Humor

Do you still sleep in your childhood bedroom?

Do you still sleep in your childhood bedroom?

Good question. A better one might have been – “Did you have your own bedroom as a child?” The answer is “No, I didn’t. Not that I can remember.” As a war baby, I was moved around quite a bit in my childhood. I remember sleeping in three different bedrooms in our first house. Then we moved in with my maternal grandparents, and I slept in three more bedrooms, often in the same bed with one or other of the grandparents, sometimes on a makeshift bed on the floor. Later, or it may be around the same time, those early childhood memories are so hazy, I went to live with my parental grandparents – three more bedrooms there – same conditions. The family also had a bungalow close to the beach on the Gower peninsula. It had three bedrooms and I slept in all of them, under similar conditions, and seldom alone, until my later years.

I was bundled off to boarding school while I was still a child. Two dormitories at the first boarding school. I was between six and eight years old, and the memories of that school are not sharp, though I recall with total clarity the canings and the shaming of myself and the other young children. It was a religious school. And I need say no more on that subject.

My second boarding school , a preparatory school, saw me inhabiting four dormitories that I can remember. My clearest memory of that place is running away one night, only to be brought kicking and screaming back to the place. Both my parents worked. During the holidays, I was shipped around to various members of the family – aunts, uncles, and grandparents. When I left that school, for the last time, age eleven, my grandparents drove me to my new forever home in a city far from my birthday place. There, three bedrooms witnessed my sleeping habits.

My third boarding school, the Junior School of a larger college, provided me with two dormitories, one per year while I was there. This was the time at which I started to travel with my mother during the vacations. A coach tour on the continent once saw us visiting six countries in two weeks, and that wasn’t the only coach tur I did with her. A succession of hotel bedrooms, then, and no nocturnal stability at all.

I stayed in my fourth boarding school, the Senior School of that Junior School, for five years and received a new dormitory each year. From there I went to study in Paris – more bedrooms – then down to Spain for the summer courses at the International University in Santander, but by now, age eighteen, my childhood was over.

So, a quick count shows that I slept in at least twenty-five bedrooms during my child. And that’s without counting holiday hotels, flats, apartments, and other forms of lodgings, including Youth Hostels.

So, remind me – what was the question? Ah yes, I remember now. “Do You still sleep in your childhood bedroom?” Well, my friends and readers, the answer is a very loud “NO!” Think about it – how could I have? I am not sure that I even had a childhood bedroom!

On what subject(s) are you an authority?

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On what subject(s) are you an authority?
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On what subject(s) are you an authority?

First, I would like a definition of an authority. Here’s what I found – 1. the power or right to give orders, make decisions, and enforce obedience – as in “he had absolute authority over his subordinates”. 2. a person or organization having power or control in a particular, typically political or administrative, sphere as in – “the health authorities”. Isolating the words enforcement, power, and control, I am delighted to say that no, I am not an authority on anything, and I have no control over anyone. Also, I am not a monarch, and I have no subjects.

What happens if we change the meaning of the words slightly and ask another question? Here is a suggestion from the online Cambridge Dictionary – searching for an answer to my question “What is an example of authority on the subject? – I found this – The phrase “authority on the subject” is correct and usable in written English. You can use this phrase to describe someone who has extensive knowledge or experience on a particular topic. For example, “Dr. Smith is considered an authority on the subject of modern psychology.”

Now this becomes a very interesting question and it can be answered from a variety of perspectives. In our two person household, I deem myself an authority on some forms of cooking. I regard my beloved wife, my better two-thirds as I call her – an authority on the forms of cooking that I have trouble with – for example, baking, cooking vegetables, boiling eggs. She does a wonderful boiled egg. I am hopeless at boiling eggs – either too hard or too soft, usually the former. But I am the authority on Spanish omelets and scrambled eggs. They are my specialities. She makes wonderful chowders. I specialize in gazpachos, sopa de quince minutos a very quick (15 minute) Spanish sea-food soup, and Cawl Mamgu and other Welsh stews.

Once we step outside our kitchen, the world changes. In a world (New Brunswick) where cricket is virtually unheard of (save in the minds and cultures of fellow immigrants) I am considered an authority on cricket. Not that I am an authority, but at least I know what it is and have a good idea of what is happening in a cricket match. Therefore, we must also consider ‘being an authority’ in the context of the audience that receives our words of wisdom. To my nine year old grand-daughter, I am an authority on several subjects. However, I have absolutely no control over her – how she thinks and what she does. I can suggest or persuade, but I cannot and will not enforce.

In the undergraduate classroom, in which I taught for 43 years, I was considered an authority on Spanish by my students. Outside the classroom (and sometimes inside it) I learned more from my students than they ever learned from me, especially in my formative years as a Canadian when I was learning to skate and to ski. Don’t go there – too many painful memories of falling only to rise again!

But when we moved from the classroom to the wider university, to the full Canadian Scene of the Learned Societies, as they used to be called, I became the learner and the authorities were to be found elsewhere, often on the podium, sometimes in the bar. Same thing when we move onto the international stage. There are very few world authorities, in my field. However, there are many wannabe’s, but for them, after careful analysis of their strengths and weaknesses, I have usually had very little respect.

So, today we have opened another can of worms and look at them, wriggling and crawling before our very eyes. Worms – one of my friends really is an authority on earth worms. She knows all about them. Another of my friends is an authority on worms in puppies and kittens. A world wide authority, known every where and often quoted? I doubt it. But certainly in my garden and the vet hospital where I take my pets, they are both authorities.

Ah, the joys of Discourse Analysis – maybe, one day, I can be an expert on that. But take my words, as always, with a large pinch of salt, and, whatever you do, don’t put salt on slugs, and snails, and puppy dog tails. On that point, we can all be authorities.

What are your daily habits?



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What are your daily habits?
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What are your daily habits?

“The habit (Greek: Σχήμα, romanized: Schēma) is essentially the same throughout the world. The normal monastic color is black, symbolic of repentance and simplicity. The habits of monks and nuns are identical. Additionally, nuns wear a scarf, called an apostolnik.”

So, my daily habits are a little bit monastic. “Monks were very religious, lived simple lives and followed certain rules to discipline themselves. The monks didn’t have any possessions, they didn’t even own their own clothes and they wore a simple garment known as a habit. Monks chose to live in the monastery as they wanted to help others and worship God.”

I can’t say I am very religious, in the church-going sense, but I do live a pretty simple life. My rules and disciplines consist of daily exercises, stretching and strength, a morning wash and shave, getting dressed in my non-monkish habits – jeans, shirt, sox, shoes or sandals. Coffee and fruit for breakfast. Writing – (a) in my journal (b) on the computer (c) in my poetry book. An early lunch, usually a sandwich. A post-prandial walk around the garden with my roller, examining the hollyhocks, the yucca, and the clematis, and checking on the progress of the other flowers.

The daily routine of a monk is somewhat similar. Monks typically wake up early in the morning, often before sunrise. I wake up early, text a couple of my best friends on the cell phone beside my bed, and then I go back to sleep again. I often begin the day with a prayer or a hymn – as do the monks – “Every morning, when I wake, / oh Lord, this little prayer I make, / that thou will keep a watchful eye, / on all poor creatures born to die.” Then I begin my daily routine of work and meditation. The specific activities and schedule can vary, but generally, I spend several hours each day in work (writing) or study (reading).

I try to think like a monk – to think like a monk means to remain calm and focused under all circumstances, especially when life gets challenging. Alas, at my age, I meet challengers all through the day. Things fall to the floor – challenge – can I pick them up with my magic claw? I can’t open bottles and cans – challenge – can I do so with one of my two magic appliances? I actually have three, but one of them doesn’t work. The other two, however, are wonderful. It is almost impossible for me to open plastic wrappings – challenge – can I do so with a pair of scissors, a pocket knife, or must I, in the worst case scenario, use a genuine can opener? Good tip, that, incidentally, especially for bubble packs. There are many other challenges, the worst of which is always what to do if I fall down. We won’t talk about that – I just do my best not to fall.

I also do my best to lead a relatively simple life – I try (1) to do one thing at a time – (2) to commit whole-heartedly to my family and few close friends – (3) to simplify my life and concentrate on what I am doing – (4) to develop my mind by not indulging excessively in social media – (5) to order my existence by making lists of essentials that must be accomplished – (6) to express myself and my love for the world around me in poetry, prose, and paint – and finally, (7) to remember that, the day I was born, I took my first step on the path to death. Beyond that, I do very little more.

What makes a teacher great?

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What makes a teacher great?
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What makes a teacher great?

When Moo descended from Mount Academia, he brought down with him the ten tenets to which great teachers, knowingly or unknowingly, commit. He asked me to transcribe them here, since they were in danger of being neglected and / or forgotten.

  1. Mastery of the subject – great teachers know their subjects inside out. They do not read their graduate school notes to their students, heads bowed, chins on chest, droning on in a low, boring mumble. They encourage questions and are open to debate with their students about the subject that they know so well and openly love.

    Master thy subject.

  2. Humility – great teachers are humble. They know that they are not omniscient. They also know that knowledge changes across time and that they too must change and follow new ideas. They also know, perhaps instinctively, that some of their students are as intelligent as they are. They never dismiss their young charges as idiots, fools, or lunatics to be beaten and forced into the required shape.

    Be humble.

  3. Flexibility – great teachers are flexible, not rigid. They can bend the rules, reshape the syllabus, change pace and tone to match the needs of their students. In addition, they ask their students about their needs and try to address those needs in a personal way, sometimes on a one on one basis.

    Be flexible.

  4. Reaching out – great teachers reach out to their students as a group and as individuals. They never paint themselves into the know-all corner where they alone know best, and they know, with absolute certainty, what’s best for their students. Great teachers know, above all, that one size, in great teaching, neither fits nor benefits all.

    Reach out.

  5. Equal treatment – great teachers treat their students equally. They do not fawn on the best and scorn the worst, nor do they teach by the WWII convoy system, teaching only at the speed of the slowest. By extension, great teachers try to create an atmosphere of love in learning and joy in the subject.

    Practice equality.

  6. Honesty – great teachers are honest, fiercely honest. They know their own strengths and weaknesses, their own limitations. They work on their weaknesses, striving to turn them into strengths. They also push the boundaries of their limitations, striving always to keep up with the ever-changing frontiers of knowledge.

    Be honest.

  7. Human beings – great teachers know that they are human beings and they recognize early on in their careers, that while they are teaching a subject, they are also preparing fellow humans for a life beyond the ivy-covered walls of academia. By extension, they emphasize the humanity of their students and try always to develop and sustain that humanity.

    Be human.

  8. The meaning of meaning – great teachers reach out beyond their subjects to teach the meaning of meaning. Why is the subject important? What can each individual use this hard-earned knowledge for, in their own lives? How can they reshape their own lives and create better ways of learning and living? This teams up with reaching out and enters the realm of learning for learning’s sake and love of learning and love of knowledge.

    Love thy learning.

  9. Creativity – great teachers are creative. They open their students’ minds to new ideas, fresh knowledge, better ways of doing things. They never use phrases like ‘thinking outside the box’ and they do not build better boxes, one or two sizes larger than current boxes, inside which their students must now sit, work, and think. Creative teachers tear down the walls of medieval academia and open their students’ minds to the winds of change and fresh knowledge.

    Be creative.

  10. Life long learning – great teachers teach students how to think for themselves, how to teach themselves, how to self-assess, how to check and double-check the knowledge (all too often nowadays, fake news and / or false knowledge) handed down to them from a multitude of sources, far too many of them unreliable. Great teachers teach their students to know themselves. They also teach them how to work out whether a source is a reliable fount of information, or not. In short, they teach life long learning and neither they, nor their students, ever give up hope.


    Teach Life Long Learning.

Are there things you try to practice daily to live a more sustainable lifestyle?

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Are there things you try to practice daily to live a more sustainable lifestyle?
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Are there things you try to practice daily to live a more sustainable lifestyle?

Let me begin by asking a straightforward question – what on earth does this question mean? Permit me to begin with the word lifestyle. I googled it and got the following – 1. a set of attitudes, habits, or possessions associated with a particular person or group. 2. such attitudes, etc, regarded as fashionable or desirable. Let me now google sustainable. Here’s what I found – 1. able to be maintained at a certain rate or level – “sustainable fusion reactions”. 2. able to be upheld or defended – “sustainable definitions of good educational practice”. 3. Sustainability is ability to maintain or support a process over time. Sustainability is often broken into three core concepts: economic, environmental, and social.

This is all very interesting indeed. So, what can I practice daily that will allow me to maintain “sustainable fusion reactions”? Answers via snail mail, trained snails please, via the North Pole, to arrive by Christmas, if the snails can maintain the pace. What can I practice daily to “uphold or defend sustainable definitions of good educational practice”? Good question as a retired former teacher, I have to admit that there is very little I can do about an academic world, already moribund, that I left fifteen years ago. As for the three core concepts of economic sustainability, environmental sustainability, and social sustainability, well, I really don’t know what to say.

Economic sustainability – I look at the growing number of homeless and the multitude of retirees who are forced out of their homes or apartments and onto the streets by rising rents, and I feel fear and dismay. I watch prices rise and my savings fall – you tell me, pretty please, what can I do about it? Hope? Pray? Petition? Buy less? I already do that. Eat less? I already do that. I can control a certain amount around my own house and home, but there’s little I can do about homelessness and the stock exchange and the cost of living.

Social sustainability. Covid brought shutdown (2020) and shutdown meant a great many friendships and connections were broken. It is hard, at my advancing age, to establish new friends, begin new relationships, or renew connections with friends who are happy to remain disconnected. Besides which, a year or more of masking, not meeting, not leaving home, changes one’s lifestyle. It is hard, as I say, to gear up and start again.

Environmental sustainability. “Drill, baby, drill.” What can I do, on a daily basis, to stop drillers drilling, miners mining, polluters polluting, forest fires burning? I certainly try to pollute as little as possible on a daily basis – but – I do not own an open cast mine, an oil refinery, nor do I have an oil field to exploit, nor a space ship to launch like a modern day Noah’s Ark, to escape the deliberate destruction I am doing to the earth. Clearly, I try not to play with matches, especially on a hot dry day. But that’s mainly a cross between courtesy and common sense. To phrase it another way, I certainly didn’t guzzle up all the cod on the Grand Banks, or allow the sewage from a major sewage works to overflow into rivers, lakes, and seas in order to save money and make larger profits for my friends and shareholders.

Given my limitations, yes there are things I do on a daily basis to live a more sustainable lifestyle. I eat less. Go out less. Exercise and stretch more. Try to recycle as much as possible. Try not to over indulge and to make my daily bread stretch as far as possible, sometimes into a second or third day. I would, if I could, buy seven loaves and five fishes, go out into a central square, and feed a multitude. But, alas, something like that is really way beyond both me and my pension level.

Write about your first crush.

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Write about your first crush.
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Write about your first crush.

No. No, I can safely say that I have never had that sort of crush, except on a teddy bear or a little poo-pee aka puppy. I guess my first real crush was an orange crush. And no, again, not that orange crush either. I guess I have never been a fan of the Denver Broncos. But, as a child, I loved Orange Crush and Dandelion and Burdock, the former suitable for children and the latter looking remarkably like grown aka groan up beer.

During my time at university, I fell victim to several crushes. One was at the bottom of a collapsed scrum while playing rugby. Never much fun that sort of crush. All those sweaty, smelly bodies. Another came in an attempt to beat the Guinness Book of Records under the achievement – how many people can you get inside an English Telephone Kiosk? This was in the sixties, when England actually had telephone kiosks. If you have never seen a real English telephone kiosk, there’s one down in Kingsbrae Gardens, and I highly recommend a visit to that antiquity – almost as good as the statues in the gardens.

Anyway, one day in rag week, a group of Bristol University students, me among them, started crowding into a telephone kiosk. We entered upright, tried kneeling, others kneeling on our shoulders. We managed about twelve.

Doors open or doors closed? This baby came with no instructions. Poor parents, even more miserable single parents. And they are almost always young women, aren’t they? Come to think of it, maybe we should have invited some female students to join us – much lighter in weight and far less smelly – in the bad sense!

So, we tried a different tactic. If the first measure was a crush, and indeed it was, well, the second measure??? Judge for yourselves. One of us held the door open, the rest of us lay down like logs, feet outside the door, and the newcomers lay down on top of us. Ingenious indeed. But those at the bottom could scarcely breathe. They were the victims of a real crush.

Like the finger in the woodpecker’s hole, we reversed it – feet in, heads out. We got up to twenty-seven students. Then we ran out of student volunteers. Revolting. We asked passers-by to help us. But to no avail. Reversed and removed. Equally revolting. Sent our efforts in, with photos. There was no response. We didn’t make it. I still don’t know what that particular crush record is.

In Cassis-les-Calanques, 1960, I was one of eight people standing in a Citroen Deux Chevaux. That was quite a crush. But, in Santander, Spain, 1970, Clare and I watched 11 people, yes, eleven, get out of a SEAT 600, a 600cc Spanish four-seater car, otherwise known as a bullet / bala, and with about as big an engine as your lawnmower. They exited, one by one, and proceeded to enter the local church for Sunday mass. Can you imagine 11 people riding on your lawnmower?

Maybe that wasn’t a crush at all. Maybe it was just a (Morris) minor miracle.

If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?

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If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
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If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?

Oh dear – such a difficult question. I have seen so many people puzzling over which dress they would choose, which blouse matched the skirt, which tie best highlighted the shirt, what color hanky, suitably folded, best suited the little breast pocket of the suit. Why do we have to have outfits? Couldn’t we have infits.

Now that’s a great idea. The one infit that I wear, every day, regardless, is my birthday suit. I have worn it, day in, day out for 80 years and it still (in)-fits me and, quite honestly, I have never spent a day without out it. Of course, it has worn a bit over the years. And no, I will not show you any photos.

However, I can say that the six pack that I once sported has become a rubber tire. There are bruises and scars where once the skin was white and tight, or bronzed and shining bright. Muscles have shrunk. Back has bent. Arthritis kicks in, now and again, but my birthday suit adapts to everything. It really was a wonderful invention.

And, guess what! Every day is my birthday now and today I am 29,370 days old. Not everyone can say that. And yes, I can also tell you, in all confidence, that I wear my birthday suit every day now in celebration of each passing birthday.

In Spain everybody has two birthdays – the day they were born and their saint’s day. The saint’s day is the day on which the saint after whom they are named is celebrated. Two birthdays is lovely – but to have 365 birthdays a year, to wear my birthday suit for every one of them, is spectacular. And it’s even better to have 366 birthdays in a leap year.

I know you know that a leopard cannot change its spots, but did you know that a leopard had 365 spots on his coat – one for every day of the year? Now that’s a fact that not everybody is aware of. What about a leap year, you ask. Well, on the 29th of February, every four years, to find that extra spot, you just have to lift the leopard’s tail. And don’t ask me how I know, because I am not going to tell you.

Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?

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Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?
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Which food, when you eat it, instantly transports you to childhood?

That’s an easy one – diolch yn fawr / thank you very much – and the answer is Bara Lawr / laverbread of course.

What does laverbread taste like? I must thank Wikipedia for the answer below.

Welsh Laverbread (PDO) | Business Wales - Food and drink

Welsh Laverbread is made from cooked laver (seaweed) which has been plucked by hand from the Welsh coastline. It has a unique texture and salty flavour which provides a taste of the fresh, Welsh sea. Laver or Laver porphyra umbilicalis is the only seaweed which is only one cell thick.

And click on the link for a video from YouTube on the Traditional Welsh breakfast.

Laverbread could be found all around the Gower Peninsula in my childhood. When I was very young, you could buy it at Swansea Market for three pence a pound. Later, the price went up to sixpence a pound. When I lived in Cardiff, back in the early sixties, it sold at a pound per pound. Later, as the coast around Wales became more and more polluted, the sea weed had to be imported from the West of Ireland, and that certainly drove the price up – five pound a pound in the eighties.

But laverbread has two histories – the scientific / culinary one, and the personal one. Laverbread, on the plate, looks suspiciously like a cowpat. So much so, that when the cows visited the bungalow field where we had our summer home, the cowpats were called laverbread. “Don’t step in the laverbread, dear.”

Field rolling was a childhood joy. Start at the top of the slope and roll all the way down to the bottom. Born and bred in a laverbread field, we would plot our route between the patties before we rolled. Alas, our London cousins, with their cockney accents, were city and street wise, but not laver bread wise. Down the field they rolled, without looking, right through the laverbread patches. I leave the ensuing scene to you imaginations – and remember that the bungalow had no electricity in those early days, and no running water.

I remember the first day my beloved came to visit us at home. My mother served her fresh hot laverbread. Of course, she had never seen anything like it, except genuine Somerset cowpats. She picked around her food, left the laverbread on her plate until it cooled and – “Hold on a moment,” said my mother, “your laverbread’s cold. Here – I’ll warm it up for you.” Poor Clare. I am ashamed to say, I ate her helping while my mother was looking elsewhere – just devoured the extra portion, enjoying every moment, and Clare was so happy to see it disappear.

Here, in New Brunswick, while Clare was away one weekend, Becky and I decided to make laverbread from dulse. We followed the recipes and they worked. The laverbread was delicious – but – ah yes, there’s always a but – but the house stank of the sea shore at low tide and the first thing Clare said when she got home was – “What is that awful smell?”

I remember, opening a closet to get a clean shirt, about six weeks later, and that familiar whiff of the seashore immediately assaulted my nostrils. Alas, Becky and I love our laverbread, but -there’s that word again – but making it in our house long been banned.

How do you waste the most time every day?

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How do you waste the most time every day?
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How do you waste the most time every day?

Answering stupid questions like these – now that would be a great response. But there are other ways to waste time – like mousing around on the computer – some call it surfing, which sounds like fun – but acting like a mouse that’s chasing its own tail / tale, well, that is most surely a waste of time. Playing verbal cat and mouse games is a good way to go too.

Most devilish of all, sitting in a car, beside a lollipop person, who has just stepped out and stopped you from joining the car, ten yards ahead of you, that is now the last car in the latest convoy to be held up, while you are now the first car waiting to go next time. You sit, and sit, and wait.

Then – INSPIRATION – I turn my disc player on and lo and behold – Pete Seeger sings The Abraham Lincoln Brigade, from the Spanish Civil War. What’s special about that, you ask? Well, how about the chorus? – “No pasara’n! No pasara’n!” / “They shall not pass! They shall not pass!” sang the Abe Lincoln Brigade as the battle for Madrid thundered on. I open the car window, turn up the volume, bellowing it out loud while waiting to count the cars coming from the opposite direction.

It was a very long wait. And then the first of 109 cars, trucks, and various other vehicles appeared. Bored now with The Abraham Lincoln Brigade, I changed quickly to Viva la Quinta Brigada, kept the volume up high and “No Pasara’n! The pledge that made them fight” rang out as the official truck with its magic sign “Follow me!” crept up in front of me, turned, and started to crawl, snail mail style, down almost two kilometres of highway at 10 KPH.

When we got to the end of the road works, he turned into someone’s driveway, and I, and the next two cars behind me, followed him. I learned a few choice words to add to my vocabulary – “Like WTF do you think you are doing?” “It says follow me! on your truck.” I replied. ” I just did.” And off he went again on a long, four letter rant. Then, on foot, he stood in front of the convoy that had stalled anyway, now having nobody to follow, and guided his three black sheep out onto the road that led to freedom.

Well, that was an adventure and an absolutely total waste of time. As the court case will be, when I appear before the magistrate next week. Believe you me, if you believe all this, you would believe anything. And, congratulations, you have just successfully wasted another five minutes of your precious time and I have wasted ten of mine writing this piece.

Who do you spend the most time with?

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Who do you spend the most time with?
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Who do you spend the most time with?

My Teddies. I know, I know. Most of you will say “A Teddy Bear is not a real person. You can say what, but you can’t say who.” And most of you would be wrong. Teddy Bears are trained confessors – they listen to everything you tell them – in silence – and they never condemn you. They are a great comfort too, and are just as good and effective as a comfort dog. Also, they are very, very obedient. Tell your Teddy Bear to sit and wait, and s/he does, very patiently.

I sleep in the same room as my teddies. And since I am in that room for 8-10 hours almost every night, that doesn’t leave much time for spending with other people. Besides which, while Rose and Teddy, the big ones, Mother and Father Bear, so to speak, usually stay in the bedroom, while Basil Bear, the small pocket bear with the pink ribbon, often travels with me, in my pocket, and usually sits on the table with me at meal times and when I read and write.

And remember – Teddy Bears don’t eat your porridge, so you never have to look at your Teddy Bear and say “Who’s been eating My porridge?” I hate porridge, by the way, “Porridge, porridge, thin and brown, waiting for breakfast when I come down. They clean the table of every dish, eggs and bacon, cheese and fish. But however early, however late, porridge is always sure to wait.” Sometimes I wish my Teddy would devour my porridge, especially when it’s burnt. I wounder if I could train him?

Here’s Basil Bear, on the table with me, helping me to choose my wine. He reads the label, very carefully, and then tells me which one it is. Now that’s what a Care Bear does – cares for and looks after his human. And look at that Black Cat – I do think he’s envious of Basil, four green eyes filled with the light of jealousy. I hope he doesn’t scram my Basil – a gath wedi scrapo Basil fach.

I also talk to that friend , who always walks with me. As Antonio Machado says – “El que habla solo, espera hablar con Dios un dia.” “He who talks to himself hopes to talk to God one day.” Let’s hope that particular chat is delayed a little bit longer. I enjoy writing these prompts. So, happy thoughts, and may you all share a Teddy or two who really care.