N: Is For Nudie!

The Wishbone Alphabet – an experiment, of course, with attitude, life and the eponymous soup.

This morning, I woke up with the question ‘Are dogs naked?’

Which is a random way to awake, and I have no idea what dreams prompted that. I looked at the list for N. Nudie, there’s the word. Jolly connotations. From the Latin, nudus, meaning ‘to bare.’ From running after freshly bathed progeny, waving pyjamas.

Odd fact I learned today; having rediscovered my 1811 Dictionary Of The Vulgar Tongue; hemp, being used for making ropes, was once known by the common name ‘Neck Weed.’ Of all the textures to be brought to bare skin, rope on a neck is not one I wish to sample.

Sand underfoot is one of the best, any time of year. In winter, it is best to keep warm socks waiting in the car. So, in celebration of the random, odd-but-jolly feel of my Monday, here are the notes from my latest beach barefoot romp:

‘A walk on the beach freezes my feet. Moving up out of the water's edge wind chill we find a forest has floated up out of the sea, the trees are broken into pieces, grounded in the pebble line at the foot of the dunes. We think we identify trunks of oak and pine. I stuff wizened hands in pockets whilst bare blue feet bury themselves in a warmer layer of dry sand. Shuffling back towards the car, Dog gets a little slower on each chase. 

When we start out, each catch of the ball is fêted by a leap into the sea; leap becomes a paddle; paddle morphs to a simple return; now she wags her tail around us, keeping the ball in her mouth safely out of play. 

We judge the driftwood, it is neatly spaced: exhibits in a pebble floored hallway. Someone has taken the art theme in earnest and painted a random boulder white. Someone has taken the judging too far and left a dog turd on a weathered stump. Too derivative? Pah, I say, poo is hardly an original protest medium.

At the car park, the stones are sharp. I put my flip flops on. The car-warm rubber is therapeutic. My hands grip the flask, I’m so pleased to find the flask of warm dark coffee. Dog sighs on the back seat, coat thick with sand. We perch in the open hatch, coffee steam drifting.’