Sally was driving home from one of her business trips in Northern Arizona when she saw an elderly Navajo woman walking on the side of the road. As the trip was a long and quiet one, she stopped the car and asked the Navajo woman if she would like a ride.

With a silent nod of thanks, the woman got into the car. Resuming the journey, Sally tried in vain to make a bit of small talk with the Navajo woman.

The old woman just sat silently, looking intently at everything she saw, studying every little detail, until she noticed a pink bag on the seat next to Sally.

"What in bag?" asked the old woman.

Sally looked down at the white bag and said, "It's a box of chocolates. I got it for my husband".

The Navajo woman was silent for another moment or two. Then speaking with the quiet wisdom of an elder, she said: "Good trade."

Thanks — once again — to Beth in Columbus, Ohio, for this little gem.

…apologies, another "Keats & Chapman" story at Provincial Letters, I'm afraid. Sorry, couldn't avoid it.

Another littele tale which arrived in my in-box, courtsey of my mother. Her only comment — not being quite as young as she used to be — was: "I'm still trying to remember".

When I went to lunch today, I noticed an old lady sitting on a park bench sobbing her eyes out. I stopped and asked her what was wrong.

She said, "I have a 22-year-old husband at home. He makes love to me every morning and then gets up and makes me a lovely breakfast and freshly ground coffee. For lunch he makes me homemade soup and brownies and then makes love to me for half the afternoon.

"Then for dinner he makes me a gourmet meal with wine and my favorite dessert and then makes love to me until 2am."

I said, "Well, why in the world would you be crying?"

She said, "I can't remember where I live!"

So, at the Market Hotel last night, this woman comes up to Ian O and says: "Wonderful music tonight, they're great aren't they?". And Ian says, "Yes". And she says, "Oh, and you were great, too". So Ian says, "But I didn't play". Nonplussed, our fan says, "Oh,. yeah, but you were still great."

I assure you this is a totally true story. Even the names are real.

Thanks to my Mum for this little gem (and apologies if you've heard it before):

Due to a power cut, only one paramedic responded to the call from the woman going into labour. The house was very dark so the paramedic asked Kathleen, a 3-year old girl to hold a torch high over her mother so he could see while he helped deliver the baby.

Very diligently, Kathleen did as she was asked. Heidi pushed and pushed and after a little while, Connor was born. The paramedic lifted him by his little feet and spanked him on his bottom. Connor began to cry. The paramedic then thanked Kathleen for her help and asked the wide-eyed 3-yr old what she thought about what she had just witnessed.

Kathleen quickly responded, "He shouldn't have crawled in there in the first place… …smack him again!"

Just for variety, my latest blog post (with the above title) is on my Provincial Letters site. It's more general and less personal than the stuff I normally blather on about here, so it should be there.

And, if you fancy a good laugh, pop over to my friend Beth's blog and read this; a grand giggle.

It has long been a tradition in my family that certain years possess two 23^rds August. And I was certain that 2007 was one of them. It was written in the cards, the stars, my palms and the entrails of an earwig I found on the back doorstep (my family has never used anything larger than a spiders for haruspicy). It was foretold by daphnomancy^[1], halomancy^[2]  and myomancy^[3]. It was even written in the arrangement of objects that cannot be named for legal reasons^[4]. The tradition of two 23^rds August stretches back to time immemorial: i.e., I can't remember when I first got the idea into to my head.

The sheer convenience of having two 23^rds August in a year — especially this one — cannot be over-estimated. For a start there's the 24-hour delay in encountering that next birthday which makes you realise just how old you're getting (with the consequent onset of the loss of mental facility which causes confusion concerning calendrical calculation and consequent atypical alliteration). There's also the advantage of having two Thursdays, this year, in a week. I sometimes think there are not enough Thursdays in a week — usually after having too much to drink on a Wednesday night. The final, and over-riding, advantage is, of course, that you can both go and see the inestimable Merlin's Keep plus the wonderful Driftnet Poets at Millfields and attend the new Open Mic at the Imperial where you've promised to help the web-and-sound wizard with the PA because Trev's on holiday.

It was, therefore, something of a shock to bump into Jim White yesterday and discover that there are not, it seems, two 23^rds August this year^[5]. To say that I was gutted is to underestimate the force with which a fish-filleter carries our their profession. I was so much beside myself that I let my other self pay for the groceries (quite a smart move that, I thought, until I got home and discovered that he'd used my money). I was so overwhelmed with regret that I failed to find a third spurious metaphor^[6].

I blame the government. It's a conspiracy of some sort to deprive my family and I of the right to enjoy two 23^rds August^[7] in the years of our choosing. So, here I am, not looking forward to missing MK & Driftnet but otherwise anticipating with pleasure the night at the Imperial. My apologies to the wonderful people in MK & Driftnet for my non-attendance. It was not for want of trying. You can blame the government, too.

UPDATE @ 16:26
I have just been informed by the web-and-sound wizard that the Imperial Open Mic Night has been abducted by aliens and written into the sub-plot of Coronation Street involving the return of Elsie Tanner (or something like that, I may have mis-read the reason). That means that there are two 23^rds August this year, it's just that one of them is on 13^th September. See you at Millfields, people.

[1] Divination by burning laurel leaves.

[2] Divination by salt.

[3] Divination by watching the movements of mice.

[4] A method of divination unaccountably omitted from the otherwise excellent list at moonslipper.com but for which I coin the term cryptoresomancy (lit. "hidden thing divination").

[5] The shock was not that of bumping into Jim but that of discovering the singular lack of a second (and necessary) 23^rd August this year. Bumping into Jim is never a shock unless he's carrying a long spear or one of those electric immobiliser thingies.

[6] And, believe me, I tried. For minutes.

[7] It must be understood that the extra 23^rds August can only be enjoyed by myself and my immediate family. The rest of you must develop your own unfathomable delusions.

Sshhh…
I am feeling somewhat fragile after last night's party.

Last night (well, to be truthful, late yesterday afternoon), I took myself and my guitar off to a party at Jim & Pat Hawkins', to celebrate their marriage (they got married in June — there's another story there). Not without some trepidation, I may add. I've not known them long; we got to know each other producing the DVD for the Tap. I was nervous about meeting so many "strangers" but not, strangely, about playing some songs in front of them. Still J&P are nice people, it wouldn't be too bad.

I arrived at about 4:30 and had a beer. There was a great big tent/marquee in the back garden with a PA and a stage in it and it all looked great. I had another beer. It was at this point (I think) that Jim told me we wouldn't be playing music until about 9:00 with me personally gracing the stage at about 9:30 (or thereabouts). I suddenly realised that I'd had several beers and that left much time for far too many more. So I slowed down with the beer drinking and then stopped.

There was a lot of great music from friends of Jim (and Jim on bass) from Nottingham and Manchester as well as our own Roger Beard and P'lucky S'trum (the latter have a MySpace page, by the way). Oh, and me. It was a very, very very good night although I could swear that the drinks that I had after my appearance had something intoxicating added to them. And, the whole thing's on video. And there are photographs. Watch this space.

The performance in the marquee took care of the Tent Music.

Sometime after midnight we started a jam in the garage (around 3am there was a rather wonderful version of Summertime which, unfortunately, has not be recorded for posterity). This took care of the Garage Music.

However, we never played music in the house. So there was no House Music.

There was, however, lots of dance music until a very early hour.

I got home around 6am. All things considered I don't feel too bad. Well, alright-ish. Sort of. You know. (Just don't shout).

Well, here wer are again, 04:52 and I can't sleep. Again. I could think of nothing to do, nothing to say and nothing to ask Uncle Google about. So that's exactly what I did…

Not, you understand, that I typed nothing into the search box. No, dears, even Uncle Google doesn't let you do that. I had to type "nothing". And, guess what? I didn't get nothing back (which sounds like a badly — or clumsily — constructed English sentence, but in this context it most certainly isn't). I got something for nothing. Lots of somethings…

I think, dear readers, you are entitled to savour some of the fruits of my research. Just a couple of titbits for now; I'm sure I shall return to the subject when I, again, have nothing to do.

"Nothing is an awe-inspiring yet essentially undigested concept, highly esteemed by writers of an existentialist tendency, but by most others regarded with axiety, nausea, or panic. Nobody seems to know how to deal with it (he would, of course), and plain persons generally are reported to have little difficulty in saying, seeing, hearing, and doing nothing. Philosophers, however, have never felt easy on the matter. Ever since Parmenides laid it down that it is impossible to speak of what is not, broke his own rule in the act of stating it, and deduced himself into a world where all that ever happened was nothing, the impression has persisted that the narrow path between sense and nonsense on this subject is a difficult one to tread and that altogether the less said of it the better."

"Nothing" by P L Heath

About which, I — naturally — have nothing to say other than that nothing would please me more.

But, dear readers (have you noticed how expensive readers are these days?), there is more. You can buy nothing on-line. With an instruction manual. Simply click your way to NOTHING and click on the big white "O" and you'll find that there's a place for nothing in this big universe of ours. Not only a place, but a market place.

I'll leave this subject — for now — with a Zen tale which I found in a book (you know those old-fashioned paper things that grand-mama used to read) rather than through Uncle Google:

"Yamoaka Tesshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after another. He called upon Dokuon of Shokuku.

Desiring to show his attainment, he said: 'The mind, Buddha, and sentient beings, after all, do not exist. The true nature of phenomena is emptiness. There is no realisation, no delusion,, no sage, no mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to receive.'

Dukuon, who was smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe. This made the youth quite angry.

'If nothing exists,' inquired Dokuon, 'where did this anger come from?'"

"Zen Flesh, Zen Bones" by Paul Reps [Pelican; 1973] pg. 75

To which, I have                to add.