Showing posts from June, 2012

Following Nature's Law.

What can I say? I'm a man, an ordinary man. I have needs, wants, desires like any male. Sometimes I resist and sometimes the flesh is weak and I give in. Last week I was weak and although I tried to resist I couldn't and ultimately gave in to that demanding inner voice and did something I shouldn't. I should know better I agree. I confess. Mea culpa.
What did I do?  I bought one of these:
Nice and shiny and smooth - it's got knobs and twiddly things too!

Like I said above I'm an ordinary man. Therefore by extension, it's not my fault!

 A few years ago my lovely G bought me a good quality digital camera and since then she's encouraged me to become more interested in photography and, like any dutiful husband, I do what I'm told. The over the years she's kept telling me how good I am with the camera, what a good ‘eye’ I've got. For quite a while I just pottered along with the standard lens that came with the camera butts eventually I saved up and …

Why you should read Indigo Roth.

Sometimes you come across a blog that just grabs your attention. If you're like me, you'll end up following them. I did just that a couple of years ago with fellow Brit Indigo Roth. His mind and his blog occupy a world that is convoluted, bizarre, fascinating, endearing and entertaining. Above all, it's entertaining. He's currently trying to reach a bigger audience. He deserves one.

His fictional (?) world contains amongst other things, a flat sharing lion with a penchant for regular showers and tie theft, engineering badgers, evil Genius (previously part-time) Dr Max Tunguska, Amy – a bare footed, blonde haired, summer-scented neighbour - and visits from fellow blogger and coffee addict Eloiste Petite. His escapades, japes and jaunts involve ancestors, time travel, gourmet coffee, talking animals and a multitude of scenarios and situations that quite frankly I couldn't imagine anyone else coming up with, written with that unique style of his that often leaves me …

Coffee on the doorstep

I fill the cup with boiling water from the small urn on the kitchen worktop - a nod to our attempt at being economical with expensive power bills - and the smell of coffee wafts upwards. Although it's just freeze dried stuff it's decent enough and I'm almost drooling at the thought of that first sip of the day. I resist the temptation to take the hit now and pick up my book and head for the front door. The house faces South and catches any warmth the weather may give {not much this month - what IS going on with that? It's supposed to be summer!} and is a favourite spot for a quiet coffee and contemplation of life the universe and everything of a morning. Today I've already been outside with my bucket of seed and filled all the feeders front and back of the house, topped up the niger seed feeder which is a favourite of our local goldfinch population and I've dropped a few suet balls in the cage like affairs which hang from the shed at the rear of the house and …

The Sunday posts 2012/Isn't it strange

Isn't it strange that princes and kings,And clowns that caper In sawdust rings,And common people Like you and meAre builders for eternity?Each is given a bag of tools,A shapeless mass, A book of rules;And each must make - Ere life is flown -A stumbling block,
  Or a steppingstone.

By: R. L. Sharpe
Photo by Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2012/Lesson

Respectfully dedicated to the aptly named blogger TSB who is definitely twisted and obviously Scottish. I couldn't possibly comment on the last part. A somewhat grizzled and most definitely curmudgeonly teacher in New Zealand, it's the political correctness, petty bureaucracy and spectacular mismanagement that gets him down rather than the students. Never the less I hope he appreciates this tongue in cheek offering
The Lesson Chaos ruled OK in the classroom
as bravely the teacher walked in
the nooligans ignored him
hid voice was lost in the din

"The theme for today is violence
and homework will be set
I'm going to teach you a lesson
one that you'll never forget"

He picked on a boy who was shouting
and throttled him then and there
then garrotted the girl behind him
(the one with grotty hair)

Then sword in hand he hacked his way
between the chattering rows
"First come, first severed" he declared
"fingers, feet or toes"

He threw the sword…

The Sunday Posts 2012

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done,
But, he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn’t," but he would be one
Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you’ll never do that;
At least no one has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn’t be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle it in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
That "couldn’t be d…

No thanks luv..........

Not being a royalist I had to avoid TV for most of the last week as it was completely dominated by programming around royals, royalty and diamond jubilee’s as the BBC and politicians tried to whip everyone into a patriotic frenzy and remind everyone of the ‘stiff upper lip’ kind of ethos that makes this country great. {aye right} It seemed like every minor member of the royal family was on telly, being interviewed about how great it is to have a royal family doing all that very important work for us plebs and what great value for money they all are and what a wonderful woman HMTQ is or presenting programmes about how great it is to have a royal family doing lots of very important work and being very good value for money and not forgetting what a wonderful woman HMTQ is. News, weather, current affairs, history and even bloomin cookery programmes across BBC TV and radio aligned themselves to the jubilee and strained themselves to make connections at every level no matter how obscure or…

The smell of bees

“Bees do have a smell, you know, and if they don't they should, for their feet are dusted with spices from a million flowers.”

Dandelion wine. {1957}

“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you're there.

It doesn't matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that's like you after you take your hands away. The difference between the man who just cuts lawns and a real gardener is in the touching, he said. The lawn-cutter might just as well not have been there at all; the gardener will be there a lifetime.”

Farenheit 451. {1953}

Quotes from the work of Ray Bradbury who died on Tuesday.  Reading his book Farenheit 451 i…

The Sunday Posts 2012.

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird

In an Edinburgh cafe.

I looked up as she was coming in through the door. She moved in that careful way old women do with slow gentle steps deliberately taken. She walked along the unmanned counter of cafĂ© Camino with quiet dignity, past the display case with its ready-made sandwiches and rolls, salads and little dishes of olives and feta in oil, stopping just beside the till where she put down two bags of shopping with that same kind of deliberation, not giving the impression the bags were heavy or that they were light. She rang a silver bell {that I hadn’t noticed while I waited for a staff member to come from the kitchen to get me my coffee} and waited patiently but no one came so after a few moments she rang the bell again – twice.

Voices could be heard from the kitchen, conversations in Spanish and English between two or maybe three people. Still no one came. The bell was rung again – four sharp taps demanding attention and at this a stunning beauty came from the kitchen and beamed a glorious smile at…

Late night Listening.......

Some music, writing a blog for tomorrow - and a single malt.

Time for bed.

See you later.