Interesting Times

When in doubt about as to what to call the latest blog episode - consider the above.
Usually works.

I'm writing this at home, when normally, I'd be at Mass.
But Don Santiago (who is a saint!) is off burying yet another old neighbour in Ledigos, or, Legartos, or Terradillos de los Templarios, or wherever.

As a result, no Mass in Moratinos.
No back-up priest..
Yes, we could drive to Sahagun, or somewhere.
But we didn't.
And we won't, if this kind of thing goes on.
At least, I won't. I'll just quit.
Reb might not.
Up to her. She's accused of being "Protestant" anyway, so what the heck?

So, instead of, as normal -  singing a hymn with the same melody as, "Blowin' In The Wind," I'm at home in The Peaceable contemplating what a friend of mine on Fleet Street - (of all places) - was wont to call, "The Eternal Verities." That is to say, stuff.

And I'm doing it sitting out on the newly-built terrace... (sounds poncey, for sure, but that's just what it is)... naked to the waist ! - that's how sunny it is!

Which nudity is no sin, as nobody, except the dogs and cats and canary and wife, can be appalled by the hideous sight.
(Otherwise, it would be a very grave one, indeed.)

So, what deep thoughts do I have to share with my reader? One.
For some time now, I have been debating with myself why on earth I even bother beating my head endlessly against the wall of CP&S.

But then, "Out of the blue" (like 9/11/2001) a post, or polemic, or whatever we might care to call it - arrives, stating in no uncertain terms - that the Catholic martyrs of the "Reformation" were without exception - fantastically noble, brave, and superb.

And, as well as I know, they might have been.

But then, the story goes on to emphasise, in no uncertain terms - that the Protestant martyrs were a bunch of craven, snivelling, cursing, cringing  cowards.

And, as well as I know, they also might have been.

Who really knows?

And, critically, what's the point in making the distinction?
Glory?
Gloating?
Whatever, as a result, for me,  the crucial point here was - that as long as such utterly scurrilous bits of nonsensensical gibberish like this -  are being  run on CP&S, I feel I have a moral obligation to comment on them.

And that not to do so would be a sin on my part.

So, for all those who find me, (as I do myself ) a tedious old windbagging bore - my apologies.

But, nevertheless,  I will hang in there until the "Management"
says "Enough, Toad. You have gone too far this time."

Because "Too far," is where I have decided to hang my hat.

Bad News for News

El Pais, which I regard as the world's best newspaper, has just laid off 106 of its staff.
This is a devastating blow for the journalists involved, and gloomy news for me.
I had somehow thoughtlessly imagined that Pais was doing OK.
Wrong.
What I like about Pais is not only its appearance and content, but the fact that, if - for example - Neitzsche is mentioned in an article, it is assumed that the reader knows who he is, and doesn't need an explanation.

It seems the days of newspapers, that is news on paper, really are numbered. 
Information comes quicker, easier, and - above all - cheaper off the web.

Of course newspapers have no more right to survive indefinitely than did steam trains or typewriters.

But it is sad.

And how fortunate I was during my time.

Swings, Roundabouts

Well, some things are looking up. And the weather is nice. Swept the front yard today, 12th November, stripped to the waist, in the sunshine.
An obscene sight, but witnessed by nobody, thanks to the comforting and protecting eight-foot wall round The Peacable.

Anyway, Murph got out of Tim's bed yesterday, walked upstairs and climbed onto a chair in Reb's office.
Single-handed. (well, single-pawed, well, four-pawed.)
So that's promising.

Mo, apart from his hacking cough, seems fine. He's a good and interesting cat, and  will come when he's called, just like a dog.
I once had a cat that used to come on walks with me and our dog. Maybe Mo might join El Equipo A. We shall see.
Mo comes on command like some dogs, anyway.
But not all.
Two of mine are apt to behave differently; Lulu and Harry.

When all six of us set out for our morning walkies, for about the first half-hour everything is hunky-dory. L. and H., when released from their leads, straightaway do their morning business, then proceed to trot obediently just behind me, side -by-side as though they were on an obedience test  -  as if butter woudn't melt in their arses.
They then have a terrific, full speed race in circles around me, shouting and laughing and showing off like crazy.
But after that, I have to watch their body language minutely.
This is the tricky bit. Because they stare off at the horizon, then, as if at an unheard command, trot briskly away out of sight together.
And can stay out of sight for several hours. The current record is five.

No point calling them back when they do this. They just blow.

The solution, so far, is to judge when they are still thinking about it, then put one of them on the lead.
The other will zoom off, even vanish, from time to time, but won't go far, and will often return when called.

So, it's not so bad. Much pleasanter than being held upside down by one's heels, and having lighted matches dropped down one's nose. Much.

Chaos and Night

The headline's nothing much to do with this blog, but it's the title of a book of which I'm fond.

Although it's vaguely appropriate here as things, while not actually chaotic, are currently a bit difficult.

Both cats are not well, Murph still hardly moving after his accident, and Mo, since having his balls cut off, has developed a king of choking cough, as if he had something stuck in his throat.
A vet friend says this is not uncommon, and he'll be all right if we can get his pills down his throat.
Then Tim seems tired and short of energy, and as if his back legs are bothering him, which they probably are as he's ben diagnosed with arthritis. He can't jump up into the car any more. Needs a lift.

Just the normal tribulations of a family, I suppose.
And Reb off in Leon talking to nuns about holiness and pilgrims and such.

Meanwhile, the gloom is encricling, and the rain falls sporadically.
And the floor is covered with paw and foot prints.

And the barn floor is covered with dog poo, though I suppose it's unlikely to be covering the ceiling.

Things could be worse. Mitt might have won.
Plus Bob and the chucks, and Lulu, Harry and  Bella are in rude good health.
Bit too rude, at times.

Small Mercies

Obama's somewhat shakey win was, if nothing else, the least worst result to be contemplated.

In fact, "nothing else," is probably exactly what sums it up. Still.

Goodness, didn't it get nasty on FaceBook these last few weeks!

It was so vicious that Toad, (that's me) at times, imagined he was back in Fleet Street, listening to people accusing one another of  modifing their (generally Northern) accents  in hope of advancement. Although the language on FB was consoderably more moderate.

It has to be admitted though, that Toad himself was one of the culprits.
He shamefully and mercilessly persecuted a relatively  innocent young lady on the slender grounds that she was (he suspected) racially antagonistic to Mr. President.

Still, the die is cast, the jig is up, the bitter harvest has been reeped.(Reeped Wrept? Wreaped? Can any of those be right?) the cup has been drained to the dregs, Democracy has been run up the flagpole and duly saluted. Not least the cliches have all been exhausted. We hope. Anyway...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hYIC0eZYEtI

As a tonic counterblast to the general mindless cheerfulness, here is the blessed George, above. Telling it like it is.

Like it really is.

A Day at the Doc

The rest of this is very boring and personal. So...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxsEYFYgkZo


Yesterday, Monday, was  spent almost exclusively on medical premises.

At 9 a.m. the missus and I presented ourselves at Villada Health Centre for blood tests, EKG's, Flu shots, and dispute about our current medical status in Spain. All went reasonably reasonably.

Back home then, with just time for a quick dogwalk, then at 11 a.m. me off to see Dr. Tomas in town about my hacking cough.
Apparently, it's my own fault for being a hack for 40 years. (Not!)  And my new health card might be wrong, being it seems, for one of the remaoining handful of Spain's gainfully employed, rather than for a crumbly jubilado.

Back home then, for lunch of left-overs, and a siesta.

Then, at 3.30 p.m. in the car with Reb and 28% of our cats and dogs - Mo to have his balls cut off, and Bella to have her stitches taken out - at the University of Leon Medical Faculty.

Cheque book at the ready as always.
"Don't look at the money as expense," I told her, (Reb, that is, not Bella) "Look at it this way: We give the department generous donations every month or so, and then they treat all the Furry Fools for free."

While all this "ambulancing" is going on, Murphy is very slowly recovering from his latest attempt at Trying Conclusions With The Maelstrom, which is a poncey way of saying being run over by a car for a second time.

Progresss is not as quick as we would like. He's sitting up but not moving around hardly at all. We are worried about his legs. So, off with him to the Vet in Sahagun again tomorrow.
Cheque book at the ready.
And, possibly later, back the 50-odd miles to Leon, where they do X-Rays.

Murph: Progress report

As of 6 a.m. Moratinos time, Murphy is still alive, conscious and showing small but encouraging, signs of recovery.
He has started eating small ammounts again, and has "been to the bathroom" in a modest way during the night.

Thought you should know that.

Better still, he has started to complain loudly - as is his custon - from time to time.
A plausible cause for guarded optimism.
And he is moving around a bit, not much, but some.

There may be further bulletins later. Stand by!