Trefoyl's Comment Answered .....

Tefoyl, I decided my reply, to ye below Comment was getting so involved I might as well send it as a Post here.

I was explaining that every Comment here has to pass my eyes and be waved through. This is purely and simply because some times a person will forget themselves and use my real name. I was explaining that to account for having originally assured ye it was me talking.

Life, on line, is a cabaret. I like my avatar and handle. The shit I come out with just wouldn't work if I signed it " Collin Rhodes " or something, would it?

'I'm a writer' ? Heh. Forgive me but, as plenty who have followed my 'career' for a while would know by now; If half the people who told me that would buy it? I'd probably have written a book by now ;-)

Anyway, me delete this Blog? Not fucking likely. If nothing else, it gives me a place to type the word " Shit " and not get my message fucked with :p

But, as ye see, it's giving me shit again, look. Can't sign into my own fucking Blog to respond to a Comment with a Comment of my own! Shit like this pisses me off big time.

For anyone wondering why I'm not beating my way in here to say shit much anymore? Reason's simple: Summer. Eire just had Summer. Two weeks in the year when we get to pick one or two of the ever growing lists of jobs we need to get done. And go for it.

I, as it happens, managed to concrete 95% of the horse pen. I also repaired the ditch ~ The Ditch ~ and reframed / hung the door. Now it's raining again. And, guess what? My fucking back's gone Again!

Mixing concrete? Humping doors over land? No problem. Leaning forward to hitch a Dog onto his chain, as I do, several times a day. Every day of the year? You got it! So did I. Like a fucking lightening bolt. Straight in the lower spine.

Jezuss fucking christ! I dropped onto my knees like a sack of shit. I screamed so loud " Nigger " backed off and dropped to his belly, begging Insane Dad not to follow through and kill him for what he'd done so wrong. Poor Dog. I mean, one minute I'm all gently, " Here, Niggy, Niggy " and smiling. Next second I'm contorting and screaming, apparently throwing myself at him!

As it happens, I wasn't. Nor was I Meaning to throw my right knee cap at that fucking rock! But, I managed it. Fucking bulls eye! Me, rolling and screaming. Nig' shitting himself. Rest of them shouting and bouncing. Only thing missing was some stupid, Chav cunt with a fucking phone camera. I'd have been all over You Tube in minutes.

Saw a horror film, when I was a kid. Culminated in someone opening a box to find a detached, female head inside it. And this girls head was staring out, crying in this raspy voice; " Kill me! Kill me! ".

I could never work that out, as a chavvie. What could be so bad about just being a head? Ye could watch TV. Talk to people. Read shit.

My Dad was 'killed' in a motor wreck. Broke his neck and, had we had the science then that we have today? They'd probably have managed to keep him alive, from the neck up. I wonder what his last words, or thoughts might have been?

Well; The Stove's Lit .....

19th September, 2009. I've finally done what I kept telling the Dogs I would have done, had I brought some turf up from the stock shed. Been telling them that for a few nights now. Just been too busy, in the day, to even think about it. Only when I've settled down of an evening that I've realised how the clothes I've worn for ... god knows how many months now ... just aren't cutting it any more.

Thursday, I think it was. The skip had arrived the evening before and I'd thrown myself into clearing out " The Ruin " the next day. Worked so fucking hard in weather I never really noticed ~ but it didn't rain ~ that I took my shirt off. And worked up a sweat anyway.

By dark, that night, I was trying to settle down and get my dinner on. But I could feel the cold trying for a grip on me. My head felt cold. My fingers ached. My whole system was warning me that I was a cold, old sack of shit who would be in big trouble soon, if I didn't do something.

Funny how I've so long since learned to listen to my body. Thus speak back to it. Work out a strategy for us both. And thus maintain good, basic health. (Don't confuse this with Fitness! I'm not fit to fuck! But, I honestly can't remember the last time I got a cold or flu) So, I put my bod warmer on, zipped up to the chin. Put my socks back on. Inside the hour, I was ready to join the SAS. Well; At least open the door for them!

Never felt overly warm in here that night though. And, tonight, at Dean O's, he sat there on his electric radiator and announced that it was 'Getting cooler'. He didn't mean the radiator either.

So, whoopee doo; Tonight, as I muttered to the Dogs about how I Would get some of that turf up here, the penny dropped. Wasn't there a load of peat briquettes in that damn green bucket that's been sat there since for ever? ..... God damn! Looked more like a bucket full of Dingo coloured rats, I'll grant ye. All furred up by the drifting and unnoticed hairs of the Lord Chief Shedder round here. But they still burn ok.

Fuck, it's warm in here! Dogs are all flaked out. Snoring and twitching in warm contentment. Me? I'm picking at the back of my dicklo. Back of my neck's actually getting 'A Bit Warm!'

Fuck it. Less than two weeks of sunny weather all year. Now the stove's on. I think Orange Dog and I may even turn the quilt down a bit tonight though! I guess we're both at that stage now where we'd as soon laze around inside a warm room as trudge about in the fucking rain.

We've had no 'Summer'. Here comes the 'Winter'.