Battle zone

While it may all look very tranquil here on the blog,

be not deceived,

for I am sporting

a fine assortment of plasters,

for my many and varied

 house and garden related injuries.

The gashed thumb from a dried fern.

The sliced index finger from a falling bread knife,

(expertly caught by its serrated edge).

The squashed toe from the falling  steam iron.

It's a wonder I can type at all.

Deep blue yonder

When not gazing up into the barely believable blue skies,

I have had my head down in one of the scary cupboards,

sorting out old sheet music.

This one gets its moment in the sun today
just because it coordinates.

Star on Sunday

When you are the last of four children

the photographers have rather drifted away

from their duties as family chroniclers.

So even as the only boy, 

you have to get used to playing a supporting role.

This you have done admirably.

Happy birthday J.

Sun arises

One hour later tomorrow morning.

Daylight robbery

A misty dawn,

 over the rookery.

 The rooks resume construction

of their nests.

One of them is considerably more impressive than the others,

because one of them is a robber rook

who steals the choicest twigs

from his hard working neighbours.

As their nests diminish,

so his grows.

It has at least three storeys now.

I believe he is waiting for them to

install their new feather bed.

Then his dream home

will be complete.

See here for similar nefarious doings:

Caught by the light too*

The silhouette.

It's the only way to go now.

See here.

The passport photo

As another birthday fast approaches

so too does the ten year passport renewal.

They wouldn't let me wear a jaunty hat,
present my good side,

smile, 

or prop my double chin 
on a diverting yellow-gloved hand.

Bananas it is then.


United Fruit Company advertisement
from Reader's Digest April 1954.

Waterland?

Watery it may seem, but this is saltmarsh.

A hose pipe ban comes into force on April 5th

after two unusually dry winters have left reservoirs,

aquifers and rivers below normal levels here in the south east.

It rained on us a little today while we collected our son 

for the Easter break, but not nearly enough.

It's a controversial subject, well covered here.

The Telegraph March 13th

Errands and oranges

It was a bitty day full of short bursts of activity

starting with an hour of Pilates

and finishing with yet another pair of broken glasses.

It took three trips to find a locksmith who could

cut new keys for me.

There was a very retro visit to a bank to pay in cheques,

to a real person behind a window.

I dodged into the dry cleaners twice,

took old medicines to the pharmacist to dispose of,

posted a cheque to the window cleaners,

because I keep missing them on account of being out on errands,

organised a headboard for the new bed,
tried to locate the owner of a membership card
 found on the pavement and looking rather vital,

made enquiries of a specialist for someone whose son

has just been diagnosed with a severe peanut allergy in New York,

rang the shop that sells my candle cups;

she wants some more for Mothering Sunday,

found my usual good source of vintage cups, closed,

made unsuccessful forays into several charity shops 

which aren't a patch on the thrift shops in the States

if blogs are to be believed,

but found three of these, which might do,

reverse parked badly into four parking spaces,

(as rare as hen's teeth where I live,

so you can't pass one up,

 even if it is a cruel and risky challenge),

and then discovered after I had left one 

 that I was going to have to return

to the selfsame spot because my glasses fell apart

just as I arrived home.

On the plus side, I passed a display of these:

the mankiest looking Jamaican oranges

and recognised them for what they are -

pure gold.

Now I must address the urgent questions posed 

in a 23 point document that has just pinged in.

I think it might have to wait.

My spare glasses really aren't up to it.

Being remembered

A new favourite walk?

I think this nature reserve must have everything on my tick list

for a good walk.

There are 267 hectares of ancient woodland, heathland, meadows, 

glens, waterfalls, babbling streams, cliffs and coastline

in Hastings Country Park.

We started at the bottom by the net drying sheds at

Rock a Nore and climbed,

(because the East Hill funicular railway was not open)

and climbed, 

for our reward

and then descended steeply into dripping, ferny glens

where the ramsons and bluebells will flower

in a few weeks' time.

If I should live to be

this age, without mishap,
 I may have had to upgrade my regimen,
in order to achieve this
quite remarkable degree of strength and flexibility.


Meanwhile perhaps I can improve my mental elasticity
by learning to recite this poem.

The long and winding road

I don't know if this is a Ford,

but as we drove behind it,

I was put in mind of

Henry Ford's oft quoted assertion that,

'Any customer can have a car painted any colour

that he wants so long as it is black.'

And here's something else he said, less often quoted,

'I adopted the theory of reincarnation when I was twenty six.

Religion offered nothing to the point.

even work could not give me complete satisfaction.

Work is futile if we cannot utilise the experience 

we collect in one life in the next.

When I discovered Reincarnation it was as if I had

found a universal plan I realised that there was 

a chance to work out my ideas.

Time was no longer limited.

I was no longer a slave to the hands of a clock.

Genius is experience. 

Some people seem to think that it is a gift or a talent,

but it is the fruit of long experience in many lives.

Some are older souls than others, and so they know more.

The discovery of reincarnation put my mind at ease.

I would like to communicate to others

the calmness that the long view of life gives to us.' 

Earlier

The evening sun is reaching in

through new windows.

Shopping with Father

The ironmonger was my father's domain.

He was perpetually engaged in DIY projects

involving vast sheets of hardboard to cover up 

all those pesky Victorian panelled doors

and polystyrene tiles to insulate our frigid bathroom.

I liked going there chiefly because Mr Glickman

kept a box of Maltesers under the counter

and when the last brown paper bag of nails

had been spun by its corners

he would slide the red box across to me.

One was taken. Never more.