The Last Furlong

Comments on the race of life.



Since last year, I have gone to pot. I used to make notes, record my weight, blood sugar and what I had eaten. Sometimes, I might jot down an idea for a blog post.

But for some reason, all discipline has evaporated.

I couldn’t be arsed any more. (English term meaning couldn’t be bothered)

Mr Furlong and I are having trouble with our memories. The most common phrases used in our home are “Can’t remember” or “I don’t know”.

Without Mr Furlong, I’d have trouble writing anything at all. For when I can’t remember a word, a name or the spelling, there’s a chance that he can.

One morning recently, he stood in my doorway in his very smart navy blue pyjamas looking very dapper and refreshed from a good nights rest. He made an observation which was very funny.

We fell about laughing.

I said “Oh, that would make a wonderful blog post!”

I should have written it down, but I didn’t.

But now when I ask him what it was he said, he can’t remember.

And neither can I.

Our minds are BLANK.


Sahara memory

The Furlongs watched Michael Palin’s Sahara last night on TV. I have a Sahara memory of my own….

I have loved every cigarette I ever smoked. But one comes to mind that was so memorable.

I was on a plane when smoking had just been banned on long haul flights but they were still using fresh air on planes. In the middle of the night, on a quiet plane, I woke to find I could smell the faint whiff of cigarette smoke. So I got up and followed it to the back of the plane where staff were sitting chatting in a curtained off section, a small staff room, smoking.

One of them offered me a cigarette and I smoked it. But that is not what made the situation magical, although I felt hugely blessed as smokers do when they have a cigarette after hours of denial. What was stunning is that we were flying very low to conserve fuel and take advantage of air currents over the Saharan desert.

Down in the dark, were not electric lights, but little fires sparkling in clusters where people were camped, or where there were small settlements. It was stunningly beautiful to my eyes.

Lonely, secret, and beautiful while everyone else was sleeping through it on the plane. I felt hugely priviledged.

And the cigarette tasted great too!


My best teacher

My best teacher was when I was in my last year of school.  That was lucky.  It meant I worked. Continue reading