Suspirium

I’ve loved listening to this wonderfully fragile, simple offering from Thom Yorke for the past few weeks, now. (Yes, it’s on this Spotify playlist.) So I was obviously delighted to find this live performance for 6Music on Youtube.

I know not all my readers enjoy my musical posts (although, reasonably, how could you not love this piece?), but I do have clear evidence that there are others who do enjoy a break from the endless words on here (including me), and thus they are here to stay.

Tomorrow’s post is about music, but isn’t actually music, which will probably suitably alienate both parties.

Sundaze

The good news is that we survived yesterday. And in actual fact, the whole thing was a huge success. A hot, sweaty, dusty success, but a success nevertheless.

The slightly worse news is that today is very nearly almost as warm. For the most part, I’ve been hiding inside next to a panting beagle, but parental duties called and thus I find myself writing this from a local trampoline park warehouse. This is essentially just a big metal box in the sun, full of people physically exerting themselves, and their air-con maintenance leaves a lot to be desired.

It’s basically just like a huge public sauna with neon rubber rugs and a hefty deep house soundtrack.

Kinky.

That comparison having been made, it should be noted that my favourite thing to do when I get out of a sauna is have a massive bottle of Milk Stout.

Or two.

And I see no reason to change things just because there’s not a copious amount of pine or a guy called Lars involved here.

Think of me.

Today is school fête day. It’s Founders Day and it’s the school’s 20th anniversary, so they’re quite rightly pushing the boat out a bit. I’m helping to run the Scone Stall. I’m happy to be part of the celebration.

A quick aside: Do you say scone or scone?
I know that a lot of people say scone, but I was brought up saying scone.

I think either way works. We’ll manage.

We have a million* scones (scones?) in our kitchen ready to go. I bought loads of squirty cream last night and the cashier nodded at me knowingly and winked as she wished me a pleasant evening. I guess that she’s probably a huge scone (scone?) fan too.

Scones (scones?) are an essential part of any school fête day.
It’s a tradition. It’ll be great.

There’s just one problem. This:

I’m going to be standing outside in this ridiculous heat. (But at least we’re not in Vredendal, hey?)
35°C is not conducive to scone (scone?) purchase and eating. But the soft drinks stall is going make a KILLING. (Not literally.)

And my squirty cream is going to go floppy.

Think of me. Please.

 

* only a slight exaggeration.

Dirty Dawg

It’s been hot. Cape Town has had one of those weeks where the temperatures stretch the boundaries of belief. The sort of weeks which we only get once or twice a year, in January or February.

Or October.

I took the beagle out for an early walk yesterday to avoid the worst of the ridiculous heat. Things didn’t go well. Long story short, the beagle ended up leg deep in the silt at the bottom end of the dirtiest pond in Wynberg Park.

Those of you who know Wynberg Park will recognise that the competition for the title of dirtiest pond in Wynberg Park is pretty stiff.
From the moment the water oozes out from the hillside beneath the freeway, it stagnates through several pools and ditches filled with the remnants of last weekend’s braai’ing revelries and copious amounts of goose shit, before seeping its way under a wall into the potentially even more murky surroundings of the local Convent school at the bottom of the park.

The beagle was trotting along slowly in the already warm sunshine, approaching a pair of Egyptian Geese and their six goslings. They weren’t hugely happy about this, but the beagle wasn’t after any trouble and was wholly uninterested in the geese and their fluffy kids. Squirrels: different matter, but these were definitely geese, and the beagle really couldn’t have cared less. In any case, our feathered friends were taking no chances and had hopped into the pond long before we’d even got close.

What happened next was rather odd. The beagle basically just walked to the edge of the pond, comprehensively failed to stop, and thus continued down a small bank and straight into the pond, where it immediately became entrapped in the stinking, claggy mud which lay just under the surface of the stinking, claggy water.

The beagle looked up at me, somewhat bemused.
The beagle was stuck.

I watched on in horror, realising who was going to have to rescue it.

The geese watched on in amusement, realising who was going to have to rescue it.

Fortunately, we have recently purchased a new harness for the beagle, which comes with a handy handle on the back. Owners of more lively dogs might perhaps use this to hold their canines back should they choose to attack someone or something, or rear up menacingly in the face of a perceived enemy or threat.

But we don’t have a more lively dog. We have a beagle and it’s currently stuck in some mud. The worst mud in the worst part of the worst pond in Wynberg Park.

Sooooo, lucky me knelt down amongst the goose poo and used the handle to lift the fortuitously-somewhat-less-rotund-than-it-used-to-be beagle out of the thickest, most adherent, most offensive-smelling mud in the Southern Suburbs of Cape Town.

[For the purists out there, yes: there was a clear PHLOPP! as the beagle became freed from its stinking prison.]

We continued on our walk, with the delicate stench of the pond following us through the leafy suburbs. Upon our arrival home, the beagle was unceremoniously bathed, reawakening the scent of Eau de merde d’Oie. And we still weren’t done. Once cleaned, the daft animal immediately rolled in a flower bed and had to be hosed off again.
My water bill is going to be a nightmare again this month thanks to the antics of this so-called family pet. And the worst bit is that there’s literally not even a hint of apology or repentance. Nada. Dololo.

So that’s it. The tale of how the beagle ended up waist deep in the most toxic substance this side of Woodstock.
I don’t think that there’s anything you can learn from this aside from reiterating what I’ve already repeatedly told you about the folly of owning a beagle.

I really – really – do hope that you are listening to me.

Beach Buddies

Whenever we’re walking along the beach in Cape Agulhas admiring the otter, we take a bag along with us to collect any plastic waste we find on the shoreline. Suiderstrand lies behind something of an offshore reef, so it doesn’t get as much flotsam and jetsam as some of the beaches in the area, but it does have a great number of fishermen (did I just assume their gender?) who leave behind miles (or more) of fishing line.

We never come back empty handed.

Further north, the problem with plastic is equally bad. And people are also doing something about it.

Yes, this preamble was merely opening for a link to a Grauniad article about Bill Dale’s Beach Buddies on the Isle of Man, with whom I have parental involvement.

Here is that link to that article.

Bit of hyperbole in the title; otherwise, it’s a nice positive piece about an important and praiseworthy volunteer organisation. And there’s a picture of Port Erin at the top.

Lovely.

As one of 52 Unesco island and coastal biosphere areas, the Isle of Man is focusing now with partners in Menorca, the Maldives, the Philippines and other islands on eliminating single-use plastic from their shores.

If that eventually puts Bill Dale out of a job, he could not be happier.

Indeed. I’d much rather have my hands free for… well… most anything else than picking up rubbish really, as I walk the beagle along our favourite bit of local coastline.