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Posts Tagged ‘sylvan’

My (brief) Film Career

Well. Even briefer than I thought. This site does not allow ‘this type of file’ to be uploaded ‘for security reasons’ so, unless you are a Facebooker, you may never see my refulgent pulchritudinousness in movie form. Ever. I can only hope you are all (all six of you) strong enough to bear up under such disappointment.

A couple of weeks ago fpu was out at Cambo to see the snødrops and asked camera-savvy daughter of accompanying friends which was the video setting on digicam. Being now au fait as it were (though the editing is more miss than hit due to a lack of intuition) naturally I was the first subject to be committed to fillum. (ed. No you weren’t, that was the strangely beguiling art installations in Cambo outbuildings).

As I was saying before being so rudely interrupted, I was almost the first subject to be committed to fillum, being rudely usurped by a container of rattling snailshells, some clanking hanging bits of pottery and a load of metal pipes with water playing over them. For which aberration I can find no sensible explanation whatsoever, which sentiment I am sure you will endorse to a purrson!! Well you will if you know what’s good for you…

So here are a few Spring pics taken in Rolling Ells last week. Not nearly so enticing I know, but needs must.

Marmers would like you to know that his tail is healing nicely and, where was purreviously a HOLE, is now a tiny red dot, disappearing rather like a slow-mo version of the old telly black spot.

The weather has been very disappointing lately, and the outdoor jumble sale for the Reaper yesterday in Anster resulted in frozen fingers and toes and damp stuff, even with the shelter of the open boatshed doors.

Would it be too much to ask the bloody sun to shine more than three times this month, here on the sunny side of Old Scotia?

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This was all so before my time, in kitty terms it is purractically Purrehistoric…

Long ago and far away, in a land where the trees never shed their leaves, where the snow never falls and the rain is so warm it’s like taking a shower with your clothes on, there lived and became a small Family.

But, before the family bit became and be-was, there were Cats (and after too, obviously).

Firstly and only for a very short while – due to a pack of yellow-eyed slavering feral dogs which ran in the night-time – there was Half’a’Guinness, a small feisty black kitten. This is him…

He loved his heggs did little Guinness.

Then there was Cobweb. Being a Siamese (though not quite as Pure as she ought to be) she had Purretensions and Temperament. Her bipeds were returning to Blighty and couldn’t take her with them, mostly due to the Temperament, but also the cost of air-freighting and quarantineing, so she became companion to little Arfa and looked down her nose at him, mostly…

This is her…

After the Dogs That Killed in the Night Time, it became known on the grapevine (or pussibly any old vine – stick a twig in the ground and it would grow like Jack’s Beanstalk) that Cobweb’s nevvy was looking for a Good Home, so along came a tiny black kitten which was named Squirrel…

And this is him…

Rather in the way of Marmers, Cobweb became the ‘stremely irritatin’ one and Squirrel, like me, the Most Dearly Beloved.

When it became time for the Family, which had now become Four instead of Two, to return also to Blighty, Cobweb fell on all her four paws and found a home with an ancient Australian lady called Dorothy, who spoke to her as if she were at least a Duchess, and fussed over her such that the pu’s had to stifle their grins behind their hands, for Lady Cobweb had never been spoken to in such gushing tones before: Dorothy fed her on roast chicken and vitamin pills and she throve into old age.

Alas for Squirrel, the Siamese part of his Temperament made him flee from his would-be adopters and he disappeared into the Jungle, never to be seen again…

Thus ends the tale of the First Cats.

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This is a gentle blog: there will be no terrifying things, no horrifying things and no wee corpses. that’s not to say there haven’t been any, just that this is an Autumn Ramble, meant to sooth, calm and relax the viewer.

No snoozing at the back there!

So, anyway, I set off on a ramble around my locale (as the estate agents will have it) having left my deceptively spacious home (ditto) in a much sought-after-seldom-to-market pocket (likewise) last weekend, leaving bb1 In Charge.

I decided to Poison The Pigeons in The Park first. It was a tad disappointin’ to find they were mostly ducks and black-headed gulls without their black heads with not a pigeon in sight, but fpu explained that pigeons don’t swim…so that was alright.

those ducks had backbone (well obviously, they’re vertebrates:-) because I wouldn’t like to have tangled with all those skrekkin’ things with ‘stremely sharp beaks!

aren’t they tasty cutesy!

sensible duckies head towards the Source of Bread, leaving the melee behind

After feeding the plump duckies and skrekkin’ things, I set off along the Prom-tiddly-om-pom

some of the many marina boats hauled up for the winter

Broughty Ferry

rustle-rustle-rustle-swish

four trees

it’s got eight legs, it’s black, is it the Giant Pidey of Destiny? Nope…it’s the battered brolly of experience:-)

playing fields

the Giant Cupcakes of Ferryport

so…you go left on a red bicycle, right on a green one, right to pee and right to travel til foots

so who worked it out?

swansdown

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‘Hear and attend and listen; for this befell and behappened and became…the wildest of all the wild animals was the Cat. He walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.’ As that very Great of writers, Mr Rudyard Kipling, said.

But…sometimes, what with centuries of domestication and a Purrticular Attachment, you will find a Cat that Walks Together, as it were, oh Dearly Belovèd. And that Cat is me.

One sunny Friday – it may well have been yesterday for all days these days are alike to me – the fpu bethought herself to take the mpu for a short walk along and beside the rushing burn.

‘Nenni,’ said I, ‘I am the Cat that walks by himself, and all places are alike to me. But…I will go all the same.’

I’m not quite sure about this, but I really really want to be with you two…

…but I just need a little reassurance that all will be well in this Strange Place, so I will roll over and expose my fluffy tum.

Feeling a bit more confident with this Not Walking Alone, I flew over the rushy water into the nearest Wet Wild Tree and squeakled madly like one does. The parental units strolled on…

…it takes a moment to fly back out of a Wet Wild Tree, so I got a bit behind…

…but caught up when mpu had a wee sit-down, not for always and always, but for long enough…

…just to reassure him that it was safe beside the rushing burn…

…then we came upon the Bridge Over Rushy Burn and they one to the other said, “He’ll never follow us over the bridge,” so, of course, I did, for I am the Cat That Walks Together and all places are alike to me…

…though by this time I was quite hoping we might be turning back…

“May we purrlease turn back now,” I mewed; politely of course, for I am nothing if not a polite kitty.

And so we did, Dearly Belovèd. We turned back, I waving my wild tail, but not walking by my wild lone, for I am the Cat That Walks Together.

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Look at these poor suffering prisoners! Immured at Cambo House near Crail, their lot in Liff is Hard Labour day in, day out. Their poor snouts are worn to the gristle with digging roots shoots and leaves. Their never-ending task – to clear weed-knotted ground of brambles, dockens, hogweed, creeping buttercup, bishop weed (or ground elder, depending on your foot orientation) and other nasties.

They need your support and sympathy!

Free The Tamworth Two!

mpu is sixty-two

happy birthday mpu

DISCLAIMER: No resemblance between an mpu and a pig is intended or implied in any way whatsoever.

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Exhaustion is settin’ in…my wee paws are tippy-tappied into calluses with all this bloggin’. I think I may be suffering from blogghorrea. If there is a cure, someone tell me quick, or it may be a one-way ticket to Liff for KC!

So, anyway…let me take you down/’cause I’m going to/Falkland in Fife/everything’s real and nothing to get hung about/Falkland in Fife forever…

Scotland’s Garden Scheme – Open Gardens is hastening towards the end of its year, and a jolly good one it has been too, though we had to miss Crail in July because of a Very Special Occasion, involving royal blue silk, red envelopes and cupcakes. Only one or two to go…

Last weekend was Falkland’s turn to open its garden gates for charity  and we managed to visit 10/11 before flagging in the heat.

Nobly avoiding the temptations of the Bruce’s beer garden…

This is how Open Gardens welcome in the visitors (and stop people getting lost) – you get a map too, but don’t for heaven’s sake, let fpu loose with a map. Round, like a circle in a spiral/Like a wheel within a wheel/Never ending or beginning. You get the picture. Mpu gets the map.

My favourite three coincidentally involved resident cats, two happy and one in a bit of a huff, “because people have been bringing dogs into her garden” and quite right too. I know how that feels! Poor Poppy…

This is she and that’s her garden…

Steeply terraced, Poppy’s garden has everything, from a hammock, to a Shady Grove, to a Mediterranean sit-ootery, cleverly made from a ruined cottage.

Then there was Ginger’s garden (I’m awfully sorry that no-one thought to ask Ginger’s name, as usual, I blame the Staff)…there’s ‘Ginger’ posing like a pro…

and this is his (or pussibly, her, though you know what they say about ginger kitties and look at my mate Marmers) outdoor residence…

It’s not real you know. They don’t usually wear shades…

You can see why Ginger was so relaxed – nae Dugs Aloud:-)

Purrobably the most favourite was B&W Kitty’s happy home, as it was so colourful, varied and made such good use of every available nook and cranny. It also supplied endless entertainment for a feline, as you will see…

Henaria Callas gien it laldy

Dinner-dipper, admirably placed to allow cataccess.

Is it edible? Can I muster the henergy to give it a nibble?

Nah, cannie be ersed, I’ll just do ubercute instead.

I may have conflated a couple of gardens in the interests of artistic licence, but never let the truth get in the way of a good story line, I say.

There was a visit to Wormistoune House earlier in the summer, but it missed the bloggin’ boat, so here’s a Slide Show. It may be a bit repetitious in places as I got scunnered with the down/uploading and editing thingie after several eons. Just regard it as moving wallpaper. I know I do…

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That Jeelie, she’s just moitherin‘ me to put her Pride&Joy into my blog again, and it a mere dug too! Well, don’t say I’m not good to you is all. Bloody dugs comin’ in here and takin’ up purrecious space…mutter, mutter, mutt…

So anyway, there he goes, off into Butterfly Heaven, trot-trot-trot, through the Meadowsweet, without a care in the world…

But not for long, because he wants to know what the rest of us are doing (well to be strickly honest like I always am, I wasn’t actually there, but they told me all about it afterwards, like)

“Well come on then,” sez he, “Let’s get a move on – things to see, smells to smell and so on…”

So they did. And so did he…

Sometimes he was just a blur…unless you’d rather blame Her-in-Charge of Catcam, but I wouldn’t if I were you…

Now, me’n’Marmers really really get this bit. This is Interestin’ Smells of Somethin’ or Other. It might be a Woozle…

Then again, it might just be a dug’s mammy and nuncle…

Me’n’Marmers had to stifle a bit of a snortygiggle at this one…poor poor Paddy, hobbled by Sticky Willie! (Paddy’s mammy would like you to know that white bit in the middle is a front paw and not one of those distant memories that some of us have…it’d be quite impurrressive if it was:-)

Freed from bondage, Paddy trots off towards the light and more butterfly clouds…

That without which a walk is but a poor poor thing indeed…

Back in CookieCutterCott and inexplicably attached to mpu’s slippered foot. We purrefer laps ourselves, but it is a dug after all….

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