The new Queen of the Realm

Mixie

So, I went to Ireland for a pre-booked holiday, did drink Guiness, saw much of Ireland having lost my Sophie puss. I returned to an empty house but with the promise of a rescued cat from the RSPCA. I was presented with a scruffy little female who liked her tummy tickled and was on the way to recovery after some il treatment by her former owners. Because of her colour I named her Mixie, a name she totally ignores, and prepared for a long period of "getting to know you".

That was July 4th and now in November she is looking good, plays happily, is well fed and ruling the roost. Sucker.

But the thing is that I have given a home to a three year old cat who may not have lasted much longer. She is, like most cats, a good companion, demanding of attention and cranky. She fights me, attacking my proffered hand with sharp claws which she remembers to sheath now and then, demands treats and does all the things that a cat will do.

That she will not replace Sophie as "my kitten" is a point that I can argue is as true as the fact that Sophie did not replace Toots in the same way - Toots was the semi-feral cat I had as a familiar in New Zealand - but she will make her own impact on me.

She already has.

The sudden excited rush to roll over for a tummy tickle and the tenacious adherence to my lap is witness to that. The preening and grooming she does is a sign that she is content; the result being a cute looking fluffy cat with a pleased look that turns to begging for treats.

But mostly it is the way she now follows me around much of the time and loves to play at throw and fetch when a bunched up newspaper sheet is thrown for her to chase.

I like that.

She is helping to ease the memory of Sophie who lived with me for eighteen and a half years, years I can hardly forget. But welcome Mixie - come take your place.

Goodbye to a loving companion - how do you cope with losing a pet?

Toots

I have to say I lost my kitten - the one cat of my adult life that was truly mine from when she was a kitten. There was Toots whose companionship and intimacy was so intense that when she went I was a mass of tears.  (A bloke doesn't normally admit to that) My flatmate, unable to stand the sight of me wandering around with long face and lost look, found a kitten and declared her as a Christmas present. This was in 1998 and Sophie, as she became named, came with me from New Zealand and lived with me here in the UK.

So what happens when the creature who shares your life, takes up space on your bed, your lap, demands, and gets love, play and care is no longer there?

If you are like me then you sob, or shed tears every time you see her picture - I have one  on my desk - and remember the purring, the claws of play fighting, the fussy food fads, and the welcome purr-meow when I come home.

Sophie

Poor Sophie suffered old age but was comfortable, active and happy although as she aged she became quite deaf but always loved the place on my lap, the cuddle in bed and small treats, fresh meat for tea as well as her biscuits and cat-food.  She loved the play with a piece of string and scratched at her post but as she got older she could not keep up with the growth of her claws and placidly allowed me to clip them neatly.

But, sadly she developed a growth in her tummy that grew quickly and so we had to end her life. I was there at the end, managed to hold it in long enough to take her to be cremated and bring her ashes back to lay near my workspace.

Right, so now what?

The owner of my local cattery is a member of the Cats Protection Society and has always had association with the RSPCA.

I had booked  a holiday in Ireland for the first week in June, and poor Sophie was supposed to be looked after in the cattery whilst I wandered around Ireland drinking Guiness. So I had to wait and that was the key.

The waiting helped.

I could not replace Sophie.  Like Toots before her she had taken her place in my life as a intently as any other relationship and there is no way another animal/person can take the place of a creature you love as intensely as I did Sophie.

I was introduced to a three year old tortoiseshell female named Roxy, whose start in life was not good. She was scruffy, showing the signs of ill treatment but was responsive to being fussed. I was hooked and so agreed to take her on.

I re-named her Mixie because of her markings and at first she hid up but soon she responded to feeding and care. Her skin lost its scars and marks; her fur is thickening up and looking bright and healthy and she is putting on weight.

Mixie will not remove the memory of Sophie, as Sophie did not of Toots, but she is taking her place in my life and already after only six weeks or so is settling in to the household and helping me cope with losing a pet.

Mixie is helping me say goodbye to my loving companion Sophie, but I shall never forget her.

Mostly it is that sudden break, the fact that you can do very little but watch your pets grow old, nurture them from kitten to cat and hope that what you do makes their lives happy in return for the pleasure and companionship they give you.

Mixie

Although I could see my Sophie growing old, watch her fail and knew that she was needing more and more medical attention, I was still not prepared for her passing.

I know that living without a cat is not what I want and so I was prepared to find another one. Sophie was my kitten and I could do things like clipping her claws, cleaning her ears (gently) and being her servant, as you do with cats.

I suppose what you have to do is remember the best times, savour the fun you have with the departed pet and treat the newcomer as lovingly as its predecessor.  I hope I can give of myself to Mixie as much as I did to Sophie and to
Toots before her.

We shall see.

I am not an artist....

But: I paint pictures.
When I started painting a few years ago, remembering my efforts as a lad, I began with water colours, took to acrylics and eventually took up oils. I discovered water mixable oil paints and started off with them rather timorously treating the water part of them like water colours and acrylic paint. The result was, shall we say "Okay" but a bit weak. I tended to work as apologetically, as if I was encroaching on the areas real artists work in and my work was dull.

That was, dull until I went to Amsterdam and visited the Van Gogh museum and gallery.

I returned from that experience with confidence and began to work again. I talked with my now departed friend, Bob Collins, who nodded and smiled, and gave me some ideas and encouragement. 'Slap it on but be positive and paint what is in your mind. What you see and what others see is different but the same,' he said to me. I understood that because he was the best water colour artist I have ever met, and was not inclined to butter me up.

The result was that I painted some local views and let my feelings for the mood of the day influence my paintings. Okay, so I just painted what I saw and then I learned how to use the oil paint. The painting, The Bridleway, has the elements of Van Gogh's wheat field painting, a touch of Provence in the format and the bold extravagance of his brushwork.

As you can see the painting has the elements of Van Gogh's style and I make no apologies for the similarities.

The technique was, first outline the scene in light colours such as the sky area, the track and the wheat fields.  This was done by mixing the basic colour, yellow ochre for the fields, light blue for the sky and a grey blue for the track using water to thin the paint as well as the linseed oil and medium. Let it touch dry and then start, first with the sky using only the oil and medium, adding the fields with red, yellow and white. Detail was added as the heavy paint was drying to allow it to key into the main painting.

The next painting was much bolder. The basic colour was washed on using water as the thinner, again allowed to dry and then using medium and oil with the colour lay it on thick. This time I had drawn the flower on to a sheet of paper, traced it on clear tracing paper and transferred the image to the painting surface, fixed it with a spray. Initially I painted the the outline with thinned colour, added the   the trellis work plus the background foliage and the snail.

Next it was a matter of concentrating on the flower and that was done with oil and medium, and afterwards the when dry the whole was covered with three coats of clear varnish.

The third painting is a recent picture, not yet completed which I have first overpainted with an acrylic coat of white, used a heavy oil and medium coat of colour using bold brush strokes in greens as a base on which to paint a drawn and traced Dahlia bloom.

This is a work in progress and will need some more work on it when the base is dry.

What have I learned from the exercises?

Firstly not to rely too much on the water thinning but to use it when I need to help the paint to flow but mostly to paint the base colours on which to paint the main picture.

Next, to treat the paint the same as regular oil paint and be glad of its versatility.

To take care to draw the main scene and fix it, bearing in mind that if I use charcoal I can blend the dark lines in with the paint and use them as guides for the eye that will show the contrasts. I also found that working the colour by placing colour on colour and letting them blend is most satisfactory.

And lastly, not to care much what others do and think unless I can learn to use their skills.

Using water mixable oil paints is worth the effort although the colours offered are limited, but if you select the paints you need for your preferred palette you can do all that you wish. You should be prepared to buy the appropriate oil, medium and of course be aware that true oil paints will not mix, but otherwise there is no difference in response to true oil paint.

I am glad to say that I am enjoying the medium.

Charity - it seems is big business.

I like to give to charities I agree with but I do not like being coerced into giving.  That, I believe is what many of us will agree with. The annual Poppy appeal, the Macmillan Coffee mornings, the Red Cross and other deserving charities.  Each of these and many others compete for my equivalent of the "widow's mite", and I will give what I can when I feel like it.  I also believe many of us also like to do that too without having to commit to regular amount, unless of course you choose to do so.

Chuggers on the streets seem to attack you with a similar spiel to the telephone sales techniques of the double glazing companies of the past, and become persistent in their pursuit of a monthly sum.  There are other organisations, equally as worthy of funding as any other, dealing with Birds, Asthma , Dementia, Cats, Dogs and Cancers that are all worth a penny or two asking for money.  Some I would give to, others I will not; my choice and my prerogative to refuse.

Also it is my choice to give one sum when and if I wish without being asked again.

The days of the rattling collection box seem to be numbered, although there are many retail outlets that have marked collection boxes on their counters to collect coins.  These are limited to a fairly narrow range of charities which means that if I wish to give I have to make on-line or postal contact.

If I send a cheque as a donation once, I expect that to be the end of it but what happens?

You guessed it, a mail drop, continuous bombardments of raffle tickets, rubbish gifts and cards fit only for the bin, literature including exhortations to fill in a form to send a regular amount.  At first you think that the "letter" is a one off until you receive more at intervals throughout the year at a cost to the charity that more than likely has eaten into the cheque sent.

The pattern is similar in most of them. The literature and the promotion complete with identified named labels "for your convenience" to save you writing your information on the butts of the raffle tickets you are expected to buy. I note that the number of books is now three with ten tickets each adding up to a sum of £30.00 in total - I reserve that amount for my weekly groceries.

I received telephone calls, and I emphasise calls, from the RSPB asking me to increase my small monthly amount each month, and spent some time on the telephone during the first call explaining that as I also have a monthly amount with another charity I would not increase the amount. All to no avail. I received another similar call from two more charities asking the same with similar persistence;  same pattern, same steady grind to squeeze more money.

The result was that I assumed the charities were now taking on business style hard sell and so I cancelled my subscriptions. Now I get literature from some which I open but usually, once I have salvaged the free pens, throw in the re-cycling bin.

I want to give to charities of my choice but I am getting fed up with the amount of money wasted on sending out oodles of envelopes to try and persuade me to give.

I will give when I want to and how I want to. I do not want to be bombarded with postal rubbish.

I would like to know what others think.

A Story of a City Down Under - And Darkly Glows the City

And Darkly Glows the City

This tale is one that was in my mind for a long time, and eventually after a number of attempts to find a format that would not only tell the tale but be readable, balancing out the dark side with a sense of hope and humour, I eventually managed a satisfying story.

If that last sounds a little pretentious then please bear with me. In the 1980's in Auckland there was a largish number of Street Kids living rough in the city. They were considered to be a nuisance to shoppers, tourists and shop keepers who called for a solution to the problem. The general opinion was to just get them off the streets, perhaps lock them up or return them to their homes. Some Councillors, Police Officers, Child Protection Groups and the Auckland Trade Unions set up refuges for them with a view to solving the problem by helping the youngsters more or less on their terms. The authorities were horrified and deeply concerned when there were rumours that some children were disappearing off the streets unaccounted for; the suggestion was that some were abducted into the child slave trade.  Whether it was true or not investigations discovered some nasty men preying on the more vulnerable rough sleepers.

I wanted to write about this dreadful "trade" and so turned it into a thriller using the Street Kid story as a background.  I always like the idea of humour even when telling a tale that is redolent with horrific scenes, and so when my investigating officers Detective Inspector Conrad O'Grady meets his new working partner Detective Constable Roy Rogers it is inevitable that there will some corny jokes. Rogers is of course named "Tex" and as the case develops so too does their friendship which gave me a chance to offset the horror of their antagonists story with some normal, romantic and family interactions.

Set in the city of Auckland the action takes O'Grady and Rogers South to Manukau city, and North to the township of Wellsford and the sandy east coast near Mangawhai Heads, and Te Aria Point which were all fascinating places to me.

Darkly Glows the City

When Detective Inspector Conrad O’Grady is called in to investigate a gruesome murder in one of Auckland’s richest suburbs he is not aware of the corruption and horror his investigation will uncover.  Assisted by rookie detective, Roy ‘Tex’ Rogers, O’Grady steadily discovers the answers to the riddle in his own rough and ready way.  

His progress is followed closely by the evil Fat Man who is determined to stop him finding out what is going on in the exclusive Downtown Athena Club.  

Facing opposition from his superiors, and having to come to terms with the dreadful series of killing linked by the book Macabre Verses and a threat to his life O’Grady finds himself in a race against time to save those he loves from a terrible death.  

O’Grady’s story is not just the tale of a detective doing his job, but a story of compassion, strong emotions, powerful love stories and that of ordinary people caught up in unbelievable horror that could shatter their lives. 

It is also the story of two remarkable young people who reconcile their cultural differences. 

The tale has a theme of Satanic Possession which challenges Fr Brien's faith in the power of the Church and threatens to wreck O'Grady's career. The forces against the pair and Rogers are overwhelming and I have to admit that balancing out that part of the tale with story of Sam, the Street Kid involved was tricky. I hope I have managed it.

This is not a tale for the squeamish but those who have read it have said they could not put it down wanting to know what was happening next. I tried to capture that sense of urgency and hopefully create and entertaining story.

In this short piece I hope that I have given an insight into the way I have developed the story and that people will want to read it. I enjoyed writing it. And finally, below, let the back cover sum up the story.