The Last Furlong

Comments on the race of life.


Little green book

Last night, I had a strange dream. My mother who died in 2002, gave me a whole set of tiny green books. Well, actually they were bright greenish turquoise. I looked at the first one and the title was ‘Youth Hostels’ . Immediately I wondered if any modern youth hostels take dogs.

So I looked up dog friendly youth hostels on the Internet.

And  they DO! Who knew?

My now-dead-mother was an avid youth hosteler in her young days. In fact her old leather  walking shoes still lie at the bottom of Conistan Water near here, where she threw them in 1938.

The Furlong Family used youth hostels  too when we used to visit the UK from Africa. We saw them change from basic to luxurious, with en suite and private rooms to restaurants on the premises. Of course the price climbed too….

So now they are also dog friendly.  How nice!

We might take advantage of that now we are in our second  youth….


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The very clever Nina Paley

I have posted Nina Paley’s art before. I am such a fan!

Here is her latest clip from the Exodus video. A meditation for today….


How History disappears

All over the world there are people like me. I  am not a photo collector, a memory hoarder, a collector of personal history, a person devoted to rescuing artifacts from the past.  Though I’m  grateful other people do.

But when it comes down to me having to do the storing of old stuff, family trees, photos, relics, I  am less than devoted. I don’t care to be honest. It’s  just junk to me. One of the Furlong daughters who has the biggest house and more interest does the job. 

The dead Furlongs take up a lot of space!

The Furlong Family has had some notable members, that’s the problem.

And I still don’t  care.

My sister is moving house. So she has dumped a pile of stuff on me. When we moved here over two years ago, I  got rid of tons of stuff, including giving her photos of interest to her. They are all back here again!

I have no photos around this house. I hate photos. They bring out the morbid in me. I never look at one and think “Oh, wasn’t that a wonderful moment.” I think ” Oh no, another moment gone!” In my life, a photo should be no more than 24 hours old….

Today I found a photo of my mother that I’d never seen before in an old press cutting. It moved me. She looked vulnerable and lonely which is how I knew her. 

As for the rest? It’s all fake. 

I’m going to toss the lot.


Blinded by the light

We have endured days of rain and gloom. Our Orchids are actually responding to the old Morpheus Mood Light which we shine on them for five or six hours every evening. The flower spikes are growing, Plants respond to Red, Blue and Green – the primary colours of light. Each frequency does a different thing – even green.

But today the sun is out. God, what a shock. The lounge is full of beautiful sunshine and I can hear our orchids singing.

I walked the dog, and gardened, whilst not wearing dark glasses for maximum brightness effect to my brain. A sort of brain anti-depressant.

But as an old troglodyte recently come out of her cave, I am blinded by the light. How lucky we are today!

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We have had no sun for days. The days are like night. I have resorted to illuminating my orchids with my Morpheus Mood light! It changes from colour to colour – in frequencies I’m sure our orchids appreciate.

Well, they aren’t dead yet.

Colour is beautiful.  Here is a meditation for today. 


Oh yeah? Brexit?

I have come to believe that Brexit will never happen. Not the Brexit that we voted for.

I don’t think the Government meant to take us through Brexit at all. From the beginning, they have squabbled, lied, guessed, sucked problems out of their a thumbs, pretended to be experts, begged, cajoled, squirmed, pleaded, fear mongered, prevaricated, threatened, libelled, name called, and behaved like addlepated idiots.

The Brexit business is a disgrace to the European Union, the UK Politicians and proof to the world that our parliament is made up of quarrelling loonies and pompous weirdos who haven’t the foggiest clue about much.

I’m not holding my breath. Brexit has been made to fail with malice aforethought.


The results are in

We had the new-dog-Bass’s DNA tested.

The reason people do that is because you can know more about temperament, habits, exercise requirements and possible health problems if you know what DNA made your dog. New-dog-Bass was called a ‘Jack Russell cross’ but, having owned Jack Russell’s  in Africa, he didn’t  seem like one.

He’s a funny bloke. He does look like a Jack Russell – a long Jack Russell, with short legs and neat feet, but not really. He’s not interested in the garden, hates rain, burrows under blankets and makes ‘nests’, eats little and is driven to sit on laps. He LOVES all dogs and people regardless; overfriendly one could say. He barks at anyone entering our house. But not if we are outdoors. He trains easily if he feels like it. Sometimes he doesn’t  feel like it. Toughies for us.

Well, we got the DNA results. He’s  a Russell Terrier (one third about) which might explain his length. He’s Chihuahua (one quarter) which might explain everything else.  He has Smooth Haired Fox Terrier and Shi Tzu in him which might explain stuff we havent yet discovered. And his ancestral group are terriers used for herding.

Here’s  his family tree…


Tight pants and panic

I am in pain. Two days ago, we recieved a visitor. We knew he was coming so we got into our routine of tying up the new-dog-Bass so that we can restrain him from the delirious joy of welcoming our guests with over devotion. The-now-dead-dog-Bobby gave us no such problems. I think he only once went ape shit barking (as they say). That was when we were watching TV one night and had forgotten to turn off our stove. A pan was on fire in our kitchen. He was a good boy!

Back to my story. In honour of our visitor’s arrival, I smartened up,  putting on black linen trousers; size – too small. Mr Furlong had to help me do up the button at the waist. 

At last, when the doorbell rang,  we secured new-dog-Bass with his lead on the collar on his training mat in our hall. Or rather, Mr Furlong unknown to us, attached the lead to the ring that holds new-dog-Bass’s bronze name tag to the collar.  Mr Furlong walked down the passage to open the door and new-dog-Bass simply ripped through his constraint, and followed him.

The barking was dreadful. The doorbell was loud. The guest was waiting.

Mr Furlong ran back to me waiting at the training mat delivering new-dog-Bass to me to “do something with”. So, in a panic, I grabbed the dog, the lead and the collar and bent over in my too tight black linen trousers.

There was a loud crack from my rib cage.  

And that was it.

I said not a word whilst we entertained our visitor. But I couldn’t wait for him to go so I could change into my elasticated jersey pull up pants.

I know what I’ve done, I’ve cracked a rib, that’s what. I’m not going to the doctor because he’ll tell me the  same thing. I know. Because I did it before, many years ago.


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Wake up Ofcom

I posted a video about O2 and hearing impaired people from a very cross person on YouTube called “G”. Here

And Here

This is a new video –


Death by cycle

I walked the dog along the canal path this morning. It was hell. I remembered why I don’t go there.  Bobby-the-now-dead-dog used to fight with all the other dogs we met, and several times we nearly were run over by cyclists.

Today, New Dog behaved impeccably with the dogs we met, but several times we were nearly run over by cyclists. 

From behind

Why don’t they ring their bloody bells?