You can begin to make it better

Running away

First to Greenwich Park where we took in a photographic exhibition

at The National Maritime Museum -

The Great British Seaside.

I have never known the lime blossom to be more

blissful and poignant.

There was a whole avenue of it to drink in.

That along with privet blossom is the scent of childhood summers.

And then today when the kerfuffle and cacophony reached its apogee

with the arrival of more scaffolding and men with nail guns,

we went to Igtham Mote.

But even that was too noisy for comfort so we set off

(at midday) on one of the estate trails.

Unfortunately we timed our arrival back home with the work still in full swing,

and the music on the roof had increased in volume with our absence.

Someone had brought along their own playlist.
Bobby Darin was an improvement on talk radio but

my first choice for the scaffolders would have been

I think it was the first pop song I ever heard.

Where the sun seldom shines

Sunset 21-20.

Beach garden escape

When the surrounding din and commotion of at least four sets

of building work in our near vicinity,

all intrusively audible in our garden,

(not counting our own comparatively quiet roofing work

where the only noise is of the careful tapping of slates into battens),

gets too aggravating,

and when even yesterday's Pilates class in a hall,

was disturbed by angle grinding and clanking scaffolding poles

in the church above,

I come inside and look at pictures of a beach in flower

and marvel at the patience of the person who built this

dry stone obelisk.

They must really have been in the flow.

A state that is almost impossible to achieve at present.

Although I did come near to it yesterday

while hemming sheets for a cot and a crib.

Rose parade

No black spot.

I've no idea why not.

No special treatment was applied,

so it is just an unexpected blessing.

The window boxes are covered in black spots however.

Slate dust showers down on them daily.

Some respite today perhaps

as the builders haven't arrived.

They move in mysterious ways.

Perhaps the van will be blamed.

Or the remote relation in hospital.

Or the football.

When is the first England game?

It's going to be a long slow job.

Advanced blokeish

My blokeish was severely tested this morning

 with the onset of the World Cup.

Thankfully I'd had time to acquire a few holding phrases

about the sacking of the Spanish manager

and I knew that Russia were playing Saudi Arabia today.
I also remembered to ask about the burnt out starter motor on his van.

Our roofer assured me that he would be home by 4 
to watch the opening game

but he was so voluble that I lost the drift after that 

and had to excuse myself with a parting shot about Robbie Williams.

Weak I know, but as I am also trying to learn some Japanese

for grand daughter's pre-school teacher this afternoon

my vocab is getting a little muddled.

The song of the moment on the roof is just the first line of 

Everybody Loves Somebody. On repeat.

O-skare Sama deshta

Brushing up my blokeish (again)

Some serious home maintenance is needed.

Well,

perhaps not quite as bad as

this.

But this is the view from here

for the foreseeable future.

We escaped to Kew Gardens 

to see the newly refurbished Temperate House

with its pristine

new roof.

While ours was being ripped off.

And now, while you look at these fish who know not a day's worry 

about leaking roofs,I must go and practice.

My blokeish is terribly rusty and 

disconcertingly, they are right outside my first floor window.

I can hardly hear them though over the noise of the

falling slates and the tinny radio.

Kettle's Yard revisited

Cornelia Parker drew on the windows with chalk.

Kettle's Yard in Cambridge, one of my favourite places,

has reopened after two years with new galleries, shop and café.

The experience once inside is much the same (and it's still free)

but instead of being able to just turn up and ring at the door

you have to pre-arrange a slot and wait to be collected 

and taken through to the house at ten minute intervals 

which somehow spoils the informality of the original arrangement.

Antony Gormley was hanging around.

He looked a little dejected in one corner of the gallery.
Perhaps he missed the old Kettle's Yard too.

Here's my homage.