laptop hide and seek

Just getting over that feeling of having a brain that has been put through one of those delightful children’s playdough machines of old, I’m guessing they have probably been banned these days alas, where those wonderful pastry like coloured blocks get pushed through that little funnel to be turned into a fantasy of strange pink spaghetti that is tasteless.

Its not been the best of mornings. I woke up with quite a real dream in my head where overnight I had been undercover, working at a spent hen processing plant/slaughter house taking tiered old Burford Brown hens out of plastic poultry lorry crates and hanging them upside down in the early hours of the morning whilst trying to save as many as I could get away with slipping the odd crying hen into a hidden hessian bag that I liberated at the end of my night shift. All very discombobulating, the red lights of the whole dreamt affair still mentally are still very vivid as is the cackling, all horrible.

Then I thought I’ve got to write a Substack this week. A process that would happen more but my phone does not let me write this sort of long form post and my ipad won’t download the substack app because in Apple tecs earth killing wisdom of making us buy more technology, my ipad is now apparently firmly out of date despite still working perfectly fine. And so the only way I can write what you are taking the kindly time in your life to read is via my also old but trusty lenovo Thinkpad laptop who is not, thankfully refusing to move with the modern times. He keeps going happily shoved into a dirty rucksack or bag for life going about on endless train journeys.

This morning its fan is quiet, for once (praise the lord) and I can hear the keys nicely as I tap all this down, radio 4 has been switched off so I cannot hear the demon words of the devils that we all know by now. The laptop has played naughtily, a game of camouflage though and did not want to be found at all this morning, hence the first lines of this post involving spaghetti brain. Its a small cottage and I cannot find my laptop, I really am going to have dementia soon.

Its the most awful dishcloth sky outside, the whole country (Uk) is in full damp, stinking dishcloth mode. It has been here for pretty much for two weeks and the wet, my hen runs are shameful. All I can do is feed them lots of lovely chicken taste bud treats in the form of black soldier fly larvae that the whole flock are completely addicted to. Eggs are abound and chaos all about too as for now everyone is allowed to roost and lay in which ever hen house they choose and liaisons between different breeds. I’m permitting a Silver Laced Wyandotte to consort a Buff cochin as I can’t be bothered to fence off areas of the paddock to become muddy awful places in the name of ensuring bloodlines, I will do this when finally the ground dries.

To be honest, I’ve become quite nocturnal which I know is not judged to be right but I draw better at night, I just come alive more in myself but this means getting to bed at 2am and then I find myself waking up at 7am. Emails, shower or bath (Judi Dench likes a bath in the morning too) and then yes, yes alright I go back shamefully to bed. And I sleep until 12pm alright I’m absolutely degusting. I am taking everything day by day all a bit ostrich head in the mud but why not, what else can we now do. I’ve sown some more sweet peas.

The first lot are in my neighbours greenhouse within its almost falling down but mercifully paned palace, given further protection by being within a mouse proof heavy glass cloche. To be honest they look very straggly for all this effort but apparently the thing no longer is to pinch their tips out as the more leaves winter sweet peas have the more they can photosynthesise, that makes sense but they look a mess. Each has many leaves and they need potting on from their root trainers. The infant batch just sown last week, that are enjoying the indoor warmth of being inside on the windowsill, are beginning to peek from the composts surface. Once most have peeked and are an inch tall, they will also go into the greenhouse under a mouse proof cloche, as they need the cold to stall their upward growth. The cold stops them going drunk and limp but focuses their efforts into their root growth that in turn becomes the peas powerhouse of flower power. Does that make any sense at all? No, Good! I’m going to post another substack today with podcast and telly links to help us all through the rest of the month.

now go, grow strong. I’m going back to bed. Arthur x