Life Through A Lens

My wife and I were in Specsavers on Friday, tasked with the simple job of picking a pair of glasses each for reading. It’s an age thing.

She handed me a pair of round ones to try on.

Jen: “You look like John Lennon. Or that other one.”

Me: “McCartney?”

Jen: “Harry Potter. Try these.” She handed me a pair of black rimmed ones. I put them on.

Me: (Singing) “We-a-hell, the little things you say and do . . . ”

Jen: “Well?”

Me: ” . . . make me want to be with you-ah-ou . . . ”

Jen: “Do you like them?!”

Me: “Rave on, it’s a crazy feeling and . . . ”

Jen: “Do you like them or not?”

Me: “I know, it’s got me reeling . . . ”

Jen: “Yes or no?”

Me: “No. I told you I didn’t want any strong-rimmed ones. Do you know why I was singing that?”

Jen: “Yes, it’s Chuck Berry,”

Me: “It’s Buddy Holly!”

Jen: “I meant him.” I took them off, she handed me another pair.

Jen: “Try these. They’re green.”

Me: (Without looking at them.) “Put them back.”

Jen: “You’ve not even tried them.”

Me: “I’m not wearing green glasses.”

Jen: “Well what about these?”

Me: “I look like Dame Edna Everage.”

Jen: “You don’t!”

Me: “I don’t want glasses with sparkly bits on them.”

Jen: “They’re not sparkly.”

Me: “They’re like Elton John’s in his Rocket Man days.”

Jen: “Right! I’ll pick mine first then.” She put a pair on.

Jen: “What about these?”

Me. “Let’s see. Nah, I don’t like them.”

Jen: “What do you bleeding know about glasses anyway?!”

Can’t wait until we qualify for dentures.

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Flies In The Ointment; Jackdaws On The Grass

Apologies are winging your way if I’ve not replied to your comments or visited your blogs recently. I’ve had a little fly in the ointment, so to speak, which is non-technical jargon for I’ve been having problems with WordPress recently and I haven’t a clue why.

I’m writing this post in the hope that it has now been rectified, and if it hasn’t, well, there’s only me reading this and you guys are none the wiser. Please let me know.

A couple of days ago, at a motorway service station, I was walking down a corridor, flanked the whole way by a glass window, whilst seeking out the Gents. At the end of the corridor a little girl was loudly banging on the glass. “Look, Daddy, pigeons!”

Her father, wearing the forlorn look of one waiting for his wife to come out of the toilet, a look I knew only too well, replied: “They aren’t pigeons, darling, they’re crows.”

As I passed them both I too glanced out at the birds.

Actuallythey are not crows, I thought to myself, they are jackdaws. 

And, with a certain smugness:

And I should know, being, unknown to you, the anonymous author of the City Jackdaw blog.

I didn’t say this, of course, for who was I to destroy the little child’s fantasy of her all-knowing father.

And besides, at that moment in time, I couldn’t even get City Jackdaw to work.

 

The Escapologist; Bryn Comes In #2

Further to my earlier post about our imminent new addition to the family, a Welsh Springer Spaniel named Bryn, we were thrilled to receive this photograph from his breeder, having hired a photographer to capture him and his eight siblings in a great family portrait.

After meeting the challenge of getting all nine pups on the couch at the same time, lined up and facing the same way, (no easy task), they both sat to view the results. The photographs were great, capturing the young dogs in all of their appealing cuteness.

Then one of them counted.

Eight puppies. One had managed to give them the slip, unnoticed. It could have been our Bryn, for the breeder had already given him the nickname Houdini, due to his ability to escape from any man-made restraints. And so they had to go through the difficult process again, which may explain why our dog, on the far left as you look, appears decidedly unimpressed.

If you read my previous post, you’d have learned of the great coincidence, some might say divine intervention, that led to us getting Bryn. Which is quite appropriate as this puppy portrait reminded me of a certain Da Vinci painting.

Last Supper? Im expecting him to eat us out of house and home.

Fate Plays Her Hand; Bryn Comes In

After four years being dog-less, since the sad death of our Golden Retriever (link below), my family are about to welcome a new addition into its fold.

Whereas I’d have been happy with another Retriever, Jen preferred something smaller. But which breed? Faced with this dilemma, fickle Fate played her hand.

It just so happened that on the very night of our conversation, a programme about the nation’s top one hundred breeds was on television. We tuned in for ideas, and when a Welsh Springer Spaniel appeared on our screen my wife said, “That’s a lovely looking dog, how about one of those?”

Initially, Jen had resisted the clamour for another dog from my children and I, having been so hurt from Rydal’s passing, so within a dog’s whisker of her uttering those words I had joined a group for Welshie lovers on Facebook and enquired about an imminent litter!

Welsh Springers are not as common as English Springers, and so I knew we’d have to travel to find one. Somebody had even suggested Sweden to me, but air fare was definitely beyond our budget.

I’d not considered Scandinavia, funnily enough, but that became a moot point when I found a pregnant Welsh Springer in Wales, of all places. Who’d have thought it?

But, alas, her pups were already reserved for buyers.

A week later, another breeder, living a two and a half hour’s drive away from us in Manchester, had seen my online query and contacted me as her Springer was due to have a litter in four weeks. I confirmed that I was still interested and we got talking about why we wanted this paticular breed.

(Fate Alert drumroll please)

It only turned out that the dog that we had seen on that television show was THIS breeder’s dog. The very dog that my wife had remarked upon, and so steered us in this direction, was soon to give birth to our new puppy! What’s the odds on that?!

You’ve gotta love the magic of television.

Anyway, for reasons of space, let me give you this brief summing up:

a litter of nine was born; children were at fever pitch; we had first choice of five boys; children nearly had a breakdown with the pressure; then finally:

after my daughter, tearing her hair out and saying that the process of ruling out the four other, equally cute dogs was worse than the multiple choice questions of her SATS exams, we chose this little fella:

Originally named Uno by the breeder (we later found out that this was because he was the first born. It seems quite apt that the first born should be the first chosen). We now had to come up with our own name.

I wanted something Welsh.

“What Welsh names do you know?” asked my wife.

I came up with Tom Jones and Shirley Bassey.

“Not a chance!”

My alternative suggestion of Jenkins, after Katherine Jenkins, was similarly dismissed. So as a family we went through some Welsh names and links. I liked Arthur, you know, our once and future King and all that. But in the end we came to an agreement: Uno was now Bryn.

But you knew that, didn’t you? Having read the title of this post.

We get him tomorrow. It’s the end of our lives as we know it.

My post about the passing of Rydal:

https://cityjackdaw.wordpress.com/2015/06/25/farewell-old-friend/