"The nation must not be split apart over this!"

I ratcheted a couple of notches up from my comfort zone then incredulity swamped me.

How totally presumptuous, how absolutely ridiculous, who the hell did the club committee man in black think he was pronouncing to?

Will the Welsh Nation really disintegrate over the current inglorious attempts of their rugby team. What happened to the spirit of 'The Land of My Fathers'?

The brown and cream dog, a gun dog, juvenile for its age of eight, was energetically wagging its tail while peering intently into a bush which was heavy with berries. The dog's tongue was hanging out and he was healthily panting. The focus for the dog's attention were birds who were noisily feeding on fatty bird seed blocks. They didn't seem in the least bit bothered by the furry visitor.

There was a door open at the front of the house and Terry stepped in to view and bending down he said, "Right, that's got my slipper, he [the dog] brings it out but doesn't return it." Terry whistled to his dog "C'mon, let's go in and watch the racing" and the dog, tail still furiously wagging, followed.

As we strolled down the road I observed that it is usual for dogs to retrieve, particularly pedigree gun dogs, not their masters. It was not difficult to come to the conclusion that the dog was, in all likelihood, a lot brighter than its owner.

There was a dusting of snow to be seen on the peaks of the Northern Highland mountains when we passed through that way on Thursday 27th September. It is early for snowfalls.

Since then, there have been pictures in the newspapers of visitors muffled up in cold weather clothing, walking their dogs in snow. The dogs were not muffled up for wintry conditions in doggy coats, but the four-legged friends did seem to be enjoying pulling their humans along the walkway, leaving a snow wake behind them.

I expect there will guarded joy in the Cairngorms, the hope being that the early snow fall is a portent of a sporty winter with lots of snowboarding, skiing and up on the various plateaux some open air skating.

We have just completed a 700 miles round trip to arrive at a godforsaken hour in an equally god forsaken airport that had nothing open to help keep us awake at the godforsaken time we had to get there. Again, there was nothing open when we left, in that forlorn place. We found some grotty coffee in an all night garage which was not closed off by the innumerable road works we encountered throughout the journey.

Yesterday, we were, as to be expected,like zombies; mind you, though we tried getting a bit of rest, the place we were in was ever so cold and with our body clocks all over the place, we just could not warm up to obtain any quality sleep. Last night was better, being dog tired, much cosier I certainly slept and till late this morning.

We arrived home at tea time. I am really looking forward to sleeping in my own cosy bed tonight, on my own pillows. And hey! Even with that ghastly journey,I managed to finish the complex book I was reading.

The 'serious' side of the BBC news programmes (radio 4) has managed to tread very successfully, very publicly, where it did not obviously tread before - in the schardenfreude, and it is doing it pretty regularly. The kind of twisted headline grabbing announcements prior to working on a chat slot, are sickening.

This morning there was a prime example; a fireman, it was announced, saw a woman in trouble in The River Tay, Scotland. His boss, it was announced, refused him permission to attempt to save her but he went in anyway. This was an absolute misrepresentation of the facts.

Though not used to being interviewed by devious media types, the fireman refused to be led by the media. His story was outlined as follows;

Yes, he asked permission to assist the woman, as there are clearly detailed guidelines what on-duty firemen may do.

Yes, he waited while he and his boss assessed the situation and realised the poor woman could not be left unaided.

Yes, it was agreed the fireman could attempt a rescue but with a harness on himself and another to put on the woman in trouble in the water.

The fireman went to the rescue of this woman. While swimming to her, his harness line broke. She was too exhausted to help herself get in to a harness. With the river in spate, the man swam keeping the woman's head above water, shouting at her to keep her at a level of consciousness. He arrived at some steps with the woman where, both people were hauled onto dry land.

Okay, the BBC couldn't dirty dig in there any further so asked the fireman for his opinion of the drowning incident last week; The Brave Drowned Boy http://myword.blog.co.uk/

The man's answer was circumspect. Obviously there was no further media-made polemic to be developed there then.

It was not of great interest that normal post-incident enquiries and procedures were effected ... so, the next tack was to suggest the fireman had been advised he was going to be disciplined for his actions.

This media lot are a disgrace! They only know how to create dirt. It's not quality investigative journalism, they would not know what that means. A truffle pig would be more refined, at least it is seeking something that exists.

This is not my week!

First my credit card was fraudulently used for gambling in America; the repercussions have still to be finally resolved.

Today, Saturday 22nd September 2007, an ATM did not give me any money though my card was returned. My account, has been debited with the money the machine did not spew out.

Things happen in threes; I am determined to break the chain of events, so folks I am off to consult the oracle and re-determine my fate.

The pain of grief is palpable to us all. The poor parents who lost their brave son while he tried to save his step-sister from drowning, my sympathies go out to them and his sister. What a wonderful child this boy was.

There are questions about the unfortunate incident that may have been dealt with, within the enquiry, but like most people what I have heard has been provided by the media, mostly the radio news programmes. It means that there are many facets of the case we shall not have good knowledge about.

One fact is clear to me, contrary to what the grief-stricken lady said, not everyone would have jumped into dark unknown waters. A non-swimmer, we could conject, (and there are many people who cannot swim) may have been able to try other tactics, but jumping into water of unknown depths, would have been foolhardy in the extreme and would have added to the disaster that had already unfolded.

It is said that two fishermen, presumably swimmers, were able to save the girl but the boy had disappeared into the murky depths. It is also stated by the police that the boy was nowhere to be seen when the community officers arrived.

Community officers have a different role to fully fledged police officers; it has not really been clearly spelt out what their roles and responsibilities are. This in itself has been a confusion for this poor mother. It still does not make her presumption correct, that anyone would have jumped into the water to save a child, a child that, we are told, had already disappeared under the water.

Would the situation have been any different if a qualified police officer arrived on the scene first; would s/he have been able to jump in to the dark waters? Do all trained police officers have to be able to swim to a certain standard and have water life-saving qualifications?

From the official information given, it appears that the community officers reacted appropriately and obtained the assistance of trained officers who could take the required action.

I can only surmise that police divers or officers with the right equipment and skills were summoned, though I did not hear it said. News programmes work to time and to effect. The listeners/viewers will be given an edited version of what is said, with emphasis placed on that which offers most effect. This is how all media works.

There were three automated phone calls for me today. I was home to answer the third one at about quarter past six tonight. I breathed down the phone to silence, then I coughed, which activated a robotic voice.

Pardon me fellow life traveller, if I am offending a real recorded voice message. In every way it sounded like a digitised voice pattern, the kind you get when you are told you've won a prize and... "please phone [our] premium line number to claim it".

On behalf of my credit card company, the voice said, I should confirm my name, as dictated to me by the disconcerting and disconnected voice. Next, sound out my date of birth in a particular style. Security alarm bells rang and that's when I disconnected from the call.

Any sensible person would call the credit card company help desk, wouldn't they. Imagine my surprise and irritation when I was connected in reverse, to the same robotic voice system I had just abandoned.

Eventually a real person confirmed the credit card company had called me on their automated system and failing a response from me, may have emailed or found other means for contacting me. Why?

A nice lady on the credit card company security desk asked me some questions. My credit card had been used all day today in America for on-line gambling, casino transactions, oh, and for good measure, in two toy shops. The amount debited against the card had not yet been totalled up; perhaps that's just as well.

The issue about dodgy sounding phone calls will have to wait for another day, guys. My card has been skimmed.

Looking through the cream coloured slats of the partially open venetian blinds that covered a large picture window by which I was sitting, I saw the outdoor ambient temperature changing. Yes- I saw the change. It was not the everyday descension from day into night, sunlight into moonlight, it was a definite difference of seasonal weather. It seemed that one moment there was a gentle balmy breeze of late summer and in the next moment, it had made way for the sharp edginess of early winter.

As I gazed out into the early evening light, I observed a massive shower of diverse autumn coloured leaves swaying gracefully as they fell to the ground. I thought such scenes were only manipulated in films but yet, here I was, witness, to this visible change in seasons.

"Grr, ugh, oh, Grr, ugh"
I peered to see where these grunts and and groans came from and saw a woman I knew climbing some steps.
"Are you alright?" I asked.
"It's nothing that a bit of oiling of ma knees wouldn't sort out" She grunted with some effort, her breath being rationed for the last step and another..."Ugh, Grr."

I hovered nearby. When the woman finished her climb, she stopped at the top platform and took a deep breath and flashed me a smile.
"I could've gone the other way, it's easier with no stairs to climb", she explained,
"but, if I'd gone that way, I wouldn't have anything to groan and grumble about would I!"

We had good weather here today. I pegged up lots of laundry on my washing whirlygig, to dry in the fesh air. The majority of the space seemed to be taken up with sprog's socks. Now I come to think of it, how one person can get through so many pairs of socks in such a short space of time, as there is, between laundry washes- beats me.

I've got used to sprog being away and my weekly routines have been turned topsy turvey since sprog returned home. You just forget what it's like to have the extra body around; how can anyone say that having an extra adult about is the same work as for two? I've yet to fathom those wise words. I remember one mum saying to me once, that someone had told her, having a third baby (she was pregnant with number three at the time) was no more work than looking after two. She was still very annoyed at being 'led on' when the youngest was zooming around five years later!

On carefully scrutinising the dried socks, I noticed that some pairs were threadbare at the heels and needed to depart to where worn out socks should go. No wonder sprog has been suffering with sore heels, with her new Doc Marten boots. Somehow though, I don't think a reduction in the number of pairs of socks is going to make much difference to the load going through the wash at any one time.

At a Hebrew school, Mr Goldblatt, the new teacher, finished the day's lessons. It was now time for the usual question period.

"Mr Goldblatt" announced little Joey, "there's somefin I can't figger out."
"What's that Joey?" asked Goldblatt.
Well accordin' to the Bible the Children of Israel crossed the Red Sea, right?"
"Right."
"An' the Children of Israel beat up the Philistines, right?"
"Er - right."
"An' the Children of Israel built the Temple, right?"
"Again, you're right."
"An' the Children of Israel fought the 'gyptians, and the Children of Israel fought the Romans, an' the Children of Israel wuz always doin' somthin' important, right?"
"All that is right, too," agreed Goldblatt, "So, what's your question?"
"What I wanna know is this," demanded Joey. "What were all the grown ups doin'?"

FROM THE DESK OF ANNE MARTIN

Can someone advise please. Is there not an issue of data protection being ignored by Blog deciding to publish and announce everyone's birthdays so greetings can be sent to the birthday person. Is data privacy now being overriden and with what rights; there is certainly no permission that I am aware of? I accept that some people may like the new birthday greetings feature, but has anyone been given the option of opting in to it?

There are a number of things I do not like about the new lay out, its cluttered look for one. The automatic publishing of other peoples' media from the friends lists adds to the clutter.

I dislike the loss of a readily visible newly published blog titles list, which is the means by which people browse and recruit friends. Does blog want us to be a community of friends or not?

Removing my wisdom tooth on Thursday became a marathon. The surgeon was grateful for my 'tolerance'. He needed rest breaks as much as I did. It really should have been a general anaesthetic job but the problem that arose, apparently did not show up on x-ray.

I swear the man used heavy duty pliers. "Don't worry about the noises" he said to reassure, as he clicked and crunched in my head,
and with said tooth being increasingly more exposed, even being pulled and pushed some more, the perishing tooth held on.

So, eight injections later and more than an hour in, the offending tooth eventually released its hold on me. "This is it," said my man, holding up the blooded little offender that had caused this unpleasant orthodontic exercise. By the time I was stitched up I had been in the dental surgeon's chair for an hour and a quarter

I was told I looked like a Cabbage Patch doll. I thought those dolls were quite cute in a toothless kind of way, now I am not so sure. I am not toothless. Yeah, okay, one side of my face has swelled up; I had hoped ice packs would have reduced any swelling. Perhaps the lack of visible bruising is the result of the cold compresses.

The discomfort has been memorable and reminds me of the time I had my two lower impacted wisdom teeth out simultaneously under a G.A. followed by three days in hospital. I could just about manage fluids through a straw.

The up side of this current experience is, that I can at least open my mouth a little and use one side of it. Mushy and soft foods are high on my menu. I do feel a bit groggy, but then it is to be expected as I have been bashed about quite a bit.

What did I come to my blog for today? I have been so taken aback with the new, new look, I forgot completely what I wanted to do. My link page is again no use, I can't find my way in. I don't recognise anything that is useful. I found my last blog entry, I got to my media and my profiles; somehow, I found my way in to write these thoughts.

The only blog page I recognised was Blog from Germany whose page was like mine was two days ago.

Can anyone supply me with instructions on how to find my own blog page please?

This morning I listened to the sexuality guru-ess, Sheer Hite, being interviewed on BBC Radio 4 about adult female sexuality and behaviour. A second woman participated in the interview.

As the discussions got underway I was struck by the sleepy monotonic voice Ms Hite had. I am not sure I could have stayed awake for too long had she been giving a lengthy talk. Perhaps, Sheer Hite's voice was hypnotic and I mused how her favourite subject of human sexual behaviours lay well with the ability to hypnotize.

Then there was the not so small point of the other female speaker in the discussion who also studied human sexual and communication behaviours - with the added extra for this interview of sexual mores - and in my half connected state, she seemed to be mostly agreeing with Ms Hite's hypotheses. Without going to peep at the BBC website, I could not tell anyone the name of the other person. Is that awful or what?

As far as I remember, the topic centred on the taboo of talking about lesbianism, what was sexually off-limits for mothers talking to daughters and vice versa. However, there was no dealing with substance, no interesting argument. There was nothing said about the effect of cultural differences even between varied regions of the Americas, Europe and ourselves,

The cracker that jerked me out of my mumbling disagreements and other thoughts, directed at the radio, was the revelation that Sheer Hite had been looking at a particular age range. "Ooh what? Now it's getting to the nitty gritty", I thought. Yes! Hite had been focussing on a particular age group. What was it? That we shall never know, unless we go to listen to the two ladies talk (wherever that might be) or probably read Hite's latest foray into sexual psychology literature.

What a let down - in general, a vacuous interview.

Being born isn't necessarily easy, teething can be a pain, growing up has many pitfalls, mid-life can have its crises; being old and infirm is very tricky.

Today, I bumped shoulders with the manageress of the hotel where I recently inflicted a nasty egg-sized bump onto my frontal lobe which is now a raised and tender contusion.

Yes, she had heard about the incident from the barmaid. The expression on her face was a picture of disgust when I said I'd been asked to state what happened in writing, which turned into a look of horror when she saw the evidence of the injury. Knowing this girl as I do, I have no doubt about her sincerity and I began to feel a whole lot better.

http://myword.blog.co.uk/2007/08/31/i_bumped_my_head~2901982

Hubby and I went into the hotel restaurant to have a morning coffee and a scone. The manageress served us. In-between times other staff were solicitous. The scones were freshly made and had a good flavour.

"No" hubby was told when he asked for the bill, "have it on the house"

My faith in human nature has been restored.

The name Katyousha is such a lovely one. Katyousha, conjours up for me something sweet, delightful, thoughtful and generally pleasant. But this pretty pet name has become synonymous with lethal rockets.

'Little Kate' was a rocket launcher which, when mounted on a heavy duty vehicle fired many multiples of rockets (forty-eight) up to four miles. It was nicknamed 'Stalin's Organ' by the Germans. The early Katyoushas' deadly efficacy in creating fear amongst the enemy, is credited by some, with the relief of the city presently known as Volgograd but was then called Stalingrad.

The current description of the 'Katyousha Rocket' appears to refer to many types of flying missiles that have their own engines and explosive warheads. They are easily moved around on vehicles from which they can be launched; this makes the katyousha launchers and rockets easy to hide. It makes this type of artillery an ideal guerilla warfare tool.

I now return to the name. The shortened form of Ekaterina (Katherine or Katerina)is Katya, and the pet name is Katyousha.

There is a well known and lovely Russian love song called Katyousha, which was recorded and memorably performed by Ivan Rebrov in his distinctive full base voice in the 1970's. It is a song about a girl who is waiting longingly, for her love to return from from military service. Sadly, the beautiful name,the lyrics and tender sentiments have been hijacked for something entirely sinister.

It must be the quote of the week! Heard on BBC Radio 4 in a discussion on a programme called Excess Baggage with Sandy Toksvig this morning, Saturday 1st September 2007.

The guest was explaining how the militant arm of ETA, the Basque separatist movement came about (dare I say, 'in' Spain).

A group of academics, who were probably disillusioned with the failed efforts of their forefathers to separate the the Basque regions from Spain came together to evaluate the issues and the group developed from that. Then the guest added, " It didn't do a lot, it took seven or eight years before it killed anyone."

You could almost sense the shrug of the shoulders with this nonchalantly given throw away line.