According to my snooze-inducing therapists; the tarot card reading ones I mean, I’m about to shed some skin. I know such prophecies should be taken with a bucket load of salt and I rarely get to hear the whole story before nodding off into dreamland but when two questionably qualified quacks say the same thing, the subconscious Soph sits up. Not literally, it’s practically impossible to change my sleeping position due to a large unwieldy German Shepherd whose frame fits the lower part of the bed and a slightly smaller Border terrier who has the ability to take up any remaining inches. Digression again, let’s get back to the prognosis. Something is about to shift big time and I’m not talking about eyelash extension glue. I’m not entirely sure what and I will retain my skepticism about financial gains, however there is something to be said for laying to rest mental ghosts – mine have been in situ for more years than I care to remember but it was the bit about unexpected recognition in the work department that got me all tingly.
Because oddly that’s happened. It’s my pots you see. I didn’t intentionally set out to add painting designs on terracotta to my CV but after having put a couple of posts on the ol’ social network, they’ve ended up in the shop so to speak. Honestly I’ve never thought of myself as one but I was rather chuffed on being told I was an artist – my Arts and Crafts teacher at school is probably rolling in his grave in hysterics having kicked me out of that class and Denis’ confidence in my creations is a lot louder than mine. Still, I’m a little bit proud of my paintwork even if my atelier now resembles a recycling centre due to the mountain of donations in dusty earthenware along with the idiotic acquisition that is the aquarium. It’s still bereft of life; can’t find the time to go fishing when you’re on the creative carousel.
Actually, let’s be honest, last week wasn’t that busy. Apart from another house visit (I don’t think it went well) and a visit from Ever-Reliable Roy who managed to successfully fit the new wotsit into the pool filter whilst I nattered with his ex but still friends on the pool deck, the diary was blissfully empty. Just as well really as it was so toe-scorchingly hot outside, no-one in their right mind would delight in going anywhere except under a fan or three (I spoil the woofers). Unfortunately for Arry, the pool is still under wraps until Roy can spare the time in the coming days to switch over the pumps to their summer setting just in time for the thermometer to drop along with the rain. We are desperate for the latter though, walking over to Le Jardin for a quick meeting with Abraham, what would normally be a view covered in the bright red hue of poppies looked more like a scene from a Wild West set; all that was missing was tumbleweed.
Still, here we are at the end of May and with that, another birthday – Sherman’s. It’s hard to believe it’s been 5 years since Alice did her brilliant mum thing and gave birth to her bouncing brood. Lucky for me, I defied the family and kept my gorgeous galumph who, as you all know, was born in the palm of my hand on the very same bed that he has become to spreading his sizeable self over. And whilst I doubt he pays much mind to the ramblings of online entertainers, he is an excellent listener to all mine. Doesn’t half shed though…
“If it’s the Psychic Network why do they need a phone number?” (Robin Williams)
Widow plus woofs 