Me and My Dog, Two Peas in a Pod

I can’t ignore it any longer. Me and my dog, we’re two peas in a pod. I am Olive. Olive is me.

It’s a well-known phenomenon that people and their dogs often look alike. There have been studies done. Real, live, sensible studies with proper funding. And, of course, there have been articles written, photos snapped. Just take a quick click HERE.

Are you back? Have you had a little look at yourself and your own dog, side-by-side in the bathroom mirror? Any surprises?

Thirty years ago, I was on a student exchange in the USA when I met the owner-dog look-alike of the century. The woman’s name was Hilary. (Not really. I’ve changed her name for privacy reasons.) The dog’s name was Meatball. (Really! I can’t bring myself to change his name for privacy reasons. It suited him perfectly!)

Let me just say, right here and now, that Hilary was a lovely woman - kind, warm, creative and hospitable. The fact that she was not attractive in a conventional way is no reflection upon her inner beauty or her sterling qualities as a hostess. It is merely to illustrate my point. Hilary was short and hefty of build. Her skin was very fair and her almost-white hair was closely cropped. Her eyes, large and friendly, sat wide apart and protruded a little.

No sooner had I arrived  and been warmly welcomed, than Hilary hollered at the top of her lungs, ‘MEATBALL!  MEATBALL! COME ON IN AND MEET OUR GUEST, MEATBALL!’

And Meatball came.

Meatball was a white bull terrier - short and hefty of build, with large, friendly, wide-set eyes that protruded a little.

I looked from Meatball to Hilary.

I looked from Hilary to Meatball.

I patted Meatball and decided to close my gaping mouth and keep my astonishment to myself. 

However, I digress. Because, in the case of me and Olive being two peas in a pod, I am not talking about looks. Olive is little and black and as skinny as a bean pole. I’m  tall and fair and - as my husband puts it so kindly - big-boned. I’d be chuffed if my appearance was more like that of my dog. It’d be fun to see my ribs beneath my skin … to have a trim, taut stomach that curved inwards rather than outwards … to have glutes so firm you could bounce a squash ball off them. But that’s Olive, not me. My physique is more Labrador than whippet. 

What I’m talking about is personality. Olive and I have become so much alike that it scares me ...and sort of thrills me! It's complicated.

First of all, Olive is not a morning dog. I have never been a morning dog - er,  person. I am a sit-up-late-at-night-then-sleep-until-mid-morning-person.  Olive gets it. She digs the late rise. So much so that, nowadays, she snuggles down into the blankets long after I’m up. On the rare occasions that my schedule demands an early morning rise, Olive is not amused. She stares down her nose at me with enormous contempt then goes back to sleep. 

'Leave me alooooone! It's too early!'

And then there’s the dark. Olive is freaked by it. I’m scared of the dark, too. And Olive fuels my fear. She regularly wakes at 1.30 am, slinks into the hallway, raises her hackles and snarls into the black unknown. I, of course, believe that my worst fears have materialised. There’s an intruder! This time there really truly is! Just look at the way the dog’s behaving!  Needless to say, Olive’s nightly routine does nothing to quell my fear of the dark.

Olive loves swimming. I love swimming. As long as the air’s warm. Our last whippet hated water but Olive will take a dip as long as there’s not a shower head or shampoo involved. We both adore the beach! 

 

Post-swim soggy doggy.

Olive and me, loving the beach together.

Olive loves it when friends visit. I also love my friends to visit. I walk out onto the veranda to greet my guests, voice high-pitched and loud, arms stretched out for a hug. Olive runs around in circles and does an excited little tinkle on their feet. It’s not quite the same thing, I know, but there is shared joy in spending time with the special people in our lives.

Exercise does not come naturally to Olive. What can I say, but ditto? I make myself go for a walk and lift weights every day, but it’s an effort. And now I am burdened with owning a dog who would rather slouch on the couch than sniff the footpaths and lampposts of the neighbourhood. 

Dogs are meant to inspire you to walk! Whippets are supposed to be runners! Not mini-me. 

Some days I have to drag Olive outside.  Some days she comes willingly, but then, two blocks along, she nudges my leg and gives me that look that means, ‘Enough. It's too hot. Let’s go home and have a treat.’ And sometimes, I’m ashamed to say, we do!

And so there you have it. Olive and me - two peas in a pod. We are the friendly, light-loving lounge lizards of the owner-dog world.

How are you and your dog alike?

Oh my goodness! I was just about to post this when I realised how similar my nose is to Olive's - long and thin!!!! I'm Whippet Woman!

FOR A SPOT OF READING ON THE DOG-OWNER LOOK-ALIKE PHENOMENON, CLICK HERE AND HERE.

Jane Austen, Lorraine Marwood and Me.

 Jane Austen, Lorraine Marwood and me. What a gang! We’re as thick as thieves. And I’ve gotta tell you, I’m feeling pretty good about it. We’re the ducks guts of writing trios. With our combined talents the sky’s the limit!

Jane Austen. Hardly needs an introduction. She’s my hero, the writer whose work I can come back to, year after year, and still laugh, gasp and gush like it’s the very first time my eyes slipped over her words. And, of course, I’m hardly alone in my admiration. She’s been wowing readers for centuries.

 Lorraine Marwood. Also barely needs an introduction. Award winning children’s author, poet and all round lovely lady who makes a mean shortbread bickie and has a smile that brightens your day.  I've just read her book, Rat Whiskers and Me, a verse novel set on the goldfields. What a work of art! A new fave.

And then there’s me. If you’re reading this blog, you probably know who I am. Yes. I’m the commoner of the writing trio, the turkey pretending to be a peacock.

So how do we do it? I know you’re wondering. Lorraine and me, doing the writing thing together, that’s not such a stretch. After all, we’re both writers and we live just half an hour’s drive apart. Easy peasy. But Jane Austen? She may be a writer but she doesn’t live nearby. She doesn’t even live. Hasn’t for a looooong time - two hundred years to be exact.

This is how we do it:

Lorraine and I have been working our way through the exercises in this book. It’s wonderful. Written by Jane Austen’s five-times-great-niece, The Jane Austen Writer’s Club  analyses the great Jane’s  writing, shares snippets from her novels and lists a number of exercises to help mere mortals work towards an Austenian level of brilliance. Nothing like aiming for the stars!

Evidence that we have been hard at work.
 Books, pens, notes, coffee, tea, bickies,
chocolate - all the important writing tools
together in the one place!

Together, Jane, Lorraine and I are learning new stuff and having a hoot of a time. (Well, Lorraine and I are. The two-hundred-years-dead thing might be limiting Jane a little nowadays in the learning stakes … and in the jollity department.)

But, most of all, the JAWC exercises have confirmed a truth that I have always known, but one which it is important to remember often: There is magic in writing.

Every time I have written a passage for one of the exercises from this book, I have found myself discovering hitherto unknown things about my characters and setting. Writing brings the story to life. Of course I have a whole range of ideas already, but the physical act of writing  (typing or handwriting) sets those ideas free and makes them blossom. Characters dance forward and reveal more of themselves than I could ever imagine without a pen in my hand. Towns draw me in, leading me down their cobbled streets, inviting me to peep  through windows and creep through doors that have been left ajar. Conversations that were a dull muffling in the background, grow loud and clear and reveal schemes and dreams and horrible secrets. It’s astonishing! 

Imagining, daydreaming and planning is so very important when creating a story. 

But writing is truly magic.

Especially when done on a mild summer's morning with Jane Austen, Lorraine Marwood and a nice cup of tea. 

Lorraine Marwood and me.
Jane is not a fan of the selfie.

For those of you who prefer your Jane Austen on the screen:

This  BBC production of Pride and Prejudice is fabulous - and this trailer has a teensy taste of that dishy scene where  Mr Darcy dives in the pond! 

For more information on Lorraine Marwood and her work, click here.

The Chick Pea Dream

The other night, I dreamt I was lying on a bed of chick peas. 

I know! 

It was disturbing. 

Why couldn’t I be swimming through a pool of melted chocolate, or burrowing through the middle of a giant éclair?!

Chick peas!

What does it mean?

What on earth is wrong with me?

I pondered these big questions for some time and, then, it dawned on me. 

It’s a sign. 

A sad sign. 

A sign that I’m getting old. 

Common sense is replacing passion and danger. 

Even in my dreams.

I remember the days when I used to dream that I could fly or conquer an army or save my entire family from an erupting volcano. There might even have been a cameo appearance from Tom Selleck or a hazelnut gateau. 

 

But now, my dreams have been reduced to dreary, protracted episodes where I’m running late for an appointment because I can’t put my trousers on straight. Or worse still, they’re just full of chick peas. (The dreams, not the trousers!)

Nothing says ‘old lady’ like a dream about chick peas. 

Unless it’s a dream about prunes ….

But it gets worse. A deeper look at my life revealed more tell-tale signs that I am moving further and further away from a youthful attitude to life. Here are the most troubling:

Shoes. My top priority when shopping for shoes has become comfort. Gone are the days when a fine patent leather stiletto-heeled pump will win out over a sturdy walking boot with a padded arch and good  ankle support. My current faves are brown suede and not so very different from the desert boots my brother used to wear in the ‘70s. Comfy? You bet! Stylish? Let’s just say that they’re the chickpeas of the shoe kingdom…

Coffee. I limit my coffee intake. If I don’t, I can’t sleep at night. I also have trouble sleeping if I eat dinner too late, watch something exciting on TV after 9 pm, use the wrong pillow  or have an early appointment in the morning. I have, of course, become my grandmother - by which I mean my grandmother at 90.

The Cinema. I look for early movie showings at the cinema. It’s even better if it’s one of those bargain showings that only cost $11. And I don’t like all that new-fangled CGI sci-fi stuff that youngsters are watching nowadays.

Tippling. I enjoy a tipple of sherry. Just the cheap stuff that sits at the back of the pantry in case I want to make trifle. Actually, the fact that I always have a bottle of sherry on hand for making trifle is, in itself, a bit of an old lady thing ... and, perhaps, the fact that I use the word 'tipple'.

Inspector Barnaby. I think he’s a kind and decent man and was thrilled to learn that a new season of ‘Midsomer Murders’ was beginning last Sunday - although I was careful to record it rather than watch it in real time because the excitement would have kept me awake all night!

So there you have it. 

I’m no longer a spring chicken. 

The proof is in the pudding ... or the trifle.

Although, I’m sure I had you convinced at the chickpeas.

What signs of ageing are creeping into your life?

Do share!

Take a squiz at this:
Just in case Tom Selleck has deserted your dreams, too, here's a short blast from the past.

Blind Love ... of a Book

Today’s confession … er blog … is about books. 

I love books.

I hope you read those words aloud, luxuriating in them so they came out as, ‘I LOOOOOVE BOOKS!’  

And, at the same time, you will have pictured me fluttering my eyelashes and fanning my face with both hands while bluebirds swooped and twittered around my head.

Yes, I love books with a capital O. 
O is for OBSESSIVELY.

And the obsession grows with every passing year.

                                                                                               

The other day, a friend told me that she was about to read Winnie the Pooh for the very first time. Winnie the Pooh! I almost swooned with envy. What a delicious, warm, fuzzy, scrummy surprise she was in for. Nothing in literature compares to the world centred around 100 Aker Wood, where we experience the sweetness of Piglet, the ignorant wisdom of Owl, the gloom of Eeyore and the toe-curling cuteness of Pooh. 

But even as I write this, a little bit of fear is creeping in. What if my friend isn't charmed? What if she finds Winnie the Pooh ho-hum? What if she ... I can barely even bring myself to type the words ... What if she doesn't even make it to the end?

How will I ever look her in the eye again? 

How will I keep myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her back and forth until her teeth rattle, shouting, ‘WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!!”

And there, my dear friend, lies the crux of the issue and the core of today's confession/blog. When I love a book - I mean truly LOOOOVE a book - I find myself feeling irrationally protective. 
And it's affecting my book life. Deeply. I've stopped lending novels willy-nilly (and I love willy-nilly lending!). I hesitate to ask people's opinions on my deepest literary loves (and I love discussing my love for my literary loves!). 

I'm more than happy for you to think differently from me about politics, religion, art, exercise, child-rearing and the ideal amount of cake to eat for breakfast. But if you tell me that you didn't really like a book that I have loved and adored, I’m devastated.

Horrified.
Traumatised.

I want to weep.
I want to clutch the abused novel to my chest and rock it soothingly back and forth.
How can you not dote on this beautiful creation? The author has worked so hard to produce a masterpiece and now you are telling me that you:

     a) skimmed over the middle ten chapters.

     b) didn’t get past page 30.

     c) tore it to shreds and tossed it in the compost bucket.

Why don’t you just stick a dagger in my heart and twist it around?

I know.  It makes me sound a tad special (or a whole heap of bonkers).

But there you go. 

That's what I've become.

So before my family and friends stage an intervention, I am going to take the first step to recovery. It might not seem like much, but it's a biggy for me. I am going to lay my heart on the line and tell you about my latest passion …

The Little Paris Bookshop, by Nina George.

Oh my goodness! This book has it all ... in my opinion. (See how I did that? It hurt, but I did it.) 

It makes me laugh. 

It makes me cry. 

It makes me long to pick up a pen and write beautiful words. It’s a story of love, loss, friendship, renewal, life, death, literature and a fable-like journey down the river. 

And it’s set in France - Paris to Provence!!! Ooh la la! Doesn’t it sound delicious?

However ... GULP ... feel free to give me your honest opinion about this book. Even if it is not the same as mine.

Just be gentle when you break the news to me.

Very gentle.

And maybe accompany the message with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers … and a darned good, water-tight reason as to why you don’t think it’s brilliant.

Here are a few delectable quotes from The Little Paris Bookshop.

Just to whet your appetite.
Not to sway you.

Well maybe …

He sold books by weight to anyone under fourteen: two kilos for ten euros.

Aren’t we running at a loss?’ asked Max.

Perdu shrugged his shoulders. ‘Financially speaking, yes. But it’s well-known that reading makes people impudent, and tomorrow’s world is going to need some people who aren’t shy to speak their minds, don’t you think?’ 

and... 

The reality of love is better than its reputation. 

and this gem, right at the end of the novel ...

Jean Perdu sits in the farmhouse’s summer kitchen …writing in his Great Encyclopaedia of Small Emotions: A Guide for Booksellers, Lovers and Other Literary Pharmacists.

He is making an entry under K: 'Kitchen solace - the feeling that a delicious meal is simmering on the kitchen stove, misting up the windows, and that at any moment your lover will sit down to dinner with you and, between mouthfuls, gaze happily into your eyes. (Also known as living.)’