It started with a kiss

Is Sammy the thin end of our wedge?

As you might have gathered from the last couple of weeks, I’ve taken a break from all things climate armageddon. My inbox, which neatly organises mail by subject currently stands at 247 unread under the heading of climate. Lots of really good journalists with well written pieces on so many worthy issues with dire consequences if we don’t do something now. Typically the scientific community reporting the facts is met by cloth-eared power-mongers who either ignore the evidence or try and play nice by pandering with weak, watered down nothingness - did they even listen?

Case in point, what does the lily-livered Kier Starmer (UK Labour party leader) think he’s doing?

I could write the whole of this week’s piece on my feelings about the green new deal u-turn, but more talented journos than me have already dissected and nuanced the shit out of that pathetic decision. What was a vote winner, a new leaf of hope and optimism, a breath of fresh air after the sleaze and corruption of recent times is now regarded as political weakness, ready for exploitation come election time.

Back to my break from climate catastrophe, cup of camomile being sipped peacefully in hand.

Photo by Thom Milkovic on Unsplash

One reason to write about anything else is because I want a break and I’m hoping that you do to. I also want to try and find my writing muscle. When you read a typical piece of mine over the last two years ago, they all follow a similar pattern. I research a subject, think about it, dig some more, hopefully include some original thought, publish. If I wanted to be a science writer, I would happily continue down this road, jauntily whistling some catchy tune. I don’t, hence the crossroads and wringing of hands.

You might have come across the quote, everybody has a book in them? The full quote, attributed to Christopher Hitchens, an American journalist, is far funnier and meaningful, everybody has a book in them, but in most cases that’s where it should stay.

Hmm and there’s the problem, hence why I’m on a quest to find some muscle. It’s also time to put up or shut-up and if I can’t find that strength, only a weak, feeble, flabby excuse for one, I quit.

Rightly or wrongly, a memoir is where I begin and while I have lots of words written from pandemic times, I don’t have a book yet. Don’t worry. This does not mean I expect you to read my ramblings, although perhaps the odd share when I’ve hit a roadblock, your thoughts gratefully received. It might also prove useful when this weekly letter is nowhere to be seen on a Thursday afternoon and I need to publish tomorrow.

Last Sunday, I was woken by the pitter patter of tiny feet at 8:30am on the lounge floor above me. We live in an upside down house. We don’t lie in on Sunday, no more than any other day, so this wasn’t early and I wasn’t feeling grumpy or hard done by. In fact, I had a broad grin on my face because someone was upstairs and it wasn’t me or Mrs H.

That noise represents change. Our lives are pivoting and we’re on the cusp of something else.

To be clear the feet weren’t actually feet. They were the puppy paws of a Staffordshire bull terrier called Sammy who belongs to Georgie, daughter #1 and her fiancé, Joe, their engagement announced just before Christmas. They rarely stay because they live in London, but they’d been out partying and we were dog sitting. I don’t think they got in particularly late, but to see them both sitting on the sofa at 8:30 on a Sunday morning was indeed a revelation to us and presumably a complete nightmare for them. Here endeth that lesson, being up for someone else when you’d really rather not be.

The sleep deprivation phase is about 4 weeks in now. Fortunately, Sammy has not been a slouch grasping what is expected. Her sleep pattern is improving and order once again restored to the bedroom, as her crate (where she sleeps) slowly moves, step by step further away.

But young live wires consider 7:30am (probably earlier) to most definitely be a very good time to be up and at it, enjoying the delights of a new day’s play and discovery.

When we still had Pogo, I never understood why we met more than one or two dog walkers, mostly young mothers, with an umbilically connected lead to some fancy perambulator cocooning a baby. I realise that the dog is some sort of stress test on the relationship, make sure the young family can cope with needy dependent number one (the dog), but why burden yourselves, two, three maybe five years or more before you need to? The lack of sleep is short lived and only a small taste of the real deal. Dogs are not babies, they’re a lot smarter and before long can be left on their own and normal busy lives resume for a large part unchanged. They’re still dependent but needs are easily understood and can be satisfied without stressing.

But Georgie grew up with Pogo which makes a difference and she has us nearby enough, still grateful to have a dog touch our lives once again.

Back to that life pivot I mentioned. Next weekend Mrs H is off to view a wedding venue with the happy couple. Guess who’s got the dog? And then we have daughter #2, Martha, waiting in the wings with long term boyfriend, Toby. They already rent together and are now planning to purchase. Thankfully, daughter #3, Iona has decided to travel next, freely admitting that this is part of her career avoidance strategy.

It reminds me of planes lining up at Heathrow, all on final approach preparing to disembark their passengers, all neatly stacked a few minutes apart.

It’s very clear what’s happening and it all started with a cute little lady called Sammy.

For the record, we have a blended family of 5 children, 3 girls and 2 boys. The boys (no longer teenagers either and with partners) clearly count just as much but I was reluctant to keep making the same point. Plus neither of them have ever mentioned children, the girls have been known to openly discuss their plans. Gulp.