Cyberstance.

It's been so long since doing a blog, I'd to rewind the last six months and finally admit, I couldn't remember how to do one. If you're reading this, it must prove the ultimate success of combining deep breathing, close inspection of the bottom of a too readily emptied glass and the free use of strong language. Writing, Blogging, Facebook and then Tweeting! How easy it is to fall off  social networking's perch.
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www.janeyeadon.co.uk

EBELTOFT TALK.

We'd a family get together in Denmark, staying in a summer-house near Ebeltoft, a particularly enchanting spot. Go there if you can. Unfortunately I lost my camera which was full of pictures of the area and especially the flowers. I wrote this poem to remind me in words what I'd hope to capture on digital and share with you.

EBELTOFT TALK.

In our opinion
the pink foxgloves are too like strumpets
to be taken seriously.
As Trine's clematis
entwine themselves
we despise the purple
of those social climbing minxes.
The vulgar vetch so careless with favours
allows goosegrass a cheap
tremble in the grass.
So common!
Under a duvet cloud
darting parents feed a bird box
loud in its hunger
limited in words.
Voluptuous hydrangeas, spilling from pots
aim to street crawl.
At least the oak trees understand modesty
their long skirts mocking the shape
of spent rhododendrons.
Whilst pinks cry
We've been here for ever
rugosa rosa rues a
Time's too short.
Our viper's bugloss blue
promotes decorum
dusty by the road.
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Uncle's D-Day.

'Ye ken, I wis at the D-day landing,' said Uncle. He adjusted the pansy in his blazer button hole, took a long swallow from his half pint of beer, a drag of his fag, moved the accompanying nip of whisky to the side, then leant an elbow on the bar counter. 'Aye- me an' Poopie MacLeod.'

Uncle was the barmaid's favourite customer. She didn't know why he was called that: only that it suited him. Maybe it was because he was a bachelor and as far as anyone knew, never a father and, reflected the barmaid, it was certainly a better name than Poopie.

Uncle continued, 'I wisna expectin' tae ken onybody on the boat, but when I got intae it, I saw somebody wi' the Forres Gazette. "God Almighty," I said. "It's Poopie MacLeod! Whit are ye daen here?"

'Same as yersell,' he said and went back to reading the paper.

'It must've been a terrible crossing,' said the barmaid.

'Aye- it wis that an' I wis that sick, I wisna off the boat till last.... an' ye ken this?' Uncle paused to take a long drag on his fag. 'When I did manage to get off- there wis Poopie being carted back in.'

'That wis quick, Poopie,' I said.

The bar maid wanted to ask if it had been a bad injury, but this was Uncle's story and he was pressing on.

'Weel, I managed to get to firm ground right enough, but I'd tae run for cover afore I found a bit of shelter.There wis poppies there, ye ken. And a deid body.' He mopped his brow, and for a moment was lost in recall, then he said,  'He wis a Canadian. I found a letter in his jacket. It wis fae his mither. She wrote that it was nearly harvest time in Ontario.'

Uncle sighed, ground his fag into the ash tray, finished his whisky then sighed. 'Some hairst!'

GLOSSARY'

ken           know                        daen                 doing
wis            was                          yersell                yourself
.wisna        wasn't                      weel                   well
onybody    anybody                   afore                 before
intae          into                           deid                  dead
wi'             with-- --                    hairst                harvest.
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Meet the family.

You know, I thought this photograph had been lost. It used to sit on the mantle piece of a house that meant a lot to me in my childhood. I've been writing about growing up on a Scottish North-east farm. This photograph has brought back such a lot of memories, the faces look out at me and tell of a different times- oh-so very very different.

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Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

Who ever mentioned Hoover?

Anybody following the fortunes of my hoover may have read that it was left in a state of suspended animation, and lurking in a cupboard. Then I fell off the filter- loss helpline, deciding that a bit of absorbing paper might do the trick.
Putting it in the filter slot, I was firm with its owner. 'You know, my friend, you want to be careful. When we'd a hotel, we'd your industrial cousins. We were surprised that it was only after persistent nagging at the shop where they went for a service, that they were returned - in three small bags, the rest having come in handy for spare parts. If you're not careful,' I lowered my voice, 'you too could become a donor, now...' I stepped on the starter- pedal. 'Go!' .
Plainly, the machine was listening. Oh! How we roared about the house, cornering at speed, accelerating on the straight and cutting a swathe of cleanliness throughout. I swear there was a line-up of things wanting to fly up the feeder hose. The strange thing was that they did, but not out the other end. It did save emptying the dust container, but eventually curiosity won. I tried to look down the tube. Saw nothing.
Apparently the things in it were having such a nice time there, they'd bonded. Despite lures including grappling hooks, bamboo canes, and manly pressure on a broom handle to the accompaniment of my old  midwife- mantra call, 'Push!' the tube's contents refuse to budge. There they remain. Maybe a Stanley knife or water hose will encourage them out.

In the meantime, what goes up, must go down eh? Not in this house.


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www.janeyeadon.co.uk

My less than beautiful Hoover.Part One.

I've an uneasy relationship with technology. I can't understand why things which don't work don't respond to the threat of a hammer or spanner. Recently I bought a hoover which promised it would do everything but write a cheque. Anyway, these days, that's so last year, it seemed a trifling consideration.
To begin with and in a roar not unlike a jet taking off, my hoover and I set about the house. The machine refused nothing but the electric blankets. It swallowed the attached cords without a murmur, scooped up nuts, screws and bolts with ease and set about enough house dust and fluff to start a compost heap.
Determined to look after this new gadget I read the instructions and learnt that the machine's efficiency relied on regular and proper cleaning of its filters. Dear Reader, I confess to making a diary note as to when the filter needed washing.See? I meant business!
Driven by this new found enthusiasm for getting things right, I duly washed one of the the filters- hung it somewhere safe to dry. So safe in fact, that I now can't remember where I put it.
I shall continue this tale once I get off the hoover help-line queue.
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

Jane Yeadon - Telling Tales: My Beautiful Computer.

Jane Yeadon - Telling Tales: My Beautiful Computer.: I'm trying to be positive about computers today. Thus the title. However, it's hard thinking of anything that is presently so obstru...



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www.janeyeadon.co.uk

My Beautiful Computer.

I'm trying to be positive about computers today. Thus the title. However, it's hard thinking of anything that is presently so obstructive, it makes the idea of cleaning the lavvy seem a more attractive alternative.
When computers first came to our workplace, I figured it was just a passing concept- as ephemeral as the word. However, computers are here to stay and at least I've learnt some things helpful about them.
Shift isn't a way to get you to move from your seat and a mouse can be friendly unless cornered.
Now- about the lavvy----




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www.janeyeadon.co.uk

A Creative Weekend.

Badaguish Outdoor Centre is easy to find if you take the road to Glenmore from Aviemore. Whilst the self- catering, here is affordable, the views of the Cairngorms are free.There's still snow on the higher slopes,and sometimes,when the light catches on them, it makes them grin with a clear tight menace.
No such threat came from our  forWords writing group,visiting the Centre last weekend. Inspiration, helped by a visit from author Alan Bissett made for lively discussion. We're all now back on the literary road, and as fortified as the Bagaduish bottle bank was.

Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

Treasurer's tale.

And here I was thinking that the role of treasurer would be a simple easy way to support Forres's For Words writing group. And so, for the main part, it has been. The occasional trip to the post office to bank the money, fit in a wee chat with the girls behind the counter on the important things of life (holidays, cat health, their health, life, the universe) has meant I've felt smug in an unaccustomed state of financial efficiency.
However, come the A.G.M and a  formal  report  is needed. Apparently something handwritten on a post it note is unacceptable as is something not on EXCEL.
It's not that there hasn't been plenty of  advice but when the computer expert chairman gets a far off look in his eye, you kinda get the message, there's a steep learning curve ahead.
Several days later with a certain amount of medicinal fortification, I reckon I've cracked the code. With a flourish, I press the print button and am asked if I want the 56 pages printed.


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Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

My Beautiful Porta-Cabin.

I see Elgin's Moray College are leaving their Forres portacabin premises. It doesn't quite rate as a historical building but I imagine, its thin walls could still tell a story or two. It's been a well used place,and thanks to the College tutors, has, for a good number of years moved the scary world of computers into everyday use by everyday people.
The library was once based here. I'm unsure if it was Mrs Angus who was in charge, but she had all the regal manner of someone who'd be the first line in command if a bomb dropped. There was neither computer, printer or photo-copier. Instead, Mrs Angus's stamp seemed to do the job and sometimes when I pass the building I listen for the sound of it. I wonder what she'd make of the present library's ability to send its users digital book.
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www.janeyeadon.co.uk

MY BEAUTIFUL LIBRARIAN.

When I was a kid, I went to a wee Highland School. Once a term we were visited by a lady who delivered a locked wooden box which had library books in it. She had a splendid nose, high colour and the  lean build of an aristocrat, a combination of which meant that as soon as she appeared at the school, the Primary Seven boys, as a man, leapt to carry in the box.
Our teacher gave out the books with the same frugality of rationed sugar. Not every book brought undiminished joy to its reader. In fact I can't recall reading anything that fed my later love for the written word.
Our librarian may have been equally uninspired because she gave up working for the local authority. Instead she bought her own van. In  summer and I suppose in the hope of engaging the interest of bored sun-bathers, she could be seen wheeling round Findhorn's sand dunes.The letters emblazoned on the vehicle's sides read 'Cherry's Mobile Library and Objet D'Arts.'
 I often wonder if she had many buyers.

www.janeyeadon.co.uk

Scottish Memories.

I got a bit of a surprise the other day. Sometime ago I wrote an article about caring for an old gentleman who was one of my patients when I was district nursing in Forres. Thanks to that nice Paul at Black and White Publishing, who'd originally asked for it, I sent it to him and he must have forwarded it to the Scottish Memories magazine..
I'd kind of forgotten about it until I went into our local newsagent, and there amongst other Scots related journal was a district nurse- and on the cover. It wasn't me and neither were the two cheerful ladies accompanying the article. The photo of one weighing a baby in a net bag was a classic and so was the other of a nurse striding along with a look of  great purpose.
The Queen's Nursing Institute supplied the images and they're having a celebratory 'do' in June in Crieff. Maybe I'll meet those magazine stars then.


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Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

The joy and shared travails of a writing group.

The Forres ForWords writing group meets every Tuesday in our local Legion Hall.  Adrian the barman runs the outfit with the smooth efficiency of someone practised in the art of using wit to keep customers happy, an ability to have the dartboard primed and the glasses suitable charged.
There's a membership over fifteen and  usually a turnout of about ten writers at each time.They come with their own particular gift and so freely share their work, I seldom return home without feeling inspired, entertained and moved.
United by the love of putting words together we watch each other's journey, recognising that it's a different route for everyone, but one worth making.


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Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

Ancient monuments.

A bonny day in Forres doesn't necessarily mean it's the same, thirteen miles up the road  and towards Grantown-on-spey, at Lochandorb. It's castle was the ancient stronghold of that nasty Wolf of Badenoch who,in a fit of pique and a general family falling 'outness,'  burnt down lovely Elgin Cathedral.
The Wolf's home hasn't fared well over the years in terms of structure but it still casts a gloomy spell over the loch's waters. It still seems to say, 'Don't mess with me.'
 Today, that message remains. I wonder what it thinks of the windfarms sprouting all around.
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Google versus Local.

-- --I'm writing about growing up on a Scottish croft after the war. I'm helped by the articles written by my mother during that time but couldn't find anything about strang holes in either collection, Leaning on a Gate or An Upland Place. Strang hole's not a bonny name.. Suitable then, I recalled for having something to do with septic tanks.
I asked my husband if he knew the word but he said that as he came from posh ,nearby Elgin, such a word would hardly figure in the drawing-rooms of his forbears.
 I consulted our Scots dictionary- strang means urine- So I was kind of getting closer. I tried Google to little avail, then I asked the indefatigable Brian who chairs our writing group and, coming from North-east Scotland, is a rural loon and kens a'thin aboot sic matters.
Strang holes he remembered vividly. He wrote a whole A4 page on the subject, and yes, my friend, it certainly is something to so with septic tanks. So. From now on I won't trouble Google. Brian's the expert.


visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

Mandy's Bonny Coos.

-- --Today I spoke to Mandy Anderson who has recently picked up a paintbrush and started to produce  wonderful artwork in acrylic. She introduced me to some of her work courtesy of her mobile which these days do everything but curl your hair, which is why I don't have one or any.

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Mandy's been doing Highland cows and they gaze up at me from the tiny screen as if they were actually there. She's a very clever girl. She's sold lots of paintings, has a few commissions and I don't doubt that Mandy's cattle will enjoy a long and happy life on some lucky person's wall.
Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk

P.S! Recently I visited Brodie CountryFare- a definite 'must' if you're looking for that special 'something' and keen on shopping in lovely surroundings fortified by some of the fine food fare in the recently refurbished restaurant. What should I see, hanging on the wall, but some of Mandy's coos. Meet Beth. Mandy's obviously met her eye to eye which is more than can be said about this writer.

L.Plate Driver.

Hello. This is my first foray into blogging so I'm considering that this is something of a test drive. So---Hand brake at the ready, mirror control and let's hope I don't have to reach for the instruction manual, namely Tez Watson, my web site designer and computer guru.
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Visit my website at:
www.janeyeadon.co.uk