Maybe. Maybe not.

We need some glamour. She has lost her get up and go. I have lost my stay in bed and snooze.

Back in the day - ooooooo, I think it might have been a Tuesday in 2007 - I had a bit of success with my burlesque act. Called myself Dita Von Sockpuppet. My fan dance was talked about from the end of the bed to the the top of the book case.

I gave it all up. Bear of a certain age. Ears not as young and perky as they used to be. Hoodies and jeans might be comfy but they don't tickle the snout like champagne bubbles or ostrich feathers.

Can't afford champagne so we think the answer might be more feathers. Madame has been buying varities of fluff and feather and flowers and could become the Fascinator Queen of Scotland. She has had vague thoughts about selling stuff on Etsy but that might cut into her already limited cake eating and film watching time. So many French films. They, the French, rather inconsiderately, keep making more. She may never catch up.

And she has to go and see "Coraline" again. And again. And again. And dye her hair blue.

But she is saying "no" to button eyes. What's wrong with button eyes then?

April in passing

Things I have not been doing this month -

- watching "Les Quatre Cents Coups"

- making microwave cupcakes

- walking through Glen Vale

- knitting

- ogling shoes on Etsy

- teeny tiny knitting

Things I have done this month -

- sat in the sunshine and watched me lettuces growing

- played in the park with Mr Flynn

- dozed, snoozed, and napped

- twittered

A pawful of dust

I should be hibernating. All sensible bears sleep through January. Find a nice warm cave or a decent five star hotel room and lock themselves in until Spring. But Madame won't let me. Needs her little bear alert and by her side. Bear - the ninth emergency service or something. Yes, it's not fair but if she can't hibernate then I can't hibernate.

Ho hum.

At least I've had the chance to listen to the radio version of Mr Pullman's His Dark Materials. Third time lucky. Read the books. Seen the *yawn* film. Radio version. It's a story for children *sob* I must be a bear of small brain. An idiot cub.

I like all the jolly adventure stuff - witches and gyptians and bobbing about between worlds. Daemons sound interesting. Perhaps it explains Madame.

And - ooooooooo, excitement - there are the armoured bears. Proud. Fierce. Heroic. Unfortunately also gloomy and stinky. I'll give Mr Pullman the first one - that's polar bears for you - never the life and soul of the party - but I think his dig at ursine hygiene standards is a bit low. I have a bath at least twice a year.

But then it goes all deep and dark and theological and my little brain starts to hum. There are a whole load of Da Vinci Code types who insist on being religious with menaces and violence and a god or creator chap who is probably just some old bloke in a box and everyone is fighting and no one is happy and ...

Apologies. Had to take a small break so I could do a little dance to the Banana Splits song. Don't mock. I'll bet Richard Dawkins does it all the time. Secretly. Maybe. Possibly not.

Right. His Dark Materials. Rebellion against false god. No one happy. Angels all grumpy. Death. Disaster. Despair. Dust.

Lots of dust. Only dust isn't just dust it is also original sin. Or something. I definately don't understand this bit. If this was the case then Madame would be the world's most original sinner. But then it's not really original sin because god isn't god and death isn't death and it's really partical physics. Or something. Dust is a Good Thing - but only if religious types aren't allowed to mess with it. I think that's the message at the end of the story. Which is nice. If you're an atheist and like things dusty.

Ho and hum. Very. Quite.

I was planning to read Winkie next but I'm worried that it might be too difficult for a Bear of Small Brain who can't understand dust. Perhaps I'll just prop it up over me and secretly hibernate. shhhhhh. Don't tell Madame.

The greatest Christmas film ever made!

Got my jammies and my bunny slippers ready. Got a pile of interesting books by the bed. Madame is ready with the hottle bottles. No turkey to cook. No spuds to peel or sprouts to ... er, whatever happens to sprouts. We are looking forward to a couple of days worth of high quality hibernating before we go off to visit The Cats and Madame's family.

Lovely :o)

With a cherry on top - A Muppet Family Christmas

A bear's path to Nirvana

I'm plodding on. We've had a couple of spring type days. A lazy sunny crisp afternoon. Just a hint of malt in the air from the brewery. Doesn't get much better for a small bear.

I could see Madame more. She's back at work pretty much full time and now the Film Festival has started. My only chance of getting her attention is having myself subtitled. I did catch her eye the other day by pretending to be Steve Buscemi.

I was going to use my free time to have another look at Buddhism For Bears but then they mentioned the new Mr Men website on The News Quiz - I can't remember why - but ... well, the chance to attain spiritual enlightenment vs the chance to prod Mr Happy with a poky thing and help Mr Tickle tickle a monkey.

Perhaps they are simply two paths to the same goal. I shall now contemplate this while watching the wonder that is Splat Pig -

No country for small bears

If we were a plate spinning act then we would be up to our necks in broken china. Never enough time or enough energy to get everything done.

Unfortunately we're short on household staff at the moment and someone has to pay the bills so Madame has been plodding on with much humphing and grumphing. I've offered to do my bit but they're just not hiring small cloth bears right now. Don't know why. I could do anything that Jonathan Ross does for half his fee. Or a high court judge. Do they still wear the wigs? I'd look good in one of those wigs. I think I'd be willing to try most things. Except maybe children's entertainer or fire eating.

Did manage to get her out of the house today to see a preview of Sweeney Todd. She seems to have enjoyed it. Enjoyed the music and the gloom and the tousled pretty boy charms of Mr Depp. But found the ending a little unsatisfying. Foolish woman. How could a film with Helena Bonham Carter be unsatisfying in any way? Apart from that monkey one. And that one with Steve Martin as a dentist. Sigh. I wish I was Helena's bear.

Bear vs Beowulf.

I've been to see the Beowulf : 3D film. Madame wanted to see it because Neil Gaiman was involved in the script. I wanted to see it because I have no life, never get to go anywhere, and thought there would be lots of monsters and things hitting one another. Or because I thought it would be an interesting culture experience. One of the two. You decide.

It was tosh. Posh, entertaining tosh - with extra proddy and splashy 3D fun. But tosh.

And I did feel sorry for poor old Grendel the monster. There he was, minding his own business, when the neighbours start having noisy parties - drinking ye olde mead, ogling the wenches, and singing rugby songs. He pops down to complain and it all kicks off. He ends up being jumped by some big naked goon with the voice of Ray Winstone.

To add insult to injury the big goon then gets off with Grendel's mother - a dodgy type who likes to wander around in high heels and gold paint and nothing else. This is all happening Up North - Norway, I think, or somewhere like that - you'd think she'd get cold. It all goes horribly, horribly wrong and everyone ends up dead or nearly toasted by a dragon, apart from Beowulf's mate, Wee Gloves, who quite sensibly has stayed out of it all.

It's a modern interpretation of the story. I thought I would make the effort and have a look at the source material. Unfortunately my knowledge of Old English is a little rusty. Completely rusty. Non-existent. One of the three. Madame has found me a modern English prose translation.

Hum. Apparently there are many translations to choose from so it might be a little early for me to be drawing my conclusions. But it is reading like a "Songs of Praise" special from Stavanger. Tolkein reports back on fisticuffs at the after show tea party. Maidens eek as the Lord's name is taken in vain and macaroons are crushed beneath the boots of heroes with more consonants than brain cells.

I have to be honest - me and her do have a low tolerance for any stories that involve the likes of "Brave Hgrlfrt, son of Strguflt, did gird himself with his golden armour and did heft his magic sword, Krtlmngy, and did travel westward ... blah blah blah ... until everyone was dead and the gods wandered off to watch Corrie". Lord of the Rings - Just Say No! And this is where it all began.

The film version of Beowulf does manage to make a couple of sly points about the rise of the Christian church in the pagan world. And about role in a crisis of humanist action versus religious contemplation. But you could easily miss them if you rustle your popcorn at the wrong moment.

I haven't seen it but Madame suggests that if you intend to see one Neil Gaiman related film then try to see the recent film version of his novel Stardust - a sweet and funny fairytale.

Right. I'm off to fight diverse monsters with my magical letter opener, Smgrflt. I will gird myself with woolly vest and pants and magical tin foil armour.

Or I might just have a nap.

Beware the tattie bogle!

Hello! Want any guisers? None of that "Trick or treat?" stuff here. We're having a hardcore traditional Scottish Halloween.

I did suggest having a scary film fest but Madame burst into tears when I suggested the first title. I know she's had nightmares about it and a lot of people do think it is the most horrifying film ever made but we couldn't have a scary film fest without "Love, Actually". It would be like a walnut whip without the walnut.

Instead we'll huddle round the turnip lantern and tell ghost stories. Madame is threatening to play "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" on her recorder - she claims that party piece used to go down a storm when she was 5.

time for a snooze

I've said sorry. I was a right grump yesterday. Not enough sleep in this house. Not enough hours in the day.

So I've had a quiet day today. She's been busy. Lots of laundry and then off to see the Terence Davies Trilogy. Deary me. It gave her a headache. She doesn't recommend it. Three dull, flat, fuzzy films about repressed misery and stifled lives. See the Bill Douglas Trilogy instead.

I've still got time for a small nap before bedtime. She has to do some messing about with sticky and paper. I usually like to stay out of the way when that kind of thing is happening.

I did sort of offer to help out with my nice new highlighters pens - they were a present from lovely person Angi - but unfortunately they were confiscated following the "Wouldn't Mr Wainwright look better with a pink fluorescent moustache?" incident. And I have agreed that I am jealous of him. Him and his thrilling sideburns.

Ah. Yes. Nap time.

Bear with a sore head

In a bad mood. STOMP. STOMP. STOMP. In a really, really bad mood. STOMP.

Look. It's young Flynn and Mr Beaver. They had lunch with Madame at Theo's Cafe yesterday. I wasn't invited. Not bitter. Sniff.
I expect I was busy anyway. Doing stuff. Important stuff. Sniff.

Important stuff? Some interesting things maybe.

Oliver Postgate - one of the men behind Bagpuss and The Clangers - has a website. But it's not what you'd expect if you only have memories of that voice telling stories of Noggin the Nog or Ivor the Engine. He was on Desert Island Discs recently. A fascinating man. And Madame has just finished reading a book by his father. She picked it up in a pile of old Penguin paperbacks. Hadn't realised the connection until she was part of the way through it. A good read.

And listening to Marcus Brigstocke's inspired rant from The Now Show. I'm an atheist and She would probably describe herself as humanist/agnostic if you prod her enough. So he was, um, preaching to the converted.

Have just checked with Madame. We're going with humanist/agnostic. Because the Church of the Divine Rufus only exists in her head. Whatever she thinks.

And Ingmar Bergman. Deary me. I have happy memories of watching Hour of the Wolf. It's one of those experiences that have to happen at the right time. Another day, in another mood ... But for some reason it worked. A twisting tale of strange events. I couldn't tell you what it all meant. Or if it meant anything. But the sight of Max von Sydow in drag ...

Time for bed. Think we have a tough week ahead so have some Half Man Half Biscuit before I go. Good night!

summertime and the drizzle is here

Summertime in Scotland. It's damp and it's grey.

I've been watching Dream Girls. Ho hum.

Time for some Ella, some Bessie, and a bit of Billie - then off to bed.







Good night.

postscript

Did get the day off on Friday. Failed to provide comfort and support when water started to drip through the ceiling. Refused to be interested in her "what will I wear today?" crisis. Watched Series 2 of "Extras". Very good. That Orlando Bloom ... snork.

She did have to spoil it a bit. Insisted we watch "The Children of Men". Thought it was going to be a charming, utopian tale of a world without screaming, sticky sprogs, but, apparently this is not a Good Thing. All misery and doom and Clive Owen in flip flops.