Crying

In recent days my mood has been along those lines due to the incredible disaster that is my life right now, but it’s a pure co-incidence that yesterday I found a song of the same name by Roy Orbison which has moved me to make this post…

I have always liked the well known Roy Orbison songs. I’m also aware of his tragic life, and how it’s such a shame that a talented bloke like him would suffer in that way. So yesterday I borrowed a DVD from my gran’s house about the Big O himself, a biography filled with his music.

On there I came across the song that is the name of this post. I heard a live performance of it, just Roy on his own, and thought it was something very special indeed. His ghostly, operatic voice, soaring with falsetto, building up to the crescendo at the end… just truly magical. The theme of the song is as you’d expect from a song that has such a name, but somehow it doesn’t feel cliched or contrived, like most songs about love and loss do these days.

Once more I am left in awe about the power of music. The rest of the DVD also contained songs which I will have to investigate. Perhaps even ask for a Roy Orbison CD for Christmas. I think of myself as being very lucky to be able to like music of all types from all eras. It means I can absorb such a vast range of moods, lyrics, great riffs and melodies from a massive array of talent, and all without feeling the snobbisheness and aloofness that people who like “real music” often burden themselves with. My motto is: if it’s good music, it’s good music. 

(And, incidentally, that is also how I justify to myself watching X Factor, which always brings me a moment of embarrassment… my excuse being that a good singer is a good singer and always worth listening to! Methinks I do protest too much)

I’ve been spending more time lately playing my guitar after a fairly lengthy absence from it. The guitar has frustrated me now for seven years, simply because I have never passed an intermediate level of skill on it. But I know why, because I don’t have the discipline. I know full well that if I played it for an hour each day and tried to learn a new song or new riff at least once I week I would make definite progress. But I don’t. I’m lucky if I play it once a week, and haven’t learned a new song in months.

So I think I should put this right. And if I did get good, maybe I could find a friend and go out busking. I would love that, seriously. Whether I’d have the bottle to do it is another matter. I am often full of good intentions which are never fulfilled. This, to me, sounds like I’m building up another hostage to fortune…

But in any case, it is providing me with a useful distraction right now. That can only be a good thing, because I really could do without sliding into a depression the likes of which I’ve not been in for several years. I just need a break, a lucky one.

Perhaps I should view the returning of my Icesave money, which should be complete by next week, as a good sign…

Indulgent Pet Posting

I don’t often (ever?) write about the pets that we have here in this house. That’s largely because that kind of blog is what I deliberately set out to avoid. I wouldn’t be interested in hearing about someone else’s cat/dog/goldfish, unless there’s some anecdotal value, for example. I’ve only ever written about our dog when it’s been relevant to my life…

But I have to part with tradition just this one because yesterday, alas, our last guinea pig died. This time last year, our other guinea pig died, so we’ve now lost two beloved pets in the space of a year. All we have left now is the dog, which is increasingly a nuisance.

I was surprised at just how much this loss has hit me. The dearly departed Spud was such an awesome guinea pig. He was happy, lively, excitable and very very placid. Over the years I’ve been used to having pets that have, somehow or other, all been nasty, aggressive and not liked to be handled. Rabbits, hamsters, gerbils, one dog… they’ve all been quite unsociable animals.

This may, however, have been because all our previous pets have always been a little bit older than babies when we’ve bought them, and most of them have not been used to being friendly with humans. And, of course, because me and my siblings were younger, we couldn’t help but torment them just a little, perhaps encouraging them to dislike being picked up…

This time with Spud, though, we had it from really young. The youngest pet we’ve ever bought. And it lived with us for five years. He was probably the best pet we’ve ever had. Friendly, approachable and full of amusing quirks.

Spud

Spud

Our guinea pig that died last year, Spike, was not quite as friendly. In fact, he was a bit of a sulk. It liked to be chased when you were trying to pick it up. But it was still a nice pet, and one of the best we’ve ever had. Especially the way the two guineas interacted with each other. That was always funny to watch.

Spike

Spike

But now both of them have gone. They must have both been about five years old, which is a little disappointing. We thought we’d get about six years out of them, most sources I’ve read seem to suggest they live between four and eight years.

I was so upset about it yesterday. Still am a bit today. But it’s amazing how much your emotions copy other people. I didn’t want to cry about it, sad though I was, but when I saw my mum and sister in floods of tears my brain decided to join in the party.

The poor buggers will be dearly missed. They brought a lot of joy and happiness in the short time they lived with us. So long, dudes.