Sunday, August 29, 2004
Bronze for running, gold for attitude
'Defrocked Priest Tackles Marathon Man' would be an amusing headline in 'Man Bites Dog' mode, if it weren't so sad. It was a nasty incident that shadowed the impact of the crowning race and made the only blot on the otherwise impeccable organisation of the Olympics.
I was angry at the way that Brendan Foster talked it up on the BBC commentary. Red in the face, he huffed and puffed and created long scenarios of Brazilian anger, municipal disgrace, wanton police incompetence and the need for special medals for Vanderlei de Lima.
"I'm not going to cry forever about the incident, although it broke my concentration," Lima said, "but I managed to finish and the bronze medal in such a difficult marathon is also a great achievement." A very fine fellow indeed.
I was angry at the way that Brendan Foster talked it up on the BBC commentary. Red in the face, he huffed and puffed and created long scenarios of Brazilian anger, municipal disgrace, wanton police incompetence and the need for special medals for Vanderlei de Lima.
"I'm not going to cry forever about the incident, although it broke my concentration," Lima said, "but I managed to finish and the bronze medal in such a difficult marathon is also a great achievement." A very fine fellow indeed.
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iNEFFEble
- One can well understand from picture and words why my neffe wants to continue to live exactly where he is.
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Saturday, August 28, 2004
May I see you home?
"I'm all right, Mike, I'm used to the dark. It's only a few hundred yards."
"Noo, Anna, It's after twelve and I'm not lettin' you goo hoom on yar oon."
"After all that wine you won't find your way back. You're in the wilds here, you know. Anyway, you had that long drive down ..."
"I'm coming, so get your coot on and shut up. Where's me torch? I only had two glasses of wine."
"Well, you've become very chatty. Night Christine, 'night. Go on, Mike, you're daft. I can look after myself. Five foot male offers safe conduct to tall bird - I'd frighten them off more than you would."
"Nah, I may be small, but I'm savage. Come on, we can cross now. You're safe with me. I like the way you said that tonight."
"Said what?"
"Told that prat that he was rude. He was. Is it down here?"
"Yeah."
"Bloody Norah, it's dark. Bit creepy."
"The moon's behind the clouds. It's just about here by the willows that the ghost dog with burning eyes comes out of the bushes ..."
"Give over. Stop it. Aaaaah, shi... what was that, for God's sake?"
"Only one of the deer crossing the drive, we disturbed her sitting in the grass. Here, you can hold my hand."
"Get away. Phaw. This torch isn't very powerful or I'd have seen it. Seems funny without any light at all."
"Here we are, I'll just pop in and tell Gordon you're here, he'd like to say hello. (Gord', ssshhh, don't let him hear, but could you walk Mike back up to the road, make an excuse.)"
"Hello, good to see you Mike. Hey, I usually check the garage before bedtime, I'll walk up with you and have a chat. How's Christine?"
"Night night. Thanks Mike.""That's OK. Any time. 'Night, Anna."
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Thursday, August 26, 2004
A week to view
Sunday - met potential new neighbours who called to look round garden. Two pleasant brothers, gold medal fern growers from Suffolk, one with multiple piercings. I had seen them on television at Chelsea.
Later, to Snetterton race circuit, via courtesy tickets for pickup truck and F3 racing. Unlike bigger racetracks, here one may get close to cars before the races, peering at engines and chatting to drivers and mechanics. At lunch they served good wine in paper cups along with vegetable lasagne. After 4 hours my feet ached - no seats at all trackside and the sun was hot. Retired to the car on a grassy knoll, played Puccini and dozed while G watched last races. Drove home making silly truck noises on the bends - so childish.
Monday - walked round Lynford lake with P. and terrier, saw swan with seven cygnets. To Bury St Edmunds with J. to pick up the latest in digital hearing aids (NHS). Discovered that a soundproof room is not restful, but horribly claustrophobic. The aid in the ear is plugged in to to a sophisticated computer programme that fine tunes it to maximum efficiency. Works like magic. Reduces need to repeat things by fifty percent. Afterwards, a walk in the Abbey Gardens and evensong at the cathedral. Home to dominoes, tea, toast and Bovril with Tristan and G. Later, fell asleep in the chair before the denouement of "Waking the Dead" - miss it every time. Blogged and started Peter Ackroyd's latest novel, 'Clerkenwell Tales' - read in bed until 3 am.
Tuesday - washed down guest bedroom ready to decorate and revamp. Must be done before visitors from Vermont arrive in October. Up in loft to dump stuff, diverted by mysterious boxes full of unnecessary things. Everything there covered in bat muck. Resolved to dispose of all tat at the local boot sale on Bank Holiday Monday. Three callers for coffee (and in one case gin). Gave shoulder massage. Cleaned chicken run , got out pastels quickly because of light effects outside and did a smudgy blotch that tried to be the garden in the rain. Tore it up. Got green chalk everywhere. Made stir fry with chicken and noodles. Listened to Mahler and Strauss' 'Four Last Songs'. Replied to emails at length. Had another panic attack waking at one a.m. after brief sleep, kept light on. Something to do with fear of loneliness and of enclosure. Remembered Kingsley's advice and read for a while.
Wednesday - picked runner beans, trimmed up garlic crop now dried off. Very small bulbs, but strong good flavour. Domestic things. Drove to Norwich to look for shoes for wedding, found them and so sped off relieved to Waterstone's. Bought a Diana Krall CD, disappointing when played later, great songs too much mucked about. I like her less than I did. Shoes also disappointing later. Went window-shopping, had a laugh in Ann Summers at the gross contraptions neatly lined up. Read American newspapers in the Forum. Back home, microwaved corn on the cob, took a long bath and watched remarkable late film The Sixth Happiness - the first shock of Firdaus Kanga's extreme disability fades as his talent charms. Headphones on, played Isaac Stern's Wieniawski Concerto No 1 and went off to sleep like a baby to the voice of the violin.
Thursday...Ah, that's enough, you'll have stopped reading by now anyway.....
Later, to Snetterton race circuit, via courtesy tickets for pickup truck and F3 racing. Unlike bigger racetracks, here one may get close to cars before the races, peering at engines and chatting to drivers and mechanics. At lunch they served good wine in paper cups along with vegetable lasagne. After 4 hours my feet ached - no seats at all trackside and the sun was hot. Retired to the car on a grassy knoll, played Puccini and dozed while G watched last races. Drove home making silly truck noises on the bends - so childish.
Monday - walked round Lynford lake with P. and terrier, saw swan with seven cygnets. To Bury St Edmunds with J. to pick up the latest in digital hearing aids (NHS). Discovered that a soundproof room is not restful, but horribly claustrophobic. The aid in the ear is plugged in to to a sophisticated computer programme that fine tunes it to maximum efficiency. Works like magic. Reduces need to repeat things by fifty percent. Afterwards, a walk in the Abbey Gardens and evensong at the cathedral. Home to dominoes, tea, toast and Bovril with Tristan and G. Later, fell asleep in the chair before the denouement of "Waking the Dead" - miss it every time. Blogged and started Peter Ackroyd's latest novel, 'Clerkenwell Tales' - read in bed until 3 am.
Tuesday - washed down guest bedroom ready to decorate and revamp. Must be done before visitors from Vermont arrive in October. Up in loft to dump stuff, diverted by mysterious boxes full of unnecessary things. Everything there covered in bat muck. Resolved to dispose of all tat at the local boot sale on Bank Holiday Monday. Three callers for coffee (and in one case gin). Gave shoulder massage. Cleaned chicken run , got out pastels quickly because of light effects outside and did a smudgy blotch that tried to be the garden in the rain. Tore it up. Got green chalk everywhere. Made stir fry with chicken and noodles. Listened to Mahler and Strauss' 'Four Last Songs'. Replied to emails at length. Had another panic attack waking at one a.m. after brief sleep, kept light on. Something to do with fear of loneliness and of enclosure. Remembered Kingsley's advice and read for a while.
Wednesday - picked runner beans, trimmed up garlic crop now dried off. Very small bulbs, but strong good flavour. Domestic things. Drove to Norwich to look for shoes for wedding, found them and so sped off relieved to Waterstone's. Bought a Diana Krall CD, disappointing when played later, great songs too much mucked about. I like her less than I did. Shoes also disappointing later. Went window-shopping, had a laugh in Ann Summers at the gross contraptions neatly lined up. Read American newspapers in the Forum. Back home, microwaved corn on the cob, took a long bath and watched remarkable late film The Sixth Happiness - the first shock of Firdaus Kanga's extreme disability fades as his talent charms. Headphones on, played Isaac Stern's Wieniawski Concerto No 1 and went off to sleep like a baby to the voice of the violin.
Thursday...Ah, that's enough, you'll have stopped reading by now anyway.....
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Wednesday, August 25, 2004
Joan's 'squeaky little rat' -
I will be first in line for a copy of Vol. 1 of Bob Zimmerman's autobiography when it reaches the UK. In spite of what his publisher promises, I can't imagine that he will entirely lift the veil from a very private private life. I will be fascinated to see what shape his prose style takes.
He has made a long musical journey and it has been one of life's pleasures to go with him. Replaying old Dylan tapes in the car lately I find them wonderful still. No other music returns the atmosphere of my youth to me in the same way, he was one of my musical gods and a definitive marker of a social upheaval. We felt it coming back then, but had no idea just how revolutionary it would be:
'Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand.
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'
He has made a long musical journey and it has been one of life's pleasures to go with him. Replaying old Dylan tapes in the car lately I find them wonderful still. No other music returns the atmosphere of my youth to me in the same way, he was one of my musical gods and a definitive marker of a social upheaval. We felt it coming back then, but had no idea just how revolutionary it would be:
'Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don't criticize
What you can't understand.
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin'.
Please get out of the new one
If you can't lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin'
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Pressure
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Man and nature
The green tunnel of ancient beeches in the King's Forest today was lit by rays of sunlight through branches to the mossy floor; they highlighted the vivid orange and brown tones of a large mattress by the roadside. Crouching on its back among the lilac scrub its matching divan lurked in shadow. Five dark forms leant against the twisted trunks, ominous black bags full of conifer clippings and branches. Adding a jaunty note, among the beech mast lay the dramatic red of two KFC boxes and the glint of sunlight on metal shone from three drinks cans randomly fallen.
May heaven bless the Forestry Commission who routinely cleanses this landscape and may the Green Man haunt the dreams of those who abuse it.
May heaven bless the Forestry Commission who routinely cleanses this landscape and may the Green Man haunt the dreams of those who abuse it.
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Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Mikko and Markku
I was reading an article about the Finnish architects Mikko Heikkinen and Markku Komonen which gave this detail about one of their major projects. I love Stonehengy, Indiana Jonesy features like this - where natural phenomena are incorporated into man-made structures.
Rovaniemi Airport completed in 1992, is a box-like pavilion with an external steel frame and metal elevations. It is touched by a long curving canopy which follows the topography of the terrain. The location of the building approximately on the Arctic Circle is illustrated with the help of two installations integrated into the architecture. A rooflight running parallel with the Arctic Circle throws a diagonal streak of light onto the floor of the concourse at the point where the Arctic Circle ran in 9648 BC and in 1958, 1962, 1974, 1984 and 1990 AD. The Arctic Circle shifts at the rate of about one metre in ten years and the next time it strikes the same spot will be in 47954 AD. The other installation was designed by the artist Lauri Anttila. For ten minutes at midday, a ray of sunlight penetrates the interior through a small aperture in the roof, to make a spot of light on the floor in a different place everyday. A chain of dots inlaid into the floor of the concourse marks the position of these spots over the year to form an attenuated figure of eight, the sun's analemma, which is a projection of the Earth's elliptical orbit.
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Saturday, August 21, 2004
Night sounds
The endless adverts to the affluent and the insipid presenters on Classic FM drive me nuts. But Chiller Cabinet - a very late night mix of oddities and minimal allsorts, is announcer-free and worth your time. I keep the playlist on the task bar and follow the tracks that way. Back to back with Late Junction there are four hours' worth of non-mainstream music available. Loads of discoveries, tonight a crazy version of the Pearl Fishers duet sung by David Byrne and another; I thought it was comedic at first, then got rather to like their virtually flat delivery.
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Laying low
Our broody black bantam is turning in a real comedy performance. Having exhausted the dark corners of the garden shed for hiding her eggs, she has started to steal into the house for the purpose - easy with doors & windows open. She frightened the pants off me yesterday in the kitchen, I opened the door to find her squatting in a basket of onions on top of a wooden chest. She took off outside with a squawk leaving a warm egg.
This morning I walked through the sitting room and heard soft muttering, she was among some perfumed fir-cones on a low shelf, had sent them flying and was laying her egg in a large china bowl. I have put all sorts of tempting receptacles outside, but she's determined to move in with us.
This morning I walked through the sitting room and heard soft muttering, she was among some perfumed fir-cones on a low shelf, had sent them flying and was laying her egg in a large china bowl. I have put all sorts of tempting receptacles outside, but she's determined to move in with us.
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Friday, August 20, 2004
Reversing Vandalism
The librarians of San Francisco have cojones. This slide show illustrates a wonderful piece of constructive action. (via Opacodex)
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Suitably epic?
The Olympics opening ceremony was stylish and original and choosing Bjork as the main vocal interest was brave. I love her and quite liked her performance - unlike most people I have spoken to about it. 'Awful, unmelodic, ugly, mad choice, come back Kylie' and worse. I understand, she's an acquired taste. I found this appraisal which gives the lyrics of Oceania - a hymn to our origins in the sea which is beautiful.
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Silly translations
I only remember three, can you think of any more?
Dido et dux.
Caesar adsum iam forti
Brutus aderat.
Si Senor Dacargo -
Forti lorez inaro
Demaint lorez
Demar trux
Fular hensan gisandux.
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Ubiquitous Ralph
It sometimes happens that several disparate references to a single subject arrive at one's door within a short space of time.
I enjoyed Paula's analysis of the lyrics of a Vaughan Williams song The Water Mill by a Georgian poet wonderfully named Fredegond Shove. She was unknown to me, I looked her up and in doing so found this good piece by Stephen Roberts.
I collected a library CD of Vaughan Williams' Sinfonia Antarctica the previous day. I had been minded to listen to it by telling someone about taking my Aunt to hear what may have been its first performance. Vaughan Williams himself went up on stage at the end, a bent old figure taking a great ovation from the crowd. Barbirolli embraced him and I had tears in my eyes with all the emotion. The music had been terrific and I stood up and clapped with the rest. I suddenly realised that little Aunt Lizzie was fast asleep with her head on the arm of a gent in the next seat. He sat quietly and didn't disturb her. "Sorry dear," she said later, "I was tired and it's not really my sort of stuff, I prefer Mantovani."
Ralph cropped up again on the radio as I was ironing; Paul Heiney visited Southwold in Suffolk to talk to the 'Blythe Valley Voices', a group committed to preserving old sea songs. Fishing has died there now, but its history is bright in local memory. A class of children listened to an old fisherman tell tales, then play accompaniment on a melodeon. They sang the old lilting tunes with relish; the teacher said "These songs are safe now in the memory of a new generation, so their seed is planted for generations to come".
Vaughan Williams, she said, came to Southwold and the Suffolk coast and gathered over a hundred songs. Tunes from them popped up in his orchestral works. His Songs from the Eastern Counties was published in 1908.
A glorious sing-song in the pub closed the programme. A woman observed to Heiney that all the lyrics were about 'sex or wrecks'. "And which do you prefer?" "Well who the hell likes shipwrecks?" she said.
I enjoyed Paula's analysis of the lyrics of a Vaughan Williams song The Water Mill by a Georgian poet wonderfully named Fredegond Shove. She was unknown to me, I looked her up and in doing so found this good piece by Stephen Roberts.
I collected a library CD of Vaughan Williams' Sinfonia Antarctica the previous day. I had been minded to listen to it by telling someone about taking my Aunt to hear what may have been its first performance. Vaughan Williams himself went up on stage at the end, a bent old figure taking a great ovation from the crowd. Barbirolli embraced him and I had tears in my eyes with all the emotion. The music had been terrific and I stood up and clapped with the rest. I suddenly realised that little Aunt Lizzie was fast asleep with her head on the arm of a gent in the next seat. He sat quietly and didn't disturb her. "Sorry dear," she said later, "I was tired and it's not really my sort of stuff, I prefer Mantovani."
Ralph cropped up again on the radio as I was ironing; Paul Heiney visited Southwold in Suffolk to talk to the 'Blythe Valley Voices', a group committed to preserving old sea songs. Fishing has died there now, but its history is bright in local memory. A class of children listened to an old fisherman tell tales, then play accompaniment on a melodeon. They sang the old lilting tunes with relish; the teacher said "These songs are safe now in the memory of a new generation, so their seed is planted for generations to come".
Vaughan Williams, she said, came to Southwold and the Suffolk coast and gathered over a hundred songs. Tunes from them popped up in his orchestral works. His Songs from the Eastern Counties was published in 1908.
A glorious sing-song in the pub closed the programme. A woman observed to Heiney that all the lyrics were about 'sex or wrecks'. "And which do you prefer?" "Well who the hell likes shipwrecks?" she said.
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Monday, August 16, 2004
"Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge? Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?"
T.S. Eliot
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Saturday, August 14, 2004
Peepers
Have a go at the "Eyes on Art" quiz. I won't tell you how many I got right, nobody likes a smartarse. (via Burp)
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Winged
Doing fifty down the straight road from Hockwold to home, I saw a black lump crouched at the roadside under the overhang of a steep bank. I walked back in the rain, braving the speeding cars going home from the airbase. A young crow lay with his beak open on the wet road, his head only inches from passing tyres. I picked him up in my jacket and put him in a covered box in the car boot. After he had been for a time in the warm, quiet dark I peeped in and found him standing, raising a bright eye.
He's a fine bird, this year's brood. Now he's housed in a small cage in the hens' enclosure, we'll review him in the morning. Better to let creatures rest after a shock. I'll return him to his home location if he has no major damage, otherwise we will have to take a trip to the RSPCA wildlife hospital tomorrow.
Saturday morning The bird had died in the night when we checked this morning. He met his Friday 13th. The outcome would have been quicker perhaps, but the same if I had left him in the road. We tried.
He's a fine bird, this year's brood. Now he's housed in a small cage in the hens' enclosure, we'll review him in the morning. Better to let creatures rest after a shock. I'll return him to his home location if he has no major damage, otherwise we will have to take a trip to the RSPCA wildlife hospital tomorrow.
Saturday morning The bird had died in the night when we checked this morning. He met his Friday 13th. The outcome would have been quicker perhaps, but the same if I had left him in the road. We tried.
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Friday, August 13, 2004
Hughes and Hopper
The wonderful Robert Hughes recently delivered another masterly and meaty set of opinions on the state of modern art in The New Shock of the New. (Incidentally, it was rather more the shock of the old to see him much changed and leaning heavily on a stick.)
He performed savage surgery on contemporary work that he considered unskilled and short-lived, the Brit Pop mob, the international gimmick merchants (Gilbert and George - 'those image scavengers'). He looked for what would endure because it had intrinsic honesty. Among others he cited the narrative work of Paula Rego and of Anselm Kiefer. He looked approvingly at Freud and at Hockney whose continued development and willingness to work like a dog to 'keep his eye alive' he admired - he has 'an unfailing instinct for placement.'
I took hasty notes, but the ideas came too thick and fast through epithets of great insight and elegance. 'Art affirms the moral imagination. We see more images in a day than a person in the 14th century saw in a lifetime. So ensues mental chaos. We need to cleanse our perception. What is important in art is not so much impact as resonance.'
A seam of conservatism runs through his current thought, he bemoans the 'tragic depreciation of painting and drawing'. 'We have had a gutful of fast food and fast art. We want slow art, art derived from skill and doggedness, not falsely iconic.' I tend to agree with him, though a bit of froth and tat can be a lot of fun.
I finally got to London yesterday to see the Edward Hopper exhibition. Two hours of gazing. To see the original is everything, it is to know the truth of size and subtle tones. I had not appreciated before that his skill in the play of light was sometimes so refined, as in the reflections on the pavement of 'Nighthawks', I had seen mainly his big geometry of light and shade. I stared so long at my favourite 'House at Dusk' that I felt that I was inside the frame. Strange cross-references emerged, this for example seems to me share the vision of a 17th century Dutch master. To stand three feet away from the real 'Sun in an Empty Room' was to approach the tabernacle.
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Monday, August 09, 2004
A post about post
We so often knock them, but I was impressed by Royal Mail last week. My bunch of lavender, sent in a cardboard tube for 42p, arrived in Cornwall within twenty four hours. I desperately handed a small parcel to the postman emptying the village box at 5.30 pm and at 10 next morning my friend in Kent 'phoned to thank me for her birthday present. A close shave.
Our postman told me of a bad-tempered pheasant that sets about him when he goes up the drive of a nearby house. It doesn't like his bicycle and flies up squawking at the handle-bars. He says it seems to be waiting for him every day in the bushes and, though he feels very sheepish about it, he is more nervous of this bird than of the dogs he has to deal with.
Sending the lavender reminded me of my Gran. In the late thirties and forties Mum had a flat in London; Gran in deepest Norfolk would pick bunches of snowdrops, or violets, or those lovely wild jonquils, wrap them in damp tissue and post a box off early in the morning, they would arrive wonderfully fresh the same evening. Mum said that the fragrance as she opened the box always took her straight back home.
We enjoyed very much the delightful English of a young French woman who used to bring her little boy into the library to choose books. I recall: "I will take zis boy to 'ave small piss if you weell allow me ze key." And, "I said to my 'usband "Shut eet up , you silly blonk" " The all-time favourite was, "Can you 'elp me find zese cheeldren's books for 'im about Patman Post ?"
Our postman told me of a bad-tempered pheasant that sets about him when he goes up the drive of a nearby house. It doesn't like his bicycle and flies up squawking at the handle-bars. He says it seems to be waiting for him every day in the bushes and, though he feels very sheepish about it, he is more nervous of this bird than of the dogs he has to deal with.
Sending the lavender reminded me of my Gran. In the late thirties and forties Mum had a flat in London; Gran in deepest Norfolk would pick bunches of snowdrops, or violets, or those lovely wild jonquils, wrap them in damp tissue and post a box off early in the morning, they would arrive wonderfully fresh the same evening. Mum said that the fragrance as she opened the box always took her straight back home.
We enjoyed very much the delightful English of a young French woman who used to bring her little boy into the library to choose books. I recall: "I will take zis boy to 'ave small piss if you weell allow me ze key." And, "I said to my 'usband "Shut eet up , you silly blonk" " The all-time favourite was, "Can you 'elp me find zese cheeldren's books for 'im about Patman Post ?"
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New renaissance man
On Fred Wessel's site there is a fascinating photographic analysis of his work on a portrait of his daughter, using the 14th century egg tempera method. Click on Technique. His work draws its inspiration from the richness of the high Renaissance. His silverpoint work is exquisite too.
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Sunday, August 08, 2004
Mea culpa
I have just erased a post that I wrote about the decor of a room that I saw very briefly in a stranger's house. I think the aggressive guy whose comment on the post called me an 'evil, two-faced bitch' for doing this to a friend was over the top, but he made a valid point. I haven't pulled the piece to avoid his comment, but because I think I did a wrong thing to write it. I took the dubious view that it was OK to publish something because it would not be seen by the subject. Bad. I will think more carefully in future.
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My ten
Tyler Green posted his ten favourite artists and asked for other submissions. Never one to resist a list, I teased out mine from about a hundred possibles. Thanks to Marja-Leena for the link.
Pieter de Hooch Symmetry
Pierre Bonnard Colour
Douanier Rousseau Eccentricity
Samuel Palmer Englishness
J.M.W. Turner Drama
Henry Moore Mastery of medium
William Blake Vision
Claude Monet (De)Light
Andy Goldsworthy Ephemerality
Lucian Freud Power
Pieter de Hooch Symmetry
Pierre Bonnard Colour
Douanier Rousseau Eccentricity
Samuel Palmer Englishness
J.M.W. Turner Drama
Henry Moore Mastery of medium
William Blake Vision
Claude Monet (De)Light
Andy Goldsworthy Ephemerality
Lucian Freud Power
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Thursday, August 05, 2004
Advice
Would anyone care to comment on the relative merits of a power shower against an electric one. I know the obvious differences, but are there hidden drawbacks? I keep getting conflicting advice from salesmen and friends. As in "Don't waste your money, electric is quite adequate. Power showers are expensive to run." /"Power shower is heaven, you must go for it while you are upgrading".
To date we have managed with a bath and a hand shower only, but with the refit there are choices to make. One factor is our poor water pressure; we have a second tank feeding the bathroom at the back of a long house and I wonder if it's up to power delivery. Different plumbers again seem to have different views.
To date we have managed with a bath and a hand shower only, but with the refit there are choices to make. One factor is our poor water pressure; we have a second tank feeding the bathroom at the back of a long house and I wonder if it's up to power delivery. Different plumbers again seem to have different views.
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Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Allsorts
- Alex told her mother she wanted to sell lemonade and give the proceeds to the hospital.
- The Eye Opener- Mark observes a chocaholic.
- The Last of the Voudoos - the remarkable life of Jean Montanet, slave from Senegal.
- Seventeen Interesting Moments - from the Bolsheviks to the death of the Soviet Union.How's this for body language? (via Eeksy-Peeksy)
REM: mustn't wish time away, but roll on October.
Butterfly gardening - dedicated to Sarah who overcame her fear of flutter.
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Fire over Malta
'Swallows are shot for target practice. And not a single bird of prey breeds there - because they are all shot. Between two and three million birds are murdered there every single year.' (via Birdman)
Please take a few moments to read and act on the following links which document the appalling slaughter.
- Read about the problem at the RSPB International pages.
- Send a digital postcard from Birdlife Malta.
- Sign a petition for the protection of birds in Italy.
- You can also write to the Maltese press and the Malta Tourist Office. BirdLife Malta welcomes overseas members. Contact 57/28 Marina Court, Abate Rigord Street, Ta' Xbiex MSD12, Malta or visit the BirdLife Malta website, using the link on this page.
Please take a few moments to read and act on the following links which document the appalling slaughter.
- Read about the problem at the RSPB International pages.
- Send a digital postcard from Birdlife Malta.
- Sign a petition for the protection of birds in Italy.
- You can also write to the Maltese press and the Malta Tourist Office. BirdLife Malta welcomes overseas members. Contact 57/28 Marina Court, Abate Rigord Street, Ta' Xbiex MSD12, Malta or visit the BirdLife Malta website, using the link on this page.
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Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Nowt so queer as folk
Skinny, G and I went to a boot sale early on Sunday morning and though there was only a lot of rubbish to buy there were moments that made the visit worthwhile.
A middle-aged chap wore a most terrible auburn wig, the texture of shredded wheat, over his greying hair. It kept slipping forward as he bent to unload boxes onto his sale table. His straightening up revealed that it had turned half circle and the parting now ran over his head from ear to ear. His wife elbowed him and whispered. With Oliver Hardyish deftness he twirled it round with one finger to face front, smacked it down hard and served a lady customer with all the confident charm of an Omar Sharif.
Two kids ran a pitch while their dad had some tea; a woman picked up a bag of make-up and asked the price - "Seventy-five pence," said the girl. She reflected for a full minute and then said urgently "I'll give you a pound for it." The child's face was a study, but she kept it straight and accepted the coin. Afterwards the kids looked at me and we all giggled a bit. It was only later that I considered that she might have been deaf, not daft.
And a man sat surrounded by wood shavings and the most hideous wooden flowers in harsh colours; they were made by peeling sticks and shredding the tops to make shaggy petals. He had a good line in patter and was proud of his invention. "I'll have you know, lady," he said "That I am the creator of the first wooden hyacinth. Look at that, four of 'em in pot for only three pounds and you can have them made any colour while you wait. That's what I call improving on nature."
On Monday I had plans to do loads of things at home on the ranch, but at 11am came a phone call asking if I would do a really big favour for Mary, an elderly friend on a visit to a neighbour. Could I possibly take her to Woodbridge to see an old lady in a home there? She would buy lunch and would certainly pay for the petrol.
Mary has been travelling the world lately and isn't short of a bob or two. I bit the bullet and happily did the ninety-five mile round trip. The visit to the sweet old thing was prolonged, so a very late lunch turned out to be ham sandwiches and a cup of coffee at a garden centre. Mary just bought the coffee. As I delivered her back home she gave me a huge hug, said how wonderful it had been and pressed a note into my hand, "There, dear, that's for the petrol." When I got in the car I found it was a fiver. I finished the day fifteen quid down.