Tag Archives: Musings

Google Image ‘Sky’

I kept seeing the same post appearing in my daily visited list as well as ‘sky’ in my top search list and had no idea why.  It’s this one, from December last year http://lucidgypsy.wordpress.com/2013/12/01/travel-theme-sky/ . Then I thought I would search for sky and see what came up.  A photo just a little way down the first page looked familiar, lo and behold it was mine.

Does that mean I have a famous photo? :-) :-) :-)

Thoughts that came to mind, oooh I should have put copywrite on it?Maybe I should take it down and make it smaller? Maybe I should put a water mark across the middle? Maybe I should just take it down? I wonder if anyone has pinched it?

Actually none of the above. It’s pretty but nothing special and if it makes someone smile then I’m happy too. I would like it if anyone who uses it credits me and perhaps it’s time I put that somewhere on my page. I rather like to think about someone thousands of miles away seeing that Dartmoor sky and wondering . . .

No Small Stones

For the last two Januarys I have chosen to write a small stone for each day of the month. This year it came upon me suddenly – who knew that January was on its way? Late on New Years Day I thought about joining in and decided against it. I also looked at the idea of joining the WordPress  ‘Zero to Hero’, month but again it didn’t quite fit with my goals.

Do I even have a goal for blogging? should I have one? Blogging is addictive, I absolutely love it, the never ending surprises when I open my reader, but most of all, the connections with you my dear followers.

So, rather than commit to posting every day for a month, I’ll commit to continuing, hopefully improving my posts to Lucid Gypsy this year. I love photography, but this blog didn’t set out to be about photos, I would like to write more instead. That may be my simple poetry, it will never be poetry that takes hours to write. It will never be fiction that is honed to perfection, but I hope there will sometimes be stories, perhaps flash fiction that will make you smile, or irritate you or just feel.

I will keep looking at the world around me with  writer’s eyes because these eyes see some crazy sights, and I’ll try my best to show you what I see with or without my camera.

Thank you for sharing your time with me, every comment, like or whatever is a note in my gratitude jar.

Love and light, from Gypsy.

Lucid Gypsy is having a frustrating time

I don’t often swear but tonight . . . the air was blue. This week at work has been horrid, the third in a row and I’m fed up with being treated badly.
Last night I was supposed to be going out with friends, my turn to drive. I set off in heavy rain, to pick up friend number one about three miles away, but pretty soon turned back because I was aquaplaning, and the fifteen mile drive to friend number two would have involved three miles of winding, potholed, single track lane with high hedges, ditches on the sides and pitch darkness. Result, beans on toast and an early night instead of a nice pub dinner and a good belly laugh.
So today I arrive home from work with the beginnings of a bug that’s going around the office – people bring their germs to work these days to share, because if you go sick you have to face a ‘return to work interview’. If you are sick too often you get monitored and then sent to occupational health. Luckily, in the three plus years I’ve been there I’ve only clocked up two sick days.
I thought I’d sit with a cup of tea; check my email and WordPress reader to shake off the stress.
Of course the broadband didn’t work! I checked the connections, nothing happened. I reset the router, nothing happened. I turned it all off and back on again, nothing happened. I thought perhaps the same bad weather that stopped play last night may be causing the problem so l left it, cooked dinner, watched some TV and then tried again. And again, then I started swearing.
Eventually I called the broadband provider, was in a queue for twenty five minutes, and then I got cut off. I dialled again and after eighteen minutes I finally spoke to a girly that had me jumping through hoops, giving her an endless stream of passwords, mother’s maiden name and the date of birth of the cocker spaniel that belonged to my second cousin when she was five.
Next I had to unplug, re-plug, unscrew parts of sockets and rummage through drawers to find spare white plastic thingy’s that came with the original package four years ago. None of it worked and she told me she would have to get an engineer to call back and asked what time on Saturday would be best. Saturday, that’s not tomorrow, I squealed, how on earth could I manage until then? I could tell that she felt sorry for me but there was nothing she could do so I said goodbye with the thought that perhaps the time had come to check out some other providers.
While watching TV I had the company of a certain Border Terrorist, Dido, curled up beside me demanding that I gave her a tummy rub and giving me a look of disgust every time I paused for a second. This same fur baby has a wicker toy box below the shelf with the router. She gets frustrated when she can’t find her favourite toy of the day and chews on whatever she can find instead.

It wasn't me!

Have you guessed yet?
It’s laugh or cry time!

Meeting Myself Coming Back

In my post earlier, photos in sepia tints for Cee’s Challenge, I mentioned being busy and that my grandmother used to say I would meet myself coming back. Seonaid from http://breathofgreenair.wordpress.com/ asked what I might say to myself if I did!
It’s an interesting thought isn’t it?
My snap reaction was ‘Oh no not you again’ but then I thought on.
‘Stop chasing your tail’
or maybe ‘Smell the roses’
‘We each have an alloted number of heartbeats, don’t waste them’
‘You spread yourself too thin’
‘But there’s so much world’
‘Neep Neep!’
‘Have we met?’
‘Sloooww dooown’,’Where’s the fire’,’Tell me a story’,’Is it ready yet?’
So how to stop the relentless chase of life in our high tech world? Are you the same? are you always overloaded? Maybe you don’t see it as a problem, maybe I don’t. It’s just the way it is, I’m a Gemini, quicksilver. I want to experience as many things as I can in this lifetime with all of my senses. To meet and listen to as many people as possible, to have them share their stories, to touch people in some small way.
So tell me, are you the same? If so what would you say to yourself? If you can, maybe you could share with our community.
Seonaid, I suspect you’re far too mindful to rush around as much as I do!8

Slowly, slowly!

Good For Me

As a small child I remember certain things that were supposed to be ‘good for me’. Back then I wondered if it was only me that these things were good for, I don’t remember any other children I knew that had these ‘good for you’ experiences. The earliest GFY was Cod Liver Oil, teaspoons of it. I can’t remember the taste, more the idea of it. I mean it hardly sounds appealing does it? Surely it might have been easier to swallow if it had been called Golden Smile Squash or something, any other ideas? Even as an adult – well outwardly, the idea of extracting oil from a cod’s liver is gruesome and quite strange. Who first thought of such a thing and how and when was it decided that it was GFY?

Next, when I was in infant school, a third of a pint of full cream milk in a glass bottle was thrust upon us every morning at play time. No doubt it was the government’s attempt to keep the countries children well nourished. Well it was wasted on me. The fact that I was made to drink it was guaranteed to make me rebel, but aside from that it made me sick. Luckily a willing victim grateful recipient in the shape of one of the Henry sisters was waiting for me to sneak it to her as soon as Miss King’s back was turned. I’ve never been able to drink a glass of milk and can only tolerate skimmed milk in hot drinks.

Also in school, where the classroom was converted into a dining room at lunchtime, ready to serve the dreaded green vegetables. I don’t think anyone liked them but everyone but me managed to eat them anyway. I would move them around my plate until they were stone cold and eventually teacher – who was probably desperate for her own lunch, took pity on me and let me out to play. That is until Miss Dunn arrived and saw me as her personal challenge. She would stand over me with a very stern face and a sharp tongue insisting that I would sit there until I had eaten it, or until class resumed. On one lovely sunny day I really, really wanted to play with my friends so I stuffed my cheeks, hamster fashion, with a couple of Brussel sprouts, smile sweetly and she let me go. Sadly for me she caught me just outside the door, spitting them down the drain. Headmasters office for me, but I’ve never, ever, eaten a sprout.

Medicine is GFY and when I was about ten with an ear infection; it was bright yellow anti-biotic pills, big enough to choke on. I’d never taken a pill before and these tasted nasty. The doctor suggested mixing them with something to disguise the taste, and at the time I had a craving for oranges. Tucking a pill into the flesh of my orange should do the trick it was thought. I cried and cried because all it did was spoil my orange. I suppose I must have taken the course of pills but I can’t remember it or imagine how.

All these memories were triggered by this evenings GFY experience. Green tea. A few years ago at the end of a Tai Chi class, green tea was served from a punch bowl, I tried a sip to be polite but as I wasn’t a tea drinker I didn’t expect to enjoy it. Since I had swine flu a few years ago I haven’t been able to drink coffee and so I have become a tea drinker, not bog standard tea, but Lady Grey or Earl Grey, and lately I’ve braved out and can do the odd Rooibos, all poncey stuff, according to most people. So perhaps I would now like green tea? Perhaps my palate has acquired the necessary degree of sophistication to appreciate its beneficial properties. Uh, no, I won’t be drinking that again. Good for me? Someone is having a laugh.

January Small Stone# Twenty Eight

My Mojo packed its bags in November and hasn’t been seen since. No-one knows where it went, why it went or what it got up to when it was away. I was quite worried about it at first and considered filing a missing Mojo report. But then I got angry instead. I yelled, I sulked, I told it I didn’t care if it never came back, because I had no plans to use it anyway. Then something strange happened – like in all the best stories – just when I came close to giving up, it showed up, acting as if nothing had even happened.

Today I wrote the first draft, nearly three thousand words, of a short story that will be my next assignment for my creative writing course. And breath.

Why take the 15 mile way home if you can take the 30?

Otherwise known as Lucid Gypsy rambling.

Last evening I went out with two of my closest friends. It’s a monthly event, we take turns driving, so that in theory two of us can have a couple of drinks, but actually we don’t drink much alcohol at all, it’s more about the chat and something to eat in a country pub. Two of us live about four miles apart and the other one lives fifteen miles away out in the sticks and has done for around ten years. The friend who lives nearby drove last night and sadly she doesn’t have the best sense of direction, despite have been to Buckerell some 70 or 80 times she needs directions, but really its one straight main road, the A30, and then four miles up a narrow windy lane. We had a great evening with lots of fun, silliness and too many peas. After dropping friend two home, we headed back down the lane gabbling away and after a couple of – turn left – straight up – yes take the slip road, we were safely back on the A30 with twelve miles to go. This is the point where I stop thinking about giving directions and ask instead about her planned weekend in Spain. Mistake.

‘Is this the right way, I don’t recognise it?’

I sit bolt upright, ‘Um no this is the Exmouth road, you’d better turn around and head back to the roundabout, take the slip road back again.’

‘Is this the way?’

I should have said that if I’m driving I wear glasses, without them in the dark I can’t see well enough to drive in unlit areas. ‘Um, I don’t know but it’s the right general direction, I think it said Rockbeare . . . yep this is the old road, Rockbeare Straights, we came this way once before.’

We drive about five miles. Road works, road ahead closed. We slow down, the road is empty except for the guys resurfacing, and friend sees the sign for Sowton Village.

‘Oh that way is okay we can get to Frog Lane from there and then Clyst St Mary.’

‘Sowton is a dead end, I’ve walked across the cow fields to Clyst St Mary but there’s no road.’

‘Yeah there is, there must be.’

‘All right go for it,’ we drive through a silent village, its 11.30 by now and friend heads confidently towards a no through road sign. ‘That’s the way to the fields, bear right and try that, but I don’t know where it leads. The single track becomes a grassy track then meets a fence. We can see the lights of the motorway two miles from home just ahead, buts there’s no way through. A difficult fifteen point turn and we head back the lane, to the road workers who give us directions, complex ones that would work if I could read the signs.But we think we get it, and realise that another car who also asked the way, is convinced that we know where we are and is following us. Turn right at the pub they said, then double back towards the  Daisy Mount junction, well it might have been the pub but it was all closed up and it was too late to take the turning. I started to get my bearings though; we were heading back the old road that led to the airport. Friend agreed and took over again, this was her territory, just a couple of miles cross country from her house.

‘Aylesbeare, that’s it just up here.’ I didn’t think you needed to go to Aylesbeare to get to the parallel Sidmouth road but I left her to it. And we drive quickly with the other car in pursuit, and no sign of life around for a couple more miles. We approach the village and I squint at a right hand turning sign but friend keeps going. We leave the village behind and start a steady climb. Soon the quiet is broken by the petrol warning alarm, 20 miles of fuel left and we didn’t know the way. I’m just wondering if I have enough phone battery left for the sat nav to work when friend says ‘I wish we had a sat nav . . . what you’ve got it on your phone, why didn’t you try that before?’ to be honest I forget it’s there, I don’t get lost! Unless I’m being driven by friend, on the way home from Buckerell.

My suspicions were confirmed, we shouldn’t have gone through Aylesbeare, but if we had turned right there, we wouldn’t now be heading for Ottery St Mary. But if this lane reached the common, it would be creepy especially with someone following us, but we should then be able to turn right.

YES! Sidmouth road and we limped to a petrol station. After a – diversion – of about 15 miles, we got to my house having tajen an hour and a half instead of twenty five minutes.

Lessons learnt.

Always take my glasses even if I’m not driving.

Never think I need not concentrate on the road myself if friend is driving me anywhere after dark.

Remember my phone has a sat nav and take my charger so I can use it.

I have a stranger sense of humour than I realised, most people wouldn’t think it was a huge hilarious adventure getting lost in the deep east Devon lanes at midnight.

Banana Spam Nuttiness

Spam is becoming really  funny these days. Not funny  that it exists of course, but the lengths they go with it. In my early days of blogging I didn’t get the spam protection thing, why would anyone want to send spam my  way? I would get the odd few spam comments, but not take any notice or even delete them, they just sat there. Then I read how some peoples comments ended up in the spam box for no reason, so I started to check and delete it all. The volume has gradually increased, I wonder why? Is it because I have lots of followers  now? What do they hope to gain?

Here is some recent stuff, have any of you received similar ones?                                               Spam comments on my post ‘pets’

My brother suggested I might like this website. He was totally right. This post actually made my day. You can not imagine just how much time I had spent for this information! Thanks! 

Very nice info and straight to the point. I don’t know if this is really the best place to ask but do you folks have any thoughts on where to get some professional writers? Thank you.

Received from ‘healthy banana nut muffins’

Comments on ‘Sunrise’

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I’ll do my best to keep functioning! All the banana people are from different IP addresses, seriously weird. My blog isn’t about food, I’ve posted one recipe here and that was way back, so why the muffins? So far banana muffins account for around 20 comments. What type of spam do you get? Please tell! I’m off for a daily delete now.

A Cycle of Platforms and Hot Pants

Browsing a few shops the other day my friend (also middle aged) and I had a lot of laughs at the clothes in the High Street fashion shops. Some of the things they would like young women to wear, are quite ridiculous, ghastly and even dangerous. I pulled tiny, bright yellow, jeans style shorts from the rack, held them against myself and decided that if I could somehow force them onto my plumptious rear, I would probably get arrested. I was told the next day that they are worn with thick black tights, uh so? They would still be ultra revealing. Again, from my old fogey perspective, I find it quite worrying to drive through the town on a Saturday night, and see girls, even in winter, in the skimpiest of garments, especially when they are far from sober. And then I remembered. I would have been sixteen, drop dead gorgeous and with a perfect figure, when I wore Hot Pants and walked down the town on a Saturday night, far from sober! I was never one for flashing the cleavage, but my  long, brown and sexy legs climbed high up to my very cropped denims. Actually my skirts were possibly worse than the Hot Pants, because they barely covered my assets and were definitely shorter than this.

We looked at shoes next; laughing at five inch platformed Betty Boo heels, that we would need scaffolding to be able to climb into, and crutches for three months if we attempted to walk in them. Some, like these are beautiful art, I’m tempted to buy some for posterity.

I asked a shopper if she wears anything like it and she said that yes, she does on a night out, and can keep them on comfortably for four to five hours. She was a sweetie, twenty-one and happy to have a laugh with us.  Apparently she usually wears them with skinny jeans, the mind boggles. I really hope she manages to keep staying vertical. And then I remembered. My five inch, sling back platformed shoes, shiny yellow patent and worn with those tiny skirts. I really wish I’d kept them or even had a photo . . . sighs. I wonder if the twenty –one year old will be looking at the fashion when she is middle aged,and laughing about it. In the 80’s, leggings were everywhere, they disappeared for a while but then lycra’d their way back to a whole new generation, who think they’re cool. But there’s nothing new under the sun is there? Are you old enough to remember wearing some of today’s so called hot trends? Do tell me!

Crazy Polish Woman has gone downstairs

Yes truly! Ooonika, not how you spell it but I’m trying to provoke a reaction, has upped sticks and left my office and now works in another department. I didn’t frighten her away. I know this because she has been back up at least six times today. She needed to clear her desk, complain, help solve someone’s problem, complain, ask a favour of me, complain about the smell of a heavy smoker down there. Complaining about not having a window any longer. I do, whoopee I can see the sky and the hills!

CPW likes to sing, the Polish equivalent of humming, a sort of dee dee dee sound, when she’s happy or bored or attention seeking. She won’t be able to do that down there in the serious dungeon of management accounts, and I have already missed the noise but luckily, I can hear it in my head. It’s strange when people move on, you miss them, but they are busy learning new jobs and fitting into a different environment with new people.

CPW has promised to help me to translate some dialogue I have to write into sensible Polish but she may be too important now :-( I know she will keep visiting though because my office has the best and most regular supply of biscuits and naughty stuff. But she won’t be able to hang around long enough to indulge in the type of stimulating and  intellectual conversation we usually have, who will I talk to now? She has been great fun to work with. I’ll just have to look to the hills and hum a dee dee dee in my head, perhaps I’ll step into her shoes and become the Crazy English Woman. I have already slid under her desk to pinch her footrest, right what else has she left behind?