Usksider's lovely photographs of various places often prompt me to go and find out more about these towns and villages. Only of course, being me, I tend to go out in search of the not so obvious. So rather than searching, say, for pubs, shops or local landmarks, my interest tends to be in the direction of 'What sort of zany things happen in these places?' Or 'Just how loopy does it get around there?'

With Tenby I managed to find the story of the very annoyed monks and the emotional singing visitor. THen Usksider began showing some beautiful photos of Chepstow, and I managed to find this in an archived copy of the Guardian (5th January 2000)

'Staff at a 24-hour supermarket in Chepstow have been ordered to watch out for sleepwalkers pushing trolleys around. '

Can you imagine the mental pictures this brings? All over the not-so-sleepy little town people are rising, glassy eyed from their beds and legging it down to the local supermarket, there to begin pushing trolleys up and down the aisles.

There are so many questions the newspaper doesn't answer. How many sleepwalkers are there in the store in question? And what do the staff do once they've identified them? Do they have a special recovery room where the sleepwalkers are ushered in then gently placed on beds so they can sleep it off? And what do they think when they wake up in a strange supermarket, tightly gripping a trolley and surrounded by baked beans and scrappy bits of cardboard?

Even more sinister - what did those sleepwalkers do before the supermarket was open 24/7?

This morning, at breakfast and quite out of the blue, Barney, one of our St Bernards, announced that he was going to study algebra.

Barney in his pre-academic days

It is a great tradition in the Penry household that our dogs should attend that great seat of learning known as Caca Brown’s Academy. However, we had not expected that Barney would wish to leave his place at the fire (not to mention the table) so soon.

Apparently Barney has been studying algebra in his spare time. So far his knowledge extends thus:

X equals suet ball

B equals birdie

A equals aggro

And brackets usually indicate a bollocking.

Ho hum, that boy has a lot to learn…..

I spent a good part of yesterday making Homer, our Bassett Hound a nice warm winter coat. Bassetts are essentially very large dogs on very short legs, so it’s difficult to find a ready made coat that will actually fit him. And he’s grown so quickly in the past year (he’s only fourteen months now) that last year’s stuff just won’t fit any more. So we made a paper pattern and I dusted down my trusty sewing machine and got to work.

Homer is now very happy and has been dashing round the garden instead of shivering by the fire. I don’t need the Met Office to tell me that we’re experiencing something of a cold snap at the moment, although I seem to remember not so long ago they were wittering on about how we were going to have an incredible Indian Summer (due no doubt to global warming.)

Well, we haven’t, have we? And before anyone says that we still might get a warm snap, a warm snap in October is called St Luke’s summer, not an Indian summer.

Now the Met Office, undeterred, is at it again, forecasting a mild and dry winter, and hedging their bets by saying that while it will be "noticeably colder" than the mild winter of 2006-07, the chances of a prolonged cold snap are low.

Let’s look at that for a moment. In other words, we, the peasants may sit and shiver – but they’re telling us it’s not really cold. Or if it is cold, that it won’t be cold for long. Yeah, right. Talk about trying to have your cake and eat it.

Besides, I don’t remember last year as being particularly mild. We had terrible snow, were snowed in for two days, and at one point had to form a human chain just so my daughter and her family could get into the house without slithering off down the hill.

The weather last February was atrocious. We had massive fuel bills. (Yes, all right, I know they’re always putting the prices up, but we were freezing, and I’m the sort who’ll happily wear an overcoat indoors rather than put the heating on.)

You see this whole business of watching the weather shouldn’t be left up to the ‘experts.’ We can all experience weather for ourselves. Look around you:

The holly trees in the garden are smothered in berries this year.

The owls are out and about like never before snapping up small furry rodents that are taking a chance to go foraging at night because they are so hungry.

And if anyone tells you they’ve just spotted a load of waxwings, start dusting down your sledges and ice skates.

But the Met Office ploughs on regardless. According to their records, snowy winters are becoming a rarity in the south east of England. Shock! Horror!

Look, snowy winters were always something of a rarity in the south east of England. That’s why the bookies would let you bet on a white Christmas each year – because the chances of it happening were so remote.

Then you’ll see the papers swooning about how plants are flowering strangely. Some may be, admittedly, but this isn’t anything new, either. Folklore is full of such references, for example, ‘When apples trees have fruits and flowers on the same branch, death will follow.’ So it’s really nothing new.

So perhaps not only should we be asking ‘Who are they kidding?’ It might well be worth our while to also ask just why they are trying to kid us.

I have to admit that this story has been inspired by Usksider’s wonderful series of photos about Tenby in South Wales. I went there first when I was a child, and probably too young to appreciate it, but have always wanted to make the trip to nearby Caldey Island by boat.

The monks on Caldey Island are Cistercians, which for those of you who have never done any monking (that’s me then) are a strict, observant branch of the Benedictine Order.

They originally set out to farm the island, but nowadays make a lot of perfume which they sell to tourists. They also allow individuals and groups ‘wishing to spend a few days of quiet and reflection’ or wishing to ‘experience more fully the spiritual life of the island’ to stay as paying guests.

In January 2000, according to the Guardian newspaper, one of these overnight visitors apparently got a bit tired and emotional and spent all night singing.

Unfortunately the monks were unable to complain about the noise as they take a nightly vow of silence.

I often say ‘It can only happen in Wales.’ Well this little story didn’t actually happen in wales, but several Welshmen were certainly involved.

As with so many Welsh stories, you first have to imagine the scene. A carload of slightly inebriated builders were driving past Prince Charles’ estate near Tetbury in 2003 on May the 1st which just happens to be the pagan festival of Beltane. I mention this because it may possibly have a bearing on what happened next.

According to one of the men, "We had a few drinks after work and we were driving home when we passed the entrance to a large estate." Okay, we get the picture. They then drove up a track, parked on the verge, walked about 150 metres and climbed over a four bar metal fence into the estate. So far, so good.

The fact that the estate belonged to the future heir to the throne and nobody seems to have batted an eyelid might be a tad worrying, but we’ll assume that apart from a bit of whispering, these blokes were keeping a low profile.

'We spotted a gazebo at the end of a beautiful tree lined grass walkway that led directly to Highgrove House. We took some photos for a bit of a laugh so I could show my mum because she loves the Royals,’ one of the men explained. Ah, bless. Of course, it still raises the question why none of the security guards (if indeed there are any) didn't notice the odd flash bulb going off in the middle of the night.

It’s the next comment that gets interesting. "We took it in turns for everybody to pose for pictures sitting outside the gazebo and then one of the guys started running around naked." As you do.

In fact, they spent a good half an hour romping (some reports said ‘frolicking’ ) about, stark naked before making off ‘unchallenged’ with a plastic owl.

The choice of words in the report, which you can read for yourself here

http://archive.stroudnewsandjournal.co.uk/2003/5/7/1712.html

is interesting. Why a plastic owl? I mean, the Prince of Wales is a keen nature boy, you’d think he’d have a couple of real owls on his estate, wouldn’t you? Even we Penrys are host to a number of tawny owls who terrorise the neighbourhood (and are alleged to have made of with Mr Sarcophagus Jones’ toupee – though that’s another story).

The Prince’s spokesman stepped in to correct any false impressions about the said owl. It was apparently not just a plastic owl, it was a bird scarer. So that’s all right then. At a stroke, Prince Charles was immediately cleared of all charges of having really naff taste.

But just who was likely to challenge a thief who made off into the night bearing (in all senses of the word) a plastic owl? And what exactly constitutes a challenge, I wonder? Halt, who goes there. Friend or fowl? (Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself there!)

I suspect Beltane had something to do with the naked romp. It would have been a great defence had it ever got to court, but the police merely cautioned one man and released the others without charge.

You see the trouble I take, dear readers, just to brighten up your day and mine!

Apart from a pair of trousers in a sale I didn't find anything I liked. I have agreed to avoid green because it is traditionally an unlucky colour not just for the bride, but for guests too.

I saw a number of red hats in the shops, but apart from their price which was exorbitant, I just cannot get the old saying 'Red hat, no drawers' out of my head.
Other people might not remember it, but I do. So it's back to the drawing board for the moment.

I did try on one of those fascinator things - all feathers and beads but one of my daughters said it looked as though I'd just shot a parrot, and I have to admit she was right!

As I will be one of the shortest people at the wedding, I thought a nice hat might be just the ticket. Unfortunately everything I tried on made me look like a short, dumpy, malevolent toadstool on the move.

Mr Penry is now toying with the idea of dressing up as a chimney sweep...

You can see it's going to be an interesting wedding, can't you?

There is a wedding coming up in the Penry family..... so today I am going to look for something to wear. My plans for a corsage of fly agaric mushrooms have been met with looks of disbelief and cries of 'Over my dead body!' So Tylluan is going to have to be a tad more discreet in her dress. That said, Mr Penry is threatening to wear one of the following (I think he intends visiting a fancy dress shop soon):

1. Top hat and tails (this will make him over 7 feet tall)
2. The uniform of a Russian submarine captain (don't ask)
3. A Welsh kilt (now spelled Cilt - heaven help us.)

Of course, he will look incredibly handsome in any of them, but if he goes dressed as a Russian then what do I go as? A torpedo? A periscope?

Also I am intending to take quite a lot of photos.... so any advice on that front would be most welcome!

P.S. All Penry weddings tend to be small and fun.

Call it synchronicity if you will.... On the weekend Miramazing posted a cartoon about the survivor of a Nazi concentration camp, and if you look at my first blog of today you will see that I've referred to that as an example (inter alia) of how people are dehumanised and robbed of their psychic soul by being given numbers rather than their names.

Now I see in an online newspaper yet another aspect of this time in history. Have a look at this: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=483460&in_page_id=1770
If you can't click on this link (because I really haven't got the hang of how to do this properly yet! ) please just copy and paste it into your browser window.

A former concentration camp guard ends up living next door to a survivor (from the same camp)??? If you made it up as part of a piece of creative writing, nobody would believe you!

Miramazing posted a very powerful cartoon over on her blog on the weekend about the Holocaust. It also raised some interesting side-questions about the nature of identity and what I call the naming of things.

When we give something or someone a name, we help acknowledge its psychic soul. Those of you who enjoy writing probably know how difficult it can be to find just the right name for a character – yet it’s important because the name helps give that character life within the novel’s pages.

In the same way people have named their cars, bikes, engines, washing machines and even warplanes have given names by the people who use them. This tacitly acknowledges that we are in a partnership with the machines in our lives; treat them well and they may repay us by going the extra mile.

I find it with musical instruments, too. When I’ve had to play a piano that by rights should have been scrapped long ago, I always make the effort to go and talk to it, to remind it what a great piano it once was, that it still has heart and can still produce more than the sum of its parts might suggest. I always – without fail – found that such instruments can be coaxed to play better.

Back to Mira’s cartoon. The idea of giving the inmates of concentration camps a number instead of a name is also rooted in magic. By giving an (apparently) inanimate object a name, we give it a psychic soul. By removing a name (especially from a human being) we are, in effect, denying that person’s soul, rendering them powerless.

The effect of this is that you make people less than human, and once you do this, you can behave savagely towards them without feeling the normal human emotions. It’s closely linked with my recent posts about thought forms too. Creating an identity gives further shape to thought forms; denying identity destroys people’s humanity.

Like so much in the occult, it’s a huge subject. Thanks for the cartoon, Mira!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

The great thing about writing is that sometimes you come across a story that NO-ONE could ever have invented. Something so surreal that you have to pinch yourself to make sure it’s true. And being Wales, these things happen more often than you’d expect…

A few years back a Christian charity decided to bring the ‘real meaning of Easter’ to the nearby town of Porth. They hired an actor to play the part of Jesus, covered him with fake blood and took him to a derelict bit of land where the shiny new Jobcentre now stands. Then they nailed him up. (I’m assuming they used fake nails but I wouldn’t bet on it.) They then placed a plaque beside him saying ‘Look what Jesus had for Easter.’

So far so good. The press described it as ‘shocking’, and apparently some shoppers were ‘in tears.’ The Christian charity was unrepentant. It was meant to be shocking, they said. Their spokesman (somewhat smugly) added, "We've had hurls of abuse, swearing, we've had people looking disgusted, there have been children crying," as though that in itself was praiseworthy.

I still wonder to this day what ‘hurls of abuse’ are, exactly. Bad English, certainly. But I digress. As for the spectacle, maybe they were trying to get their point across, but I don’t think going out of your way to disgust people is really all that praiseworthy.

Although I’m a pagan, I don’t have any problems with most religious displays or processions. And if I want to celebrate the Green Man, Hecate or whatever, I should be able to expect the same in return. However, the Christian group had reckoned without the clearly godless lot in the little town. For somebody phoned an ambulance.

Yes folks, on Good Friday of the year 2000, someone dialled 999. Try and imagine the phone call….(and if you can imagine the accents, so much the better!)

‘Emergency service. Which service do you require?’
‘Ambulance please.’
‘And what seems to be the problem?’
‘There’s a man being attacked in the main shopping street. Oh my God, but it’s terrible. He’s covered in blood! Blood everywhere!’
‘There’s a man bleeding in the street?’
‘Yes, it’s terrible. He’s been attacked. It’s shocking, terrible to see…' then at a whisper, ‘they’ve even put nails in his hands!’
‘I see. He’s got a nail in his hands. Fingernail? Iron nail?’
‘Some sort of metal, I think.’
‘I see. Any idea how that happened?’
‘Well they got this bit of wood, see, and took a bloody big hammer…. It’s terrible I tell you, barbaric! And not one nail, either. Two! Hundreds!’

[At this stage I should draw your attention, gentle reader, to the theatricality of the Welsh Valleys accent which has been known to turn a grocery list into high drama.]

‘I see. They’ve nailed someone to a piece of wood.’ You’d really think the penny would have dropped by now, wouldn’t you? ‘Is he conscious? Are the perpetrators still there?’
‘Purple traitors? Oh, I dunno about that… But he’s in a helluva state, poor fella. It’s horrible, horrible I tell you! I don’t know how much more he can take! Get a move on, dammit, or the poor man’s going to bleed to death!’
‘All right, we’ll get someone round there as soon as we can.’

And still nobody twigged what was happening. On Good Friday. And the paramedics duly turned up (and according to onlookers, so did the police.)

If you want to read the whole sorry story, go to:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/721847.stm

But it’s the final line of the report that really has me in hysterics: ‘While some were "disgusted" others agreed that it showed what the Bank Holiday was all about.’

Hmm… Allegations of Grievous Bodily harm, weeping shoppers and crying children, ‘hurls of abuse’, calling the paramedics… Sometimes I think I must be on a different planet!

Luckily for us, thought forms are usually short-lived, perhaps no more than an hour or two. To create something more substantial requires a certain intense state of mind. Five year olds whose peers have excluded or bullied them are quite capable of brooding on this and coming up with an imaginary friend as a solution. For the duration of their existence these thought forms are as real to them as anyone at school or home.

However although we are all capable of creating these forms unintentionally, if you actually set out to create one you should observe certain precautions. There are some pagans, witches and would-be occultists out there who seem to think all you need is a hot soak in a bath surrounded by rose petals. Nonsense.

This may be enough if you are just playing at magic (and even then I have my doubts) but with thought forms there is an added hazard - if you create something which for some reason can’t reach its intended destination it is just as likely to come back and attach itself to you!

So from the outset you have to try and maintain a good, healthy aura. Not only is this a form of psychic self-defence (since it denies negative thought forms anything they can relate to) it also prevents them from returning and gaining a foothold in your auric field.

This idea of creation and return is important. It explains why some people seem to have a cloud of gloom and doom around them, why they thrive on disaster – because try as they might, the thought forms are all but smothering them. It’s become a habit. To break free of it will require long effort and patience. And like recovering alcoholics, you have to spend the rest of your life avoiding whatever it was that caused the problems in the first place.

Understanding how thought forms works can also lead us into a better understanding of hexing. You can hex yourself accidentally or unintentionally. You can dwell on unpleasant, gloomy or negative things so much that your auric field – which can normally be relied upon to protect you against most things – is shattered and broken.

Although many people claim that once you stop thinking about something it ceases to exist in the psychic world, in my experience this is a tad optimistic. Thought forms only cease to exist once the originating thought has lost its energy. Unless of course, they decide to return to sender (You!), or have been picked up by someone else’s mental energy or attach themselves to energies collected in a particular geographical place.

Haven’t you ever noticed that some places have a really bad – or good – atmosphere?

Couldn't resist posting this. I'd gone into a cafe to meet a friend earlier today, and there was a woman at the counter going through everything on the salad bar... 'I'll have a bit of this.... I'll have some of this...'
Suddenly she stopped and pointed. 'What's that?'
'Humous.'
For a moment she paused, dumbfounded. 'Nah, I don't like fish.'

It takes all sorts, as they say.....

It being the autumnal equinox today, I thought it was time to write about some serious pagan stuff. Well, sort of serious. I hope the days are long gone when I ever took myself too seriously.

So I am going to start talking about the unintentional magic of thought forms, how you create them, how they affect you, how they can be made to work for (and against) you. I did a talk on this earlier in the year for Cardiff University’s Pagan Society. It’s quite a long piece, so I shall split it into manageable chunks for the blog.

In my humble opinion, thought forms are an unjustly neglected aspect of magic. It’s no exaggeration to say that anyone can create a thought form – we do it every day, whenever we experience strong emotion or stress. So since most of us are already dealing with these things on a regular basis, it’s important to understand a bit about them.

If you wanted a formula to create a thought form, it would look something like this:

Mental energy (thought) + desire or passion (emotion) + elemental essence (matter which is all around us) = artificial elemental (thought form)

This may sound complicated but in practice it isn’t. You can create a thought form without any special equipment or knowledge. Five year olds do it all the time whenever they create an imaginary friend or play situation.

Why does it work? Partly it’s because of the way we are made. Every one of us has both a mental and a physical body. The physical body is no problem - we can see it and touch it, but the mental body is made up of many layers (sometimes called auric bodies). Psychics often see these as vibrations of colour and form.

Every single thought we have originates in the mind of our physical body and then passes through our mental body before being projected out into the world beyond us.

But although we may have discarded the thought, out in the big blue yonder there is something called the elemental essence which can pick up on these discarded thoughts, and give them some sort of physical existence.

The elemental essence is a life-form of low intelligence, which can be animated by human (and sometimes animal) thought. It is all around us, and one of its main occupations is finding and absorbing thought forms.

The trick in creating our own (deliberate) thought forms is to create the thoughts we want and make sure they are picked up by a suitable elemental essence.

Conversely, the trick in avoiding the creating of harmful thought forms is to avoid creating thoughts that might damage us or others.

Easier said than done!

Seeking the Green by Tylluan Penry, published soon by Capall Bann. For more info please watch this space!

Well, it's almost a UFO story. I have seen what I think are UFO's on two occasions, once about thirty years ago, and the last time about six years ago, near my house. Where we live seems quite a good area for spotting them, but I don't seem to have much luck.

Well, years ago when my children were quite young, I decided to take them out star watching. So we set out for the park with star charts, a book and a torch covered with a piece of red balloon so its light didn’t blind us while we were trying to look at the charts (apparently it can be really difficult to adapt to torchlight and then view the sky again).

We may not have been much good at identifying the constellations, but it was a lovely evening and we were enjoying ourselves. We'd tried before out in the garden but there was far too much light pollution. Everything looked orange from the street lamps, so I thought we'd have better luck in the park.

Anyway, we got everything ready, the sun set and we began watching for the first stars to come out. Then, just as it was getting dark, a bunch of what looked rather rough lads, drinking cider, came into view.

Worse, they spotted us and headed over. It was rather intimidating to say the least. As they got closer they shouted ‘Where are they then? Are they going to land or what?’

It turned out they'd seen us looking up at the sky and thought we must have spotted a UFO. They were pretty much seven sheets to the wind by then and began convincing themselves they could see things. After about twenty minutes they staggered off into the darkness singing.

Homer our Bassett Hound is very conscious of the fact he is considerably smaller than our other dogs. In particular, he cannot stand or sit and shove his head in people's dinners. In recompense therefore, he has perfected the knack of sitting up on his hind legs, looking pathetic.

Here he is, doing his Oliver Twist 'I want some more' impersonation.

Yesterday one of my daughters went to visit a friend's mother who is in hospital. Many of the patients on the ward are elderly, some are incontinent. While my daughter was there, one poor soul had an 'accident.' It took ages to get someone to clean her up, and meanwhile the smell, as you can imagine, was pretty unbelievable.

At one point another patient, who knew nothing of what had been happening, wandered down the corridor, began sniffing and exclaimed 'Oh, they're cooking meat today!'

Which just about tells you all you need to know about hospital food.

I am soaking wet and very cold at the moment. Up here the weather always changes around the autumnal equinox. To cheer us all up (well, that's the idea) here's a nice little story about how a ‘spooky’ event, (one which made it into local folklore, no less) really originated.

If I had to choose one word to describe my father it would probably be mischievous. He had a bright sense of mischief and some very strange hobbies. He came from quite a well off background, and as the elder of two boys his father would take them to visit some of his rather posh friends. Once they were taken to stay in a manor house in a very old, historically rich, village. Usually there were other boys to play with on these visits, this time there were none and my father and uncle soon became bored.

One of the servants in the manor house then told them a story about how, whenever disaster threatened, the bells of the local parish church would ring out at midnight. Well, of course, my father decided that was the answer to his boredom. Somehow he and his brother contrived to get the key to the church, copy it into a bar of soap and make their own copy of the key. (My father’s hobbies included chemistry and alchemy!)

That done, one night they slipped out of the manor house, carrying a long length of rope and unlocked the church. They went up to the belfry, looped the rope around the bell and threw both ends out of the window. Then they left the church, carefully locking the door after them, went outside, grabbed the rope, used it to ring the bell ‘like mad’ and then just pulled on the rope and took it away with them, back to their beds.

The next morning (I kid you not) everything was in uproar. The bells had been rung. The vicar had checked, the doors were locked. Something terrible was about to happen for sure. The incident even turned up in a book on the village, citing it as ‘proof’ that something strange was going on in the little church.

It certainly was – two bored and mischievous boys adding their own chapter to local folklore!

I’ve always tried to keep a reasonably level head about hauntings and other psychic phenomena. It’s not a simple ‘do you believe in ghosts?’ question, although that’s one way of starting the debate. It’s ‘Do you believe in this particular account of a haunting?’ because at this stage in our knowledge I think every episode should be considered individually. It’s a lot more work of course, but it does prevent believers and unbelievers splitting into two opposite camps and spitting fire at each other. At least, it does most of the time.

So yes, I believe in some ghosts. I believe there are very odd things happening in my house and garden. I lived in an unpleasantly haunted house when I was a child. But that’s not to say that every footstep outside my door, every weird happening has a paranormal explanation. If I thought that I’d probably be in a straightjacket by now.

So when something ‘odd’ happens I get out my notebook and jot down as much info as I can. I look at possible explanations. I try and reproduce the sound, smell, visual effect for myself. For example, one very convincing ghost photo I took a few years ago was later explained by the fact that someone had lit a joss stick nearby and the smoke blew across to the end of the kitchen where I was photographing.

But that doesn’t explain the time one of my daughters opened her mouth and a load of white – well what? It wasn’t smoke (she doesn’t smoke, never has); it wasn’t steam or her breath (it was summer when it happened); and it certainly wasn’t talcum powder. Once it came out of her mouth it moved sideways, hovered about a bit and then disappeared as quickly as it had come, i.e. it didn’t disperse. Some might say it was ectoplasm, but for the moment I’m keeping an open mind. We had other, similar occurrences around the same time. Maybe something or someone was trying to materialise. Maybe there is some other, good reason for it.

A dramatic headline, but alas, true. Actually, it’s not as dramatic as it sounds. I had to go down into Cardiff today and since the last time I went they have brought in a new temporary pedestrianised area, thus making it virtually impossible to cross from one side of the city to each other.

In their infinite (?) wisdom , the traffic planners have omitted luxuries, such as actually telling cars where they can and can’t go, or posting an alternative route around the chaos or even properly signposting the street which it concerns. So… I merrily followed traffic lights, turn right signs etc., and got flagged down by Plod.

Now in fairness, they were quite nice about things. I only have to open my mouth and they say ‘Not from round here, are you, love?’ (Coming from twenty miles away is pretty dramatic down here. It means you belong to a totally different tribe and culture.)

Then they explained that they would let me off this time but if I did it again I would get a £30 fine.

Obviously, Tylluan is going to be a good old trout and not commit such a heinous crime ever again. I shall simply avoid going to Cardiff again.

I suspect others feel pretty much the same. All the traders and shopkeepers I spoke to today said trade had plummeted. They were pretty fed up with it. But it’s to save the planet (allegedly) and reduce our carbon footprint. How exactly this works when one now has to travel miles and miles out of one’s way in ever decreasing circles just to get where we could easily travel until last month beats me.

I suspect it’s just a nifty little excuse to raise more income for the Council in the form of fines. And it’s sickening.

Take the train, people say. I would. Except of late going on the train has become a risky business. Apart from the fact that there are never enough seats, some of the local stations have a real problem with local yahoos either running amok with a few cans of Carling which they playfully lob at each other, or else they show their engineering skills by disabling the train altogether so it cannot leave the station. Yes, it’s happened. If we are going to leave our vehicles at home at least offer us some alternative that’s safe and reasonably priced.

I am getting fed up with this sanctimonious clap trap. On the way home I stopped off at a certain supermarket whose very presence on this planet is guaranteed to annoy the hell out of me. On the wall near the checkout was a notice inviting me to play my part in saving the planet by recycling my plastic bags.

Fine, I don’t have a problem with that although last time I wandered in with twenty home made canvas bags the security guard virtually had kittens. It wasn’t so long ago that some places would ask you to leave if you turned up with your own bags. They preferred the free advertising until it was fashionable to ‘go green.’

But why don’t supermarkets play their part too? Such as buying fresh basil from local growers instead of flying it in from Israel???? Don’t tell me there’s nowhere can grow fresh basil hereabouts – I can even grow it in my garden!

Okay, rant over. I’m tired and it’s been a long day. I shall hopefully catch up on the blogs tomorrow.

Cysgu da – sleep well!