she doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.

I was thinking of this expression early on this morning and conjured up an image of a carefree woman with two pennies in her pocket and she with nothing better to do than to rub them together in a distracted sort of way while holding on to her much more valuable wallet  with substantial amount of notes in it tucked securely away in the recesses of her great big coat.

Then I grabbed another image from somewhere; that of a very poor man with nothing but the two pennies, and he rubbing them together, also in a distracted sort of way,  wondering how best to spend his last coppers.  Of course this scene took place back at least 100 years ago when pennies had more value.  They wouldn’t be much use nowadays

Both people could do better to have a worry stone in their hands rubbing it between  their fingers, one worrying about how safe her wallet is and whether that man over there with a forlorn look in his face might attack her and demand she hand over her purse which he saw her put into some inside pocket, and  the other worrying if he will have enough to buy that lovely loaf of bread in the window and the smell wafting out through the main door, frustrating him, tantalising him with its strong sweet fragrance and the promise of a full belly.  He looks over at the woman over yonder and sees she has two pennies to rub together, just like him, and throws her over his two so that at least she will eat tonight.   And she is insulted and shouts and hurls abuse at him.

No one has won in this scene.  So much for rubbing pennies together.  Give me a couple of €50 bills and I’ll gladly rub them together, not for too long though.  I want to spend them before they wear away with all that rubbing.


Sweet Autumn

The forest is screaming today with colour, the mellow yellow of the big floppy leaves of the lime trees, that line the avenue on the way to the grotto, sooths the eyes and the fiery copper and gold of the beech captivates the heart, leaving one with a smile on one’s face.  The oak leaves are stubborn enough as they cling on for dear life, reluctant to let go of their  “greeness”.  Its as if they think they are almost better off being wholly green instead of partially brown-tinged.  Unlike the beech, which is constantly peaking, once in Spring when the new leaves give it a newborn look or now when its ablaze with autumnal colours.  Its almost as if it were saying “I’m 40 and loving it”.   The sycamore leaf is perfection itself as it floats unhurriedly to the ground offering the forest floor  a bed of gold, bronze and copper, laying out a carpet of fire,  with the aid of its neighbouring sweet chestnut,  ash  and beech trees.

The Oak seems to know that it was most beautiful back in the spring and that its hay day is gone.  But, Oak, I want to tell you something.  Let me say that you do a great service to some members of the animal kingdom this time of year.  You’ve won the hearts (and stomachs) of many a squirrel who have stored away your acorns for the winter.  They are singing your praise.  They think you are the best thing that ever was to grow on this planet.  So hold yourself up high.  You mightn’t hold a candle to the beech in term of elegance and style but you’re a faithful servant and a friendly one to plant and animal alike.

dancing with the daisies

dancing with daisies

I can almost feel the heat, the buzzing of the bees and the butterflies flitting about on the breeze.  There I am, book beside me along with my handsome prince, the promise of a picnic in the bag a few feet away (there might even be a bottle of chilled white chilean wine).  We’re planning a spell away from all distractions.  Besides our books, his camera, my phone, his notebook, oh! and my glasses (necessary for reading) we are all alone with our flowers and our blue sky against the stone strewn landscape  and our sweet selves.   Our senses are buzzing, just like the bees, and tingling with the smells and sights surrounding us.  It is bliss.

Tarry a while! What’s the hurry?  The warmth and the breeze linger on.  That picnic awaits and the wine too.  The smell of  flowers fills one’s nostrils, the blue of the sky delights the heart.    This is an ancient place, the feel is not of this world but of another  in the distant past.  Each boulder, and there are many, reminds one of past influences on our planet; ice fields receding, leaving behind this debris.  What unimaginable force there must have been to leave behind such colossal rocks.  How small one can feel amidst all this greatness and magnitude!!!  And then, just as you’re feeling quite insignificant a little gentian appears out of nowhere, delicate blue, fragile looking but strong, and helps you see the strength in yourself.  It’s there dancing among the daisies and the orchids and the buttercups and all the other flowers.  So let’s dance with them, you and I, and have that bottle of wine.


cat out of the bag

Who let this cat out of the bag?  Or more aptly, who put it in the bag?  I have a sneaking suspicion that she got in there herself.  She has, what you might say, a penchant for bags.  Another curious cat!!!


I hope nobody thinks I’m getting obsessed about cats as I blog so much about them!!!