Itchy Feet

        

        I must have been born with itchy feet. 

        Since I can remember, I've been on the go. For me, it started early; earlier than I remember. My Mom told me this story.

        I was one; perhaps one-and-a-half, and she decided to take me to the beach. When she got there she laid out a blanket and hoisted me out of my fourteen-stone pram. I've seen some photos and I can tell you I looked like an Elizabethan, lady-in-waiting, bonnet and all. (The shame of it!)

        No sooner had Mom laid me down than I was off! With my terry-cloth-clad-arse wobbling in the air, I scooted for freedom, on my year-old hands and knees. Like all good Moms, mine scooped me up and put me back on the blanket but I wasn't having that; not for a second! The world was out there and I was having it!

        If you've locked horns with a toddler you'll know, there will only be one winner. This was the epitome of an unstoppable entity desiring an immovable object. I was getting in that water if it killed me, which it probably would. Eight, even ten times, she retrieved me before she decided to say, "Sod it." 

    I crawled over wave-smoothed gravel and sun-warmed sand, until the water was an inch away. She expected me to stop as soon as it hit my fingers, but she was wrong. I plowed on until the waves lapped my chin, and showed no sign of stopping. She could bear no more and scooped me from a watery death, and carried me back to shore. I howled and cried all the way up the beach. 

        From nowhere, a voice called out to my mother. "Hay, Missus!" She turned to see an ancient man watching the whole debacle from the promenade; he was beside himself with laughter. "Are yea training that yoke for the Olympics, or what?" he said, and howled some more. My Mom was so embarrassed she hightailed it for home. 

        Me? I take it as a complement. I can't say I've changed that much. I still have an unnatural attraction for the sea and have a desire to know what's over the next hill. Honestly, I think this is a gift I got from my Mom. We are both inquisitive creatures.  

        So from both of us; charge toward the horizon, and try the unknown. Life lived at it's fullest will never be regretted. 

        

Winner Winner, Chicken Dinner.

After work today I stopped off to buy a Lottery ticket. I don’t often do it but the jackpot has gone over one-hundred-and-thirty-million Euro. Oh man, imagine that? Imagine if I beat the odds and hit it. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! But don’t get me wrong, I’m not a gambler. I just enjoy the daydream. That’s worth seven Euro, surely?

So, the evening passed as normal, well, the new normal. I ate dinner, did some laundry, and settled down to watch a movie. During a break, an advert for an online casino appeared and it made me glance at the ticket poking from the top of my wallet. Was I being a fool? It took me a microsecond to make up my mind I wasn’t. I was simply paying a very reasonable fee for some entertainment. But it got the question of chance into my mind.

This weekend, some Irish pubs have opened their doors for the first time since March. I love the intimacy of strangers in a place where tomorrow seems a lifetime away. I'm a social being by nature, and choice. But tonight, I’m sitting in, watching Independence Day, with the hounds. You see, subconsciously I'd made a calculation, like when buying the Lotto ticket. Now, when I look on the choice I can consider the odds. If I chose to go out and mingle with others, what will I risk? 

If catch C-19, I've a one-in-five chance of having serous breathing problems and needing some sort of hospital assistance. If I was really unlucky, I could be part of the 2% that die. Let’s put that into perspective. My chances of winning the Euro Lottery is one in one-hundred-thirty-nine million. My chance of having long term health issues from Covid-19 is one-in-twenty. Chance of death is, one-in-fifty.

We’ve established I’m a gambler but how much of a gambler am I?

I don’t believe we can hide from all the dangers the world throws at us. I actually believe that some dangers make living more enjoyable. If Covid-19 was a long-term reality of life, would I hide away perpetually? I don’t think I would, not if it was just me. You see, I have side-bets to consider. I have two parents who I interact with daily. If I gamble and lose, their chance dying is one-in-four. ONE IN FOUR!

Am I willing to gamble my family for a few hours of mindless pleasure?

 

Not on your life!

Book Review: Persuader by Lee Child

n's Reviews > Persuader

Persuader (Jack Reacher, #7)
by 

Lee Child (Goodreads Author)

Squid McFinnigan's review

May 03, 2020  ·  edit

really liked it

I was going to give this book a 3, but the ending brought it back up a half notch, to 3.5 which I rounded up to an Ok 4.

I've read a few Reacher books so I knew what I was getting into. Jack is a man men imagine being and someone women might dream of bedding; but he has been blown out of all practical proportions. I know that description would seem to be a little stereotypical, but that is what he is. The stereotypical daydream of a reluctant hero.

This is not completely a bad thing because most of us pick up a Reacher book for a little escapism. Even though some of the action is far fetched, we will ourselves to believe for the sake of the dream. As always, this book starts with Jack acting like a puffed-up, cock-sure, know-it-all. It is only as the story moves into its final stages did I actually start to warm to him. Things should not always go the way of the hero in my opinion, because that is life. I think less than perfect characters are more likable, but in Jack R's case, even his failings are ones glossed in glory.

The start was good, very good in fact, but the story soon began to waddle like an overweight banker. We hashed and rehased a frankly unbelievable incursion into a criminals household where, Reacher, was neither liked or trusted at any stage.

Then came the endless list of gun specks. They meant not a jot to me. I have held a rifle and a shotgun, and fired both proficiently, but there my interest and knowledge ends. I found all this details boring to begin with and when the twists began to come, the details still didn't seem that important. I get it, there are lots of different kinds of guns.

So back to the good stuff. The ending. From the moment Reacher decides to make his move, Lee Child is back doing what he's great at. He grabs you by the scruff of the neck and drags you helplessly through a melee of violence you cant tear your eyes from. It is in this part of the book that Reacher stops being an overstuffed character and becomes someone you might actually hold up in admiration. It certainly rescued the book for me.

I do like Lee Childs' writing and I enjoy Reacher, but I don't think this was one of his best.

Proof Of Heaven

His head rests in the crook of my arm as I cradle him. I look down, and despite his pain, his eyes are filled with trust. He is my best friend, my closest companion, my family and the love of my life; he is more than I deserve.  

“It’ll be all right,” I assure him as my fingers stroke his silky fur. He blinks once, trying to understand, then gives my passing thumb an exhausted lick. “It will be all right,” I say again. He sighs and closes his eyes, letting the full weight of his head hang on my arm.  I look up and try to compose myself. I’m holding myself together, barely, because a grown-ass man just can’t be seen blubbering in between the displays of cat toys and rubber bones. I swallow down a lump in my throat and force my self to look away from him.

The girl behind the counter is looking down; writing or texting. I know she is doing it so she won’t have to look at me. It’s not because she is not nice; she is, it’s because she’s been witness to the journey we’ve made together. She was here on our first day, when he was only a speed-ball of fluff. She’d knelt down to rub his puppy-tummy and made such a fuss of him. That day seemed like only yesterday. How has the time gone so quickly? I guess love is the answer. He filled my days, my hours, with love; making them skip past in the blink of an eye.

The door at the end of the corridor opens and the man nods, telling me it's time. Somehow I manage to find my feet and the girl looks up from what she is doing. She watches us cross the room and my friend lifts his head. I can feel the warm, soft, weight of him shift in my arms. He's looking at her; probably hoping for a treat or a belly rub. As I draw level with her desk she stretches out a hand to him and I pause while she rubs him behind his ear; that special place. His tongue pokes out, once, twice…but he is too tired to manage a third air kiss for her. She takes her hand back and looks at me with sad eyes and I know all she wants to say, but can’t.

I shake myself mentally and move on. He holds the door open for us and I see the bed he's made on the table. It’s one of the new ones from the shop, with a fur blanket folded neatly beside it. As I pass, he rests a hand on my shoulder, as if I’m the one he is tending to, not my friend. I lay him down gently and tuck the blanket around him. He looks up at me with his huge brown eyes and I wonder if he knows what’s coming. I think he might because he always seems to know what is going on in my head, even when I don’t know myself. 

'It's for the best' I reminded myself. I'd heard all the reasons a thousand times but I just don’t want him to go. I couldn't face it without him, just couldn't. I want to scoop him up and run far far away, where old age and sickness can’t find us. I'd have done it too if I thought it would work. But this is the real world, where saying goodbye to your dog won't get you a day off work. A world where people expect you to suck it up and stop acting like a drama queen. And I could do it too, if only he was going to be there to help me.

I nod at the man who is standing by with the syringe, but I won’t look at him. I just keep rubbing my buddies head. As the needle pricks his skin, his eyes find mine and I knew he knew. I could see it. He was frightened and I didn't know what to do. I felt sucked into his eyes, as if he was staring into my soul. That was when something miraculous happened. I could feel his thoughts like I so often believed he could feel mine. I realised that all the time I thought I was minding him, he was actually minding me. His fear wasn't for him, it was for me.

I leaned close and whispered in his ear, "It's Ok, boy, I can manage it from here."

I swear he smiled at me. There was no anger, no resentment, no regret in him; just all the best things God ever created, wrapped up in a blanket of fur. His eyes flicked closed once, then once more, then opened no more.