Instant mashed potatoes it is then.

And it came to pass that the multitude stopped listening to the Word, mainly because they were starving. And the disciples said unto Him: "Better feed them or they'll be gone in a flash."
And He said: "Boil a pan of water, and into it place ye a goodly portion of instant mashed potato."
And they were sore afraid, and confused too, for was it not written that He would feed the five thousand with three loaves and five fishes?
And Peter, always the bold one, saideth:
"Shouldest Thou not fulfil the prophesy by feeding the five thousand with three loaves and five fishes?"
And He looked upon the countenance of Peter and glowered a bit.
"Listen, pal, I know about these things. The story gets round, and people can't remember if it was three loaves and five fishes, or five loaves and three fishes. Nor, verily yet, whether it was five thousand and three loaves or three thousand and five loaves, never mind the fishes. Gettest thou my drift?"
And Peter saw the truth of his words and commandedeth he of his servant:
"Nu, instant mashed potatoes it is then."

Silence

Silence is, for me, the scariest noise in the universe.
You know why?
Because there is no way to interpret it.
What does it tell you about the person you are waiting to hear from?
Away? In trouble? Depressed? Dead? Puterless?
Or, most sinister of all (and most likely explanation): no longer wanting to be in touch with you.
Personally, I would rather have an eldritch scream or a bomb through my letter box than this deafening silence.
Damn.
At least I have one huge consolation: I had long chats with both my children in the last twenty-four hours. I get the impression that they still love me. Bless them.

There's a dog in the old life yet

I constantly agonise about whether I should get another dog. Betsy, my black labrador, departed this life three years ago after a baker's dozen on the planet. Since then, I have walked less, put on weight, and had no silken ear to scratch. The other morning I stopped to chat to a farmer's wife (I am very good with farmers' wives. It's my spaniel eyes, I think), and I asked her where her dog, a feisty little terrier, was (He usually rushed out of the yard with a view to sinking his teeth in my leg). Gone, she said.
"Are you going to get another dog?" I asked.
She said 'No, it wouldn't be fair at my age'. She reckoned she would probably go before the dog did. Which disconcerted me, for I guess that she is no older than I, and probably a year or two younger (Not that I would ask, of course. My favourite comment on a lady's age was the man who said "Madam, I have no idea how old you are, but you certainly don't look it.").
There are a number of good reasons for not getting another dog, but hers is not one of them. Let me explain why. Many many years ago, when I was a young married with a good wife, two children and a mortgage, I didn't plant any trees in our garden because, I thought, I probably won't be living here very long before moving on. In the event, we were in that house for over twenty years.
So I learned my lesson, and now I try to behave as if I am going to live for ever. I will plant trees or not, get a dog or not, get married again or not, with no thought at all for the number of years left to me. I will concede, however, that I do tend these days to plant very fast-growing trees.

Blackcap

Today, as I sat on my patio sipping a glass of Frascati and nibbling on a Kalamata olive, a Blackcap (You probably know it better as Sylvia atricapilla) sang from the Ash in the corner of the garden.
You know those moments when you feel an intense sensation of something or other? Well, that's how it was with me, and I did, and I realised at moments like this how pathetically easy it is to make me happy. It really doesn't take much.

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight

I am not a sporting person. You need to know that about me. Only twice in my schooldays did I do something worthy of note, not that it made any difference to my reputation as a clumsy uncoordinated dysfunctional clodhopper. The first was when I won the "Junior Discus" at the annual School Sports Day, an achievement easily explained by the fact that I had longer arms than anyone in my year. Also, I was aiming at the geography teacher, Dag Tomlinson, the man whose name defines the word "arsehole" in the OED.
The second was when they asked me to bowl at cricket, and I took three wickets in three balls. This is equally easily explained by the fact that I had such a gawky all-over-the-place spastic run-up and delivery that the batsmen fell about laughing while the ball dribbled unobstructed up to the stumps three times in a row and knocked the bails off.
I knew at that moment that I had a career in cricket, but the masters in charge disagreed. They told me to fuck off and never come back, which is how I first got into serial self-abuse.
Listen, Charlie, you shoulda looked out for me, you shoulda bin there for me, I coulda bin a contender.

Mrs T gets straight to the point.

Dear Boris Johnson, she writes, not for the first time, I am bemused by your obsessation with female bosoms. I can only think that you were deprivated of the nimpule as a baby. "Spare the tit and spoil the child", as my late husband used to say whenever I told him to leave my dinties alone. Don't think me cruel, he just wanted to push them together and make a single mound, like that man in Third Encounters of a Close Kind.
Anyway, if you are going to make a success of being Mare of London (Shouldn't that be Stallion? I get confused very easily these days), where was I?, oh yes, if you are to make a success of being Mare of London, you need to forget all about busty substances and get a grip on yourself. But I guess is you forget the first you won't need to do the second. Haha. Just my little joke. I wasn't implying that you are a wanker, even though you are.
Blodwen Trellis Mrs, Widow, refined.

Eternity, it's just around the corner

In my dotage, I tend to spend more time contemplating Eternity and considering the good reasons for believing in God and an afterlife. Call it the John Donne syndrome - a youth spent in dissolution (Youth?? Still going on in my seventies?!), followed by quiet contemplation as the sap subsides, and a realisation that there is joy to be had at a slightly higher level than the groin.
Which is why, today, I had another of those joyous epiphanic moments when you realise that there is a Divine Purpose after all. I am talking about the Women's Singles at Wimbledon. Watching the match between Venus Williams and Naomi Cavaday, it was borne in upon me that tits and thighs like those cannot possibly be the result of a random collision of molecules.
So there. I am a Believer. Better late than never. And thank you, God.