most of the great unwashed, as much as it is because people go when they don't need to.

If you can't get a doctor's appointment (or don't want one) and you are unwell in a way that people notice there will be a large selection of unsolicited advice available to you.  My voice is being ridiculous again and people keep asking questions. The last thing you really want to do is answer questions when you have no voice, especially when the question is, "What's wrong with your voice?" or "Why does this keep happening?" or even, "Have you tried?"

Today, I learnt two things.

I learnt that you shouldn't take medical advice from a singer who has never actually lost their voice. (The straw technique has disappeared mine completely) and I learnt that 'smack' isn't just what I'd like to do to the person whose advice I took but the name of a fishing boat, so named because the fishermen smacked the fish on the head with a stick.

Curmudgeonly Passion

At the weekend, I went to a food fair with a friend. We had a great day: The sun shined, we stuffed our faces with free samples and met loads of passionate people.

I'm always fascinated by people who are so passionate about something that they turn it into a business. We met jam preservers, sausage butchers, people who flavoured alcohol and cheese makers (blessed are the cheese makers). We met a lady who was selling the most beautiful aprons in the world. She made her first one on a leather sewing course. Who knew that such things existed. I wanted to ask her what other people on the course had made but held back for fear of being told tales of people who had read 50 Shades of Grey and couldn't find what they wanted in a shop.

The cookery demonstration was by John Whaite who had been on Bake Off. He was very entertaining: camp, Northern, a little rude and funny. He was wearing one of the aprons and had clearly had similar thoughts about leather as me, as he tweeted about bondage in the kitchen.

His demonstration included a coconut flan thing with a base made from marshmallows, with a look that he called curmudgeonly. I liked that description, as I am the embodiment of curmudgeonly at the moment.

At the end of the demonstration we bought his book and got him to sign it. I confessed that I was a bit of a cookbook collector and probably didn't have room for it on the cookbook bookcase. He looked at me with his twinkly eyes, a moment of recognition passing between us, as he said that he was exactly the same. I imagined him taking his favourite, maybe a Mrs Beeton or the new Nopi book off the shelf, flicking through the pages, giving it a quick sniff and stroking it before placing it carefully back in position. (Everyone does that with their favourite books, right?)
"Oh, she's terrible," my friend said, "She can't even watch Bake Off without making a cake first."
I thought that was normal.
"I was exactly the same," he said, "You should enter."
I blushed and instantly felt stupid. "Fifty years old and blushing when a gay young man sort-of pays you a compliment," I chastised myself.
I know that I'm not Bake Off material. I'm too slow, not neat enough and have a face for radio.
I explained that my baking was too curmudgeonly.

Seriously though, I just couldn't imagine entering something like Bake Off. It would just gobble up all of your time. I like doing lots of things. I love food and music and knitting and reading and writing and yoga and walking and swimming breast stroke with my head out of the water and digging my allotment but if I was properly passionate about any of them then I wouldn't be able to do all of them.

It's just lucky that I'm curmudgeonly passionate.

We love Eurovision

I'm so excited.  It's that time of year again. The snacks are on the table and by the end of the evening I'll have a spreadsheet, the Long Suffering Husband will have drunk at least one bottle of wine and we will have eaten our body weight in cheese. We will have laughed with Mr Norton and remembered Terry Wogan fondly.  I absolutely love it and if you are one of those people who think it's silly or complain about the music then you won't want to read this blog.  I've already seen tweets from people who are wondering why we are still doing this. They can't understand.  They thought they voted Brexit to stop all this nonsense. I'm already laughing.

This year my daughter isn't with us, so her scores might not be a feature of this blog. She has sent me her categories so we can all play along. Ten points each for song, costume, instruments, and performance.

Last night we had an orchestra Eurovision which was so good I hope it hasn't spoiled it for the real thing. Austria won that but the odds aren't good for them winning tonight.

I will update as we go along.

Here we go. Graham is in Kiev. Celebrating diversity. The girl from Belgium looks normal.  That's not very diverse, is it?

Three white men to host. The LSH has said that they are dressed in black and white so that's ok. And they have silly ties.  This is making us cringe and laugh at the same time.  Eurovision fans are the best in the world.  Oh, yes we are.

Israel:   Imrie Breaking me to pieces.  I like his see through top, although it wouldn't work on a slightly chubbier man.  We like the background and the fires. Black and white again.  Good diversity.

Poland: Her brother will be fiddling with her. Oh dear. Black and white costumes again.  I think they might have interpreted diversity differently to me.  The song is like Thomas Crown meets James Bong. The brother is fiddling very passionately.  The boy gives extra points because there is a dog floating around in space behind her and there are rhyming triplets (whatever they are) I don't like her dress or the wind.  Freedom. Free her from the dress.

Belarus:  A see through wedding dress. All white this time. No diversity here. It's a Disney type song with hey shouting. We need subtitles for the words.  We want to know the story.  Their fans are turned off. I like the tongue waggling. Gosh.  I wasn't expecting snogging. We like the boat.

Austria:  He's over the moon. Winged trainers and all white.  He's running on air those wings should help This is beautiful staging. Love those clouds.  This is alright.  It's unoffensive, says the LSH.  No instruments which won't help our scores. Maybe Austria could win twice.

Armenia: Choreography is interesting. Octopus impressions and bowling.  All black costumes this time. This is quite boring.  There's fire. It's a whale.  Sorry. I mean wail.

Holland:  Good close harmonies.  All sparkly black outfits.  Moths have been at them.  Was there a ban on colour this year? Not very diverse.  It's good to see curvy women.  We like this song but were distracted by trying to guess the twin.

"Nothing's gone wrong, this was planned!" Oh Graham we love you!  I don't know what they did.  I had a little eating break.

Moldova: Nice black and white suits.  Very flexible hips.  We like the dance.  Surely that was a soprano sax.  The microphones in the flowers are genius. We are all doing the dance.  School girls to brides costume change is stunning.  It's almost worthy of Bucks Fizz.  I like this.  Graham thinks its a rough wedding - he's so posh!

Hungary:  Nice jugs! What a topknot.  He looks like the genie of the lamp.  The Genie and the Gypsy.  Fire. Rap.  I bet he's very hip in Hungary. He has some colour in his outfit with that red belt and gold braiding.  It is the most diverse so far.  Who'd have thought Hungary would have been so middle Eastern.

Toast to Sir Terry Wogan.  I told you it would happen.  You're good Graham but we miss Tel.

Italy:  He's meditating with a mandela in the background. Yoga is powerful magic he's trying to invoke it.  Lots of colour in this.  He has a rainbow stripe. What are the monkey's about.  We like the monkey but he looks a bit wild (or blooming furious - flashback to Alas Smith and Jones) It's like an advert for the United Colours of Beneton.  The song is nice.  It could be an earworm.

Denmark: Young Anneka Rice.  The first not to wear black or white.  I've heard this song before. I would hate to have to perfrom under all those falling flames.

Portugal:  Have never won. Oh no.  It is La La land song.  I hated that song.  How can a musical do so well with only one song.  He's a bit weird as well.  Does he get points for pretending to play a tiny violin? I really don't like that it's so boring.

Azerbaijan:  The blackboard appeals to the teacher in me.  It has all the lyrics on it.but it is missing a date and a WALT.  The horses head man is unusual.  Why is he on top of the ladder.  I like her silk trench coat. He took his head off.  That's naughty.  You shouldn't write on people's coats.  I know chalk brushes off but even so.

Croatia:  I love him.  Go compare man with a split personality.  His suit is brilliant. They have the cello violin duel is brilliant. It's got everything.  This should win.  It has everything.  It's a catchy song too. There's nothing to say. It's perfect.

Australia: Shall we get the questions about how  Australia are in Eurovision out of the way first? Graham is so naughty. We can't listen to the song now because we are looking at his eyebrows.  It's not much of a song. It's boring and he can't walk normally and he's forgotten his socks.  Apparently, it's because he's walking on the spot and he's wearing his dad's coat. More falling fire.  I do feel sorry for these performers.

Greece: If I was going to do political voting I'd vote for Greece.  It's a nice country.  I like her dress. The raindrop sploshes are clever.  The men in the paddling pool are a fun distraction.  They have nice pointed toes - proper classical dancers. The song wasn't great and she was nervously out of tune but I like Greece. I'm going there on holiday.

Spain: Don't come a knocking when the van is a rocking. Oh, how we laugh.  I like a proper band.  The surf theme is good but the winks are creepy.  Awful pitching. Ouch!

Norway: At our orchestra Eurovision we learnt that there are lots of reindeer in Norway.  It was full of sleigh bells.  It came last. It turns out that Norway is full of schizophrenics in masks who sing like a house version of Ed Sheeran.  Look at that drum. Extra points for a huge drum. I liked that, which surprised me.

UK: She's pretty.  Was she on a reality TV thing?  She has a pretty voice. I'm not sure about the dress.  It's not a bad song.  We like the starburst staging. She's performing it well.  Really nice singing. Best vocal performance of the evening.  It should get votes but who knows how it will go. We might get sympathy votes as the rest of Europe thinks we've gone bonkers.

Cyprus:  More black and white. I've lost the will to live.  They all sound the same now.

Romania: That's better.  Something a bit different. Yodelling and rapping. Her skirt is too short - she'll catch her death. "What's with the cannon?" the boy says. "Oh, compensating for something?" She's a really good yodeller. It's hard to do. I never knew they did that in Romania. Are there many mountains in Romainia? It's times like this you realise how little you know about the world.

Germany: I do not like singers that sing through their nose. I'm being told it sounds like the song in Zootopia, which was by Sia. Her dress doesn't fit and someone has tried to rip the sleeves off.

I've stopped scoring.

Ukraine: I think Graham is right.  They don't want to host next year.  They've got instruments, which gives them points on our scoring sheet and the big head gives points for staging.  The flashing lights are a bit much.  It's a headache piece. The instrumental is good rock.

Belgium: Another black dress. She's terrified. It's very flat.  I'm not surprised as she seems to be caged within lights.  I have hair like that. No matter how much you brush it it still looks messy. I feel sorry for her.

Sweden: I hope they have the Volvo tambourine as our orchestra version. No it's all shiny suits and treadmills. I like choreography on treadmills. It's a familiar song. The LSH says it's pretentious.  "We're from Sweden and we're too pretty for you."

Bulgaria: Uncle was my favourite womble.  This is another familiar song. He has a nice voice and is performing it well. It's a rubbish costume, although I've always wanted one of those tops with thumb holes but would be too scared of having permanently wet wrists. I like the light rain.  Is he singing, "Although you are a vegetable your love is untouchable?" He's good.

France: I like her dress. The back drop is wonderful. The song isn't bad and she's performing well.

My Scores:

Full moon in Australia.

And here come the votes.......wait for it.....here they come......wait....not long....here they are......
From 42 countries. 42! Here they are.....are you ready.....this is it.....yes....are you sure you are ready......

Hello Sweden with the delay. 12 points to Portugal.  It's La La Land all over again
Azerbaijan: 12 points to Belarus
San Marino: Who is the bald man she's hiding behind. 12 points to Portugal.
Latvia:  Thank you for a sleepless night. Portugal again.  What is going on?
Israel: Calling from Jerusalem the last time Israel will be in Europe.  Another 12 points for Portugal.
These are the jury votes, who have given their scores based on the dress rehearsal.

Whoops I missed a few.

FYR Macedonia: That's an amazing suit. 12 points to Bulgaria
Denmark: Like Sweden.  What a surprise!
Austria: 12 points to the Netherlands. The LSH is happened.
Norway:  They are the Norwegian Jedward.  12 points to Bulgaria

The UK are getting points

Spain: I can see her belly button in that dress.  12 points to Portugal
Finland: 12 points to Sweden.  Another surprise.
France: In half an outfit. It's like Tinder live.  12 points to Portugal
Greece: Let me guess.  Will it be Cyprus? Of course it is.
Lithuania: Slava. Portugal again.
Estonia: Bulgaria.
Moldova: They gave their points to Romania. Quirky likes quirky.
Armenia: In another half a dress. Portugal.
Bulgaria: She's pissed. Austria got their 12 points
Iceland: He seems cold. Portugal gets their 12 points
Serbia: I'm getting bored of this Portugal thing now.
Australia: Who is that? It sounds like Jan Leeming. 12 points to the UK. That's why we let them in!
Italy: Gave 12 points to Azer....I can't spell that now - it's too late.
Germany: She's lost an arm to her dress too. I think we should start  a campaign to find the lost sleves. They like Norway.
Portugal: At least they can't vote for themselves. Probably Spain. No. Azer.
Switzerland: That was a joke, right? Thanks for celebrating diversity tonight. I missed who they gave 12 points to. I guess it was Portugal
A Dutch dog likes Portugal.
Ireland: Will they give us 12? No, they like chocolate and chips better. Belgium
Georgia: He's stoned. Careful he might fall. 12 points to Portugal
Cyprus: Greece. It's good to have friends
Belarus: Ukraine reminding them they are neighbours. Bulgaria.
Romania: Like the Netherlands.
Hungary: Portugal
Slovenia: Portugal again
Belgium: Her tattoo clashes with her dress. They like Sweden.

Spain are on Nul Points.

Poland: Portugal again.
United Kingdom: Our jury gave 10 to Australia.  Did they have cheese in their ears? How to insult a woman. Portugal.  I wish I'd seen the dress rehearsal.
Croatia: Like Hungary. I'm hungry. Where has the cheese gone?
Czech Republic: Portugal get the 12.
Ukraine: Gave their 12 points to their neighbours.

Next we have the popular votes.

Reverse order:
Austria 0
Australia 2
Germany 3
Spain 5
Israel 5
Denmark 8
UK 12
Netherlands 15
Armenia 21
Ukraine 24
Greece 29
Norway 29
Cyprus 32
Belarus 33
Poland 41
Azer 42
France 90
Croatia 103
Sweden 126
Hungary 152
Italy 208
Romania 224
Belgium 255
Moldova 274
Bulgaria 337
Portugal 376

Well, what do I know? The whole world liked the song I hated.

Except that the final performance by his sister was amazing.  I would have voted for that!

Everyday Tiredness

Today I woke up and thought.

It's dangerous to start your day thinking.  I know that but I did it anyway.  I thought, "I could do things today." Leaving the knitting nest for any reason other than coasting along the seawall didn't seem too huge an effort. I thought about the lessons I would do that day and smiled. I was actually looking forward to seeing if six year olds could sing and bounce a ball to the pulse at the same time. (The answer, if you are wondering, is that mostly they can't but they can get a tennis ball stuck in a tree and find a 'real live dead bee'.)

By the time I got to school I had a list and had actually packed a lunch (if an avocado and a pitta bread can be called lunch). I had walked the dog and fed him and had even managed to dress myself in vaguely matching clothes. I was horrified to see the state of the music room and wondered how I hadn't noticed before.  

I checked my emails.  There were 106 and I deleted most of them without even opening them. Some  had to be dealt with. A folk song/sea shanty workshop had been booked and I needed to organise the timetable.  "Sorry, it's next week," I told the teachers. Then I read an email that said we had been chosen to represent our area in a concert and a record-breaking STOMP attempt. I started to plan our own Summer concert.  I wrote letters and phoned people and taught. Choir at lunchtime was exciting as the children chose what they wanted to sing.  (It turns out they know a lot of songs).

At the end of the school day my head was pounding. I sat and squinted at a pile of books on the side from the Book People. 
"Everyday tiredness. I could write that book," I said.
"What book?" my colleague asked
"The green one."
"Oh, I thought it said, "Everyday Tidiness."
Of course it did. On the first day I had thought I could do something I might have overdone it.

The book was a daily inspiration to neatness.  Today's page said, "Less is more."  and was attributed to Miles Van de Rohe. Tomorrow, we must all throw away all the pens that don't work and buy only one special pen that always lives in the same place. That put us all off. How can you have only one pen?  I have a pot of pens and pencils in each room.

A book called Everyday Tiredness in the same vain could have quotes like: “I must be overtired', Buttercup managed. 'The excitement and all.'
'Rest then', her mother cautioned. 'Terrible things can happen when you're overtired. I was overtired the night your father proposed.” (The Princess Bride.)
You would think that not being able to read by the end of the day would have sent me straight back to my coasting attitude but once you've thought there's no going back.  There is a list.  You are aware of how many things are on it and how much you haven't done.   So, this evening I have arranged music for Flutti Tutti group and band, taught a brilliant flute pupil, discussed how we are going to run our Eurovision Orchestra evening tomorrow and written this blog.
I miss coasting. Everyday tiredness is so much more exhausting.  
The only bonus of everyday tiredness is that life is more amusing.  You know that point where you are so tired that everything is funny? The Long Suffering made dinner and it made me laugh.  He said he'd given me some salad because he knew I was trying to be healthy.

In the words of Roland Keating...

The assembly theme in the school I work in was 'say something that you don't mean to someone.'  I think that was it, anyway.  It could have been 'say something mean to someone,' but that seems unlikely. Like one of the worst kind of children that teachers are faced with I'm not always listening.  I'm there in body but my mind is elsewhere.  I'm still spending all day dreaming about going home to sit in my knitting nest or walk along the sea wall. I heard the teacher explain that if you went up to someone and told them that you didn't like their shoes then that would be mean, so it would be much better to go up and say, "I think your shoes are really nice."  She said that they should practise saying nice things to people to make them smile.

As the children left the assembly one looked at me and said, "Miss, I really like your make up, it makes you look like a......" her voice faded into the distance as the line trouped past back to their classroom.
Prostitute, drag queen, adult, clown, doll, different person, man and model were some of the suggestions my colleagues came up with in the staff room.  I'm not sure that this making an effort thing, so that people don't notice how totally crap I'm feeling, is actually working.

I'm being totally rubbish at work at the moment. I don't think the children have noticed, or if they have they are keeping quiet because they like playing singing games and bashing instruments in a random way.  It's caused by a mixture of grief, menopause, post-Ofsted slump (a recognised phenomenon for all teachers) and the summer term. If I had the energy then I'd feel guilty about it.

Who am I kidding? I do feel guilty about it. So guilty that I confessed my lack of interest in my job. You see, my problem is that I've always been too honest (except when writing). My headteacher said, "In the words of Roland Keating, it's OK to coast." I think that's what he said, anyway because I wasn't properly listening: my mind had wandered back to the knitting nest and was contemplating whether to unpick the sleeves that I'd sewn on upside down or just leave them as an interesting talking point. There definitely followed a conversation about rollercoasters and how they make me sick and as I was wondering who Roland was he said, "I'm expecting to read about this in your blog."
Whatever the conversation had been about it had cheered me up enormously.  I thought that maybe he had been following the theme of the assembly and had said something he didn't really mean to make me smile but it was the nicest thing anyone has said to me in the last few months and I have taken him at his word, spending as much time coasting as possible.

The dog is very keen on all this coasting.

Coasting along the edge of the world

Knitting nest waiting for my return