Chasing the Dragon: an addiction to living

By Valerie Davies

A book about serendipity, and mindfulness, and the good things in life.
It’s about dogs and flowers, random acts of fun, people and books taking over the house. It’s also a thoughtful book, as Valerie Davies touches on philosophy, the environment, corporate raiders and their effect on the third world...
When it comes to fun, there’s the inimitable Duchess of Devonshire and Patrick Leigh Fermor, jolly ladies who lunch, and the strange addiction of blogging. There’s plenty about the pleasures of food, and recipes for threadbare gourmets which have delighted readers in the world-wide blogosphere. And threaded in among these pleasures is a concern and deep love for the natural world, for animals and insects, lions and whales.
This is the perfect bedside book, to dip into and enjoy - good humoured, sometimes funny, and always intriguing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valerie Davies
• Release date: Nov 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301487523

Valerie Davies

I’ve had an adventurous life, living through the Blitz in England, a stint in post-war Germany with my army family, living in the former "Beast of Belsen" residence at Belsen, travelling to school in Malaya in an armoured convoy through bandit-infested jungle, finding myself trapped in the middle of the first Red Guard march in Hong Kong during the Cultural revolution in China. In New Zealand, I once woke to find a grey-suited man with a stocking over his head in our bedroom during my husband Pat Booth's fight to free an innocent man wrongly jailed for a double murder (he was pardoned at the end of the eight-year battle). Then there was the time I found the wheels of my car had been tampered with to cause an accident when the Mr Asia drug ring – a world-wide drug ring my crusading journalist husband exposed - had put a price on his head. I grew up in an army family, joining the British army myself. I was a captain when I married. Living in Hong Kong with my army husband, I had to learn journalism on the run when the marriage broke up in order to support my two children. Eventually I came to New Zealand with them aged five and six, knowing no-one, with no money, no job and no home, to start from scratch in a new country. We arrived with three suitcases, in which I’d packed sheets and cutlery to start a new home! I was Woman's Editor of the South China Morning Post before leaving Hong Kong, and in New Zealand became a writer at the liberal paper the Auckland Star, where I wrote a popular column for twelve years, and became Woman's Editor, and at the same time wrote a column for families and children in the New Zealand Woman’s Weekly for fourteen years. For years the Solo Parent column I wrote made me to some extent a voice for lone parents when they had no voice. Since leaving full-time journalism I’ve written for magazines, and written a few books, and am in the middle of two more... Nowadays, after twenty five years of counselling and personal growth myself, I also enjoy life-coaching, and watching people who’ve been burdened become light and joyful. My main 'hobby' is the spiritual life, others are gardening, grandchildren, reading, cooking, moving house and restoring and re-decorating the new hovel, friends, music, opera, pets and people watching ( there must be more). Arthritis in my hands has compelled me to give up knitting, embroidery, and painting. I don’t have dogs any more, but over the years have had seventeen, mostly rescued, usually three at a time, including three afghans, two salukis, a borzoi, a labrador, six King Charles cavalier spaniels, a boxer, a mastiff-boxer cross, a mastiff, plus the lodgers – the dogs who came to spend the day with me while their owners were at work ! It isn’t just pets that I care about, I’m involved with several world –wide animal organisations both to save animals from being tortured and exploited (including bull-fighting and bear-baiting) – and to save wild animals whose habitats are being destroyed by hunting or clearing. And of course, like the rest of us, I worry about preserving our planet before it’s too late.

Book preview

Chasing

The

Dragon

An addiction to living

Valerie Davies

THE SOUND OF WATER

- WHAT READERS HAVE SAID:

" I’m feeling quite sad because I have eked out every page of your splendid book by reading as slowly as I know how, and can put off finishing it no longer. I’ve gone back and back to re-read many sections, for the pure joy of it. Soon, I’ll savour the treat of making the…. was it Lemon? cake. I might have to search through the book to find that recipe again. Aha! I’ll experience the joy of having to search through the book yet again."

‘A sense of looking in to life rich in family and friends… wonderful descriptions of birds and animals, and flowers and food… makes me feel more contemplative about the life I am living, which is a great gift from a writer to a reader’.

‘A truly descriptive and romantic writer’

‘laugh-out-loud-moments with your out-of-the-side-of-the-mouth humour’.

‘Turns small experiences into gold.’

‘Loved the honesty and the humour’

‘A warm and elegant and intelligent writer’

Copyright Valerie Davies © 2012

PUBLISHED BY MERLINCOURT PRESS

PRINT COPIES OF THIS BOOK AVAILABLE FROM:

PO BOX 161

LEIGH 0947

NEW ZEALAND

[e-mail]

Valerie’s blog, on which this book is based:

www.valeriedavies.com

SMASHWORDS EDITION

November 2012

Formatted and uploaded by Peter Harris, Wizard of Eutopia, at the New Leaf Network bindery,

The Story Ark, 1945 SH1, Kaiwaka.

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CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

DEFINITELY NOT BIRD-BRAINED

THE WINDSOR KNOT

NO OFFENCE MEANT!

TALE OF A GLUTTON

LOVE IS THE FOOD OF MUSIC

BLONDES VERSUS BRUNETTES

LET US EAT CAKE

PRESENT BUT NOT TENSE

TOP DOGS

RANDOM ACTS OF FUN

OF DUCHESSES AND DOCTORS

FAREWELL TO GEORGE

PARADISES LOST

A BRAVE NEW WORLD

GUERRILLA GARDENERS

MENTAL KNITTING

ROYAL POWER GAMES

LADIES WHO LUNCH MERRILY

YOUNG MEN WALKING TO THEIR DEATH

LOVE OF A LION

DEDICATED FOLLOWERS OF FASHION

PASSION IN PROVENCE

BEDAZZLED BY THEIR JEWELS

REAL THINGS MATTER

ANOTHER MILESTONE

BOOKS TAKING OVER THE HOUSE

A VILLAGE IS A WORLD

REAL OLYMPICS

MORE ABOUT BOOKS

BUYING A NEW CAR

NO GOLD MEDAL FOR THIS DRIVER

CULTURE, HISTORY, GLAMOUR AND BEAUTY

I’M CRAZY FOR POWER

BLOGGER’S COMPLEXES

BOOKS THAT TAUGHT US THE SECRET OF LIFE

HAPPINESS IS OUR BIRTHRIGHT

RAMBLING THROUGH YOUTUBE

WHALES, WINE AND WOMEN

TRAVELS IN FOODIE HEAVEN

WHEN ELEPHANTS WEPT AND GORILLAS DANCED

LIFE’S LIKE THAT

BLOGGERS ADDICTIONS

MORE

Dedicated

To my grandchildren

May they always be addicted to living

INTRODUCTION

Chasing the Dragon is an old Chinese euphemism for opium addiction. I think it’s a lovely phrase, conjuring up perilously beautiful legendary beasts and a dangerous quest. This little book is not about a dangerous quest, but is in a way, about an addiction, though not to opium.

It’s a collection of stories written for my blog, a word which some may not be familiar with, but which is a description of a sort of internet journal. In my case, it’s not a journal, but a portmanteau of ideas, topics, people, fun and food which took my fancy. But as I wrote, and became connected with people all over the world who read and commented on my blogs, just as I read and commented on theirs, it became an addiction.

Blogging is not just writing but is also a conversation with like-minded people. So though I began writing just for the pleasure of it, and still do, there’s the added dimension of intelligent appreciation and comment from a world-wide audience.

In fact, blogging is a whole sub-culture and a world of its own, with its own vocabulary. We ‘Like’ other blogs, we ‘Follow’ other blogs, and we ‘Comment’ on other blogs. And we try not to become addicted, because it can also become very time-consuming. The last story in this little book is called Bloggers Addiction. It’s one of the most popular blogs I’ve written, because it reflects our common experience.

So I hope you’ll enjoy chasing the dragon with me too.

DEFINITELY NOT BIRD-BRAINED

Savouring a flat white and a muffin in the coffee-shop court-yard, I turned my head to watch some children peering into the goldfish pond. When I turned back to my coffee, a ring of sparrows had silently hopped onto the table and up to the muffin. They actually understood human anatomy and knew that when I turned my head, I couldn’t see them.

I used to feed the little rascals at home. All nine or ten of them. Not actually at home. Under a tree outside the garden where I could watch them from the sitting room window. That way less danger from the cat.

I also fed the dozen or so mynahs, a little way further from the tree so that they wouldn’t frighten off the smaller birds. Moist bread for the mynahs, wheat and birdseed, and when I ran out, porridge flakes for the others. They loved it all. They told their friends. Within a couple of weeks I had at least a hundred sparrows, four or five doves, some itinerant blackbirds, the odd chaffinch and an occasional thrush.

They had also worked out where this largesse came from. They waited in the plum tree outside the kitchen window and watched me until I came out with their breakfast. And for a couple of hours they sat and barracked me from the plum tree and the garage roof in the afternoon, until I sallied forth with afternoon tea – theirs.

A great whoosh of wings accompanied me to the tree. Then I had to make sure that the neighbour’s ancient lonely dog was not hovering in hope of a dog biscuit. If she was, I had to return with the bird food, and dig out a biscuit and walk her down the road with it, away from the bird food which she would have gobbled up. Dog distracted, back to the birds.

If I was out, they would be waiting for me at the bottom of the road. They recognised my white car, and swooped from telegraph pole to telegraph pole all the way down the street with the car. They’d then hover round the garage yelling she’s back, she’s back until I came out. If I went for a walk, they’d fly down the road with me, and wait on the corner.

Finally the worm turned. There were so many birds I couldn’t keep up with them, and was buying a large sack of wheat from the farmers shop each week, as well as extra bread for the greedy mynahs – money I could ill-afford. The garden was becoming white with droppings, and I was back to the chaos of when I’d had a bird table. The sparrows could probably have made a pot of tea themselves, they’d watched me so intently through the kitchen window for so long.

A short holiday in Melbourne solved the problem. They gave up waiting. I felt guilty but relieved. They didn’t need the food out here in the country. It was just my hobby which had got out of hand.

But I now have a hearty respect for the intelligence of bird brains.

Feeling a cold coming on, I shall treat myself to a comforting pick-me-up – a tot of Stone’s ginger wine, the juice of an orange, a spoonful of honey and some hot water. It goes straight to the cockles of the heart, warms the chest and helps a cough.

THE WINDSOR KNOT

The world’s greatest love story? Not really. The world’s greatest demonstration of what co-dependency means more like.

I had gone with the Windsor’s to bed with Anne Sebba’s book That Woman. Sebba makes it clear that Wallis didn’t want to marry an ex-King, but was happy to be connected to a King, but she doesn’t resolve the riddle of why Edward, an emotionally stunted middle-aged man (Wallis refers to him as Peter Pan in her letters) became hopelessly besotted with a tough woman who publicly bullied and humiliated him. Yet to untie the Windsor knot it’s only necessary to look at Edward’s childhood.

Sebba makes the point that Wallis was determined to marry a rich man because she’d had a trying childhood with not enough money. Well, there are plenty of us in that boat. But many others would have different goals and don’t all want to marry for status and the entree to the best parties. In some ways, Wallis was a classic Southern belle, having learned to listen and please men, dress to perfection and revel in parties - Scarlett O’Hara to the life.

Sebba also suggests that since many aspects of Wallis’s appearance were so masculine, including the lack of breasts, the broad shoulders, big ugly hands, strong mannish jaw, and an apparent inability to have children, she suffered from a form of Disorder of Sexual Development. This, Sebba felt, would have been the unconscious mainspring behind her desire for perfection. Whatever the reason, Wallis’s life seemed to be dominated by the desire for expensive jewels, exquisite clothes, the best parties and liaisons with rich fashionable people.

Edward already had all this stuff in spades. What he also had was a much worse childhood than Wallis, who had always been beloved, in which for the first three years of his life he was cared for by a sadistic dominating nanny. When she took him down to the drawing-room for the normal half an hour with the parents that rich Edwardian children enjoyed, she pinched him till it hurt outside the door, so that he entered crying. His un-maternal mother Queen Mary, and irascible father, King George promptly sent him out again, as they didn’t know what to do with a crying toddler.

So Edward’s childhood was dominated by a cold distant mother and by the cruel nanny, who finally had a nervous breakdown when he was three, and it was discovered she had never had a day off in three years. It’s a psychological truism that the experiences with parents before the age of three, shape the relationships that we have with our significant others for the rest of our lives. So Edward was simply replicating his childhood and trying to please a rather cruel and dominating woman who was just like his nanny. The treadmill of an unresolved childhood.

In psychological jargon, the Windsors had an interlocking racket, and since neither of them changed in all their years together, neither did the racket change. That, it seems to me is the real story of their marriage, not that it was a great love-story, but rather, an enduring saga of co-dependency.

Last night I went to a seminar on the benefits of juicing. So in the spirit of self-denial, I’ve decided to give up carbohydrates (as a foodie this deprivation may not last). But before I do, I’m having one last fling with carbs- a freshly baked loaf. This recipe has no kneading or proving in a warm cupboard. It’s simplicity itself. Just three cups of self-raising flour, a pinch of salt and a bottle of beer made up to 400mls with water. Mix them all together, put in a greased loaf-tin in a medium to hot oven, and cook for about an hour or until it sounds hollow when you tap it. Delicious hot or cold, with lashings of real butter.

NO OFFENCE MEANT!

I saw a lovely picture in a newspaper of an English toff, dressed up to the nines, at an English country wedding.. Black morning coat, grey-black pin-striped trou, grey waistcoat – but you couldn’t see it. Instead there was a grey baby cradle firmly pinned to his chest and looped around his shoulders, holding a very newborn baby. Instead of a top-hat, he was carrying a blue and white spotted bag holding, presumably, all the disposable nappies, wipes and other paraphernalia a Western baby requires.

He was actually the English Culture Secretary, Jeremy Hunt, but it was his role as a Dad which looked so impressive, as with broad smile on his face, and without a trace of embarrassment, he strode into the wedding behind his wife holding their toddler.

Time was when a man like him wouldn’t have even been seen pushing a pram. It’s a great leap forward for men, and mothers and their children too, that men are actually not bashful any more about being seen to be caring sensitive fathers, or even sensitive new age guys ( SNAGS). So it seemed all the sadder to read another item on the same page about how the National Health Service has banned the use of the word ‘Dad’ in its information pamphlets, using ‘partner’ instead, so as not to offend same sex couples.

As I thought about this, I thought how much of our lives these days is taken up with not offending people - Moslems, lesbians, gays, among others – these are the ones that spring to mind, maybe because they seem to be offended more often. But are they? And do we take the same trouble not to offend Christians, men, children, and animals who all also get their feelings trampled on sometimes too. Do we have a license to be offended these days if we belong to a minority group or even a majority group?

It seems to me that when we allow ourselves to be offended by the innocent use of an archetypal word like father or dad, we are actually taking it personally, and making everyone else responsible for offending us, which is another way of saying, ‘making us angry.’

But life is a lot happier and less stressful if we don’t take offence and take everything personally. In his wonderful book called ‘The Four Agreements’, a book which must have made a lot of people feel happier and more fulfilled, Miguel Ruiz deals with the