It’s pretty quiet within the hallways and chambers of chez Strachan as I write. Apart from sporadic creaking of French doors courtesy of a late spring zephyr, along with an audio of Deano (aka Lord Avashight) the Lhasa apso licking his paws, there’s an almost hypnotic hush accompanying my scribing.
Sure, the light breeze is causing outdoor flora and fauna to sway laterally, but quite surreally it does so bereft of sound. The stillness experienced through reserved audio a strange juxtaposition to what’s playing out visually through my French doors, where zephyr induced trees and shrubs waver frantically and metronomically.
My other canine buddy, Zella, lays prostrate upon the dining room floor close to my aforementioned patio doors. The German Shepherd, whose hearing is infinitely better than yours truly’s, sporadically raising her head and opening an inquisitive eye at each sound her finer tuned lugs auscultate.
Lord Avashight (despite being mostly deaf in old age) also bolts upright at every noise he detects. He, though, not putting as much effort or intrigue into locating the source as his big sister; consequently almost immediately after the sound alerts him he lays back down to snooze.
It appears he’s decided to leave the task of pack protection to his much larger and more intimidating doggy sis; leaving him to slumber lazily on the sofa. No doubt dreaming of new ways to fleece me out of dog treats…… Not, it has to be said, that his current strategy isn’t bearing much fruit!…. Or, should I say, bacon and chicken flavoured dog chews
Apart from later embarking on a doggy perambulation, I’ve not a right lot planned today as it currently stands. There’s a bit of ironing requiring undertaking; a chore I’ll possibly wade into with the turgid indifference I ordinarily afford the task.
I commence this part of today’s vignette after a break. This literary hiatus a consequence of Ossett’s finest (Sarah) and her little grandson Rory’s late morning arrival.
During this intervening period the duo and yours truly walked the dogs to a local park, prior to returning for a chicken salad sandwich and a disagreement about whether plaid was suitable as an underwear fabric. She posited the material was fit for purpose; I on the other hand argued its interaction with pubic hair raised the jeopardy of fibres morphing into eye watering velcro-like under attire.
After lunch Sarah’s mournful looking sister Rachel arrived for a coffee and a determination turn the milk sour. The Morley girl (Rach) is an affable enough lass, apart from times she tells me to “Get fucked!” after I put her nose out of joint with some mischievous observation or other.
That being said, you’d never cotton onto this inward brio from her face, which looks as though she must produce saliva with a similar pH level to battery acid. Actually, that’s a tad unfair on Rach, who actually did smile at least once during this afternoon’s visit.
This forced grin appearing on her forty-something visage when seeing her great nephew Rory for the first time in a month. This grin not only notable in its rarity, but also because it appeared to be a catalyst to the hearth wallpaper mysteriously losing its adhesiveness and tumbling unceremoniously onto the fireplace rug.
Sarah’s younger sister was mortified at how her first smile since last week when she learned her local pub was stopping its ‘Happy Hour’, allowing her earlier access, had caused such decorative collateral damaged. I told her not to worry about as I swiftly moved her (cup of tea in hand) outside; mitigating against further wallpaper mishaps.
Young Rory was on good form, the nine month old smiling lots during his few hours at uncle Gaz’s gaff…. In all honesty, he probably feels the need to make up for the minimal chuckle quota his great aunt Rachel affords her audience.